Drawn to You

by Natalie Vivien

  “You just made that up.”

  “Well, obviously.” She tugs at my hair and tilts her head to the side, smiling. “But that doesn’t make it any less mandatory.” With a wicked gleam in her brown eyes, she bends over and smacks my bottom.

  “Hey!”

  “Now get in there and chill out. That’s an order, Princess Pesos.”

  I groan over my shoulder at her as I walk, reluctantly, toward the house. “I’m partial to the Greenback Gal myself. Makes me sound like an Old West outlaw.”

  “The only law you’re breaking right now is the Law of Pauline,” she tells me sternly as I linger on the doorstep, but she can’t sustain the serious teacher look for long. Her mouth twitches into a smile.

  “Thanks, Pauline.”

  She sweeps down to give me a dramatic bow, and the negligee falls out of her back pocket. Brad comes up behind her, picking up the bit of lace from the ground, and whispers in her ear, “You dropped something. Wouldn’t want to lose that now, would you?”

  “Well, it was supposed to be a surprise…” She grabs the negligee from his hands and stuffs it back into her pocket as he, very sweetly, kisses her cheek.

  I gape in amazement: Pauline’s blushing. Ordinarily, I would tease her mercilessly about it. The appearance of a blush on Pauline’s face is a rarity, less likely than the sight of a dragon navigating rush hour traffic—which I saw evidence of in a checkout aisle tabloid once.

  But I decide to hold my tongue because my heart is so full with love, watching her watching Brad. “You guys are adorable, you know.”

  “We know!” Brad laughs, nuzzling Pauline’s neck before returning to his voluntary manual labor, his fair skin already reddening a little under the sun.

  “So…see you soon, Paul?”

  “How about lunch on Wednesday? I’ve got two free periods starting at eleven. We could meet at Fried and Gone to Heaven.”

  I laugh. “You said you were on a diet!”

  “I am. It’s the eat-drink-and-be-merry diet. You should give it a go sometime.”

  I raise a brow dubiously, but then shrug and nod my head. “All right. We’ll be grease gluttons together. It’s a date.”

  Pauline blows me a kiss as I wave and go into the house, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

  I exhale.

  For a long moment, I lean back against the door, eyes closed—feeling nothing, thinking nothing. Just breathing.

  Because I can breathe now. For the first time in two months, the house doesn’t make me feel as if I’m suffocating beneath the weight of bitter memories.

  There’s air. There’s ventilation. There’s space.

  Already the place feels different. And I think I feel different, too.

  Hot and exhausted but somehow content, I stroll through the rooms and bask in their barrenness. Gone is the sofa table we found at the estate sale last summer. Gone are the board games we played with friends on Sunday nights. Gone is the heaviness, the burden, of Juliette’s presence.

  Juliette, who left me for another woman and ran away to Paris. Paris! Just like that, she flew across the ocean, as if she had to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible, as if Michigan were no longer big enough for the two of us. She left a note on the refrigerator, scrawled in her messy, looping style: Gone to Paris. In love with another. Best wishes, Molly. Juliette. She didn’t even say goodbye to Mona Lisa, our sulky black cat.

  I move into the kitchen now and find Mona Lisa stretched out in a slant of sunlight across from the stove, in the empty space where the table used to be. I had to sell the table, couldn’t bear to remember all of the mornings that Juliette and I had spent there, sipping coffee and stealing kisses. And there was that one time…when Juliette swept all of the plates to the floor with a crash and lay me out on the cool, bare surface; she always touched me, kissed me, as if I were a cherished thing.

  But she was an actress. I should have realized that she had been acting all along. The fact that she left her former girlfriend to be with me should have set off warning bells in my head—but I was in love. I lost my logic every time her lips met mine.

  Mona Lisa meows when she sees me and begins to daintily lick her paw. Then she rises, stretches, and rubs her warm body against my legs, her strong tail curling round to encircle my ankles. I bend over to scoop her up into my arms. At first, she yowls in protest, but I sing into her silky ear and then nuzzle her on the top of her head, and soon enough the savage beast is soothed. M.L. purrs like an old-fashioned motorcar against my chest, kneading her claws into my neck. It’s painful, but it’s sweet, too.

  My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. With a sigh, I lean against the counter and close my eyes, stroking M.L.’s back and willing the headache blossoming behind my eyes to fade. The headache always comes when I think about renting out the cottage. The person calling my cell now probably wants to inquire about it, but if they’re interested enough, they’ll leave a message. And tomorrow I’ll listen to my messages… I swear I will.

  But not today.

  I set Mona Lisa back down on the floor and pour myself some ice water from the fridge, pressing the cold glass against my hot cheek as I survey my vacant surroundings. I’ll scour the thrift shops for furniture soon. Juliette would never consent to purchasing used goods, but in my single days, my entire apartment was furnished with eclectic thrift store finds: chairs with scuffed legs and mosaic-inlaid backrests, a dull orange sofa with creaky springs and mid-century style. Comfortable, colorful conversation starters.

  Of course I got rid of all of my vintage stuff when Juliette moved in with me, right after I bought this house, because she wanted high-end, modern décor. But now the thought of furnishing the house to my taste and my taste alone… It almost makes me feel giddy. I sip at my water and smile softly to myself.

  I’ll even paint the walls! Juliette insisted upon white walls in every room. She said white walls were sophisticated, clean and fresh. I thought they were cold and sterile. But I acquiesced to her wishes, always acquiesced, because I loved her.

  Loved, I think, with an intake of breath, realizing I’m using the past tense now. Loved, adored, cherished, lost…

  I down the rest of my water and put the glass in the sink without washing it—one of Juliette’s pet peeves. Somehow this small defiance makes me feel energized, powerful.

  I think I’ll paint the kitchen lime green.

  ---

  My old VW starts with a wheezy rumble. I slowly back out of the driveway and pull onto the road, blinking bleary eyes toward the too-bright morning sun. I lower the visor, but that does little to lessen the sunny white glare on my windshield. So I drive carefully, squinting, as my fingers fumble with the radio dial.

  Call now for your free trial membership at Giorgio’s Gym!

  …two dead and three injured in a seven-car pileup on…

  And I said, ‘What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ She said—

  I settle on a classical station and rest my head back against the seat, sinking into the minor-key melodies as I sit in the inevitable 7:30 a.m. traffic jam.

  My shift at the museum starts in half an hour, but if I arrive late, no one will call me out for it—out of an unspoken respect for my broken heart. Still, I tap my foot anxiously because I hate to take advantage my co-workers’ compassion. I hate special treatment. And, to be honest, I just hate to be late. Juliette was always late, and it was the basis of many arguments between us.

  At last, begrudgingly, the cars ahead of me begin to move, and I relax, switching the radio to a more upbeat tune.

  I may be unlucky in love, but I’ve struck gold with my occupation. As curator of the Normal Art Museum, I spend most of my time organizing grant requests. But I’m surrounded by beauty for at least—and often more than—eight hours per day, in the company of our impressive collection of paintings and sculptures, and that beauty fills my psychic well like nothing else ever has.

  Not even love.

  The museum is
small and criminally underfunded, but its staff is a dedicated bunch of eccentric intellectuals—unusual residents in this conservative town. The ratio of Republicans to Democrats in Normal is something like fifteen to one.

  To be honest, I’m surprised it’s that high.

  I put on my signal to pull into the museum parking lot, but as I position the car to make a sharp right-hand turn, blinding rays suddenly lance my retinas, and I can’t see anything, not for several moments, not even after I feel the lurch, hear the impact of metal on metal, and know I’ve collided with something—or someone.

  “Oh, God…”

  Still unable to see, blinking back tears furiously, I shift the car into park and stumble out of the door. I duck my head, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hair until, gradually, my vision returns. Then I blink down at the steaming asphalt and gasp. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. The sun—”

  “Whoa.” The woman slowly sits up from her horizontal position on the pavement, gripping her head in both of her hands. “Dizzy,” she explains, offering me a weak smile.

  “Maybe you should lay back down.” I move a little nearer.

  “No, I think I’m all right.”

  Unconvinced, my eyes rove her body, searching for signs of blood or broken bones. Quite a lot of her skin is exposed—she’s wearing a tight blue tank top, short shorts, and running shoes—and there are some brush burns on her arms and a little blood on her right knee, but no evidence of anything more serious.

  Shamefully, I find myself blushing as I look away. Because she’s gorgeous, lithe and long, with short-cropped brown hair and these intense grey eyes beneath sharply angled brows. There are colorful tattoos adorning her chest and arms—swirling designs of stars and words and wings.

  I’ve always had a thing for tattoos. I’d intended to get one after I finished my doctorate, but then I met Juliette, and she—quite forcefully—talked me out of the idea. “People like us don’t get tattoos, darling…”

  “Listen, could you give me a hand? I think I’m okay to walk, but I just need a little help getting up. I want to go look at my bike over there.”

  “Your bike?” I follow the direction of her gaze and cringe, heart sinking. The woman’s bicycle—or what remains of it—is wedged beneath the front of my car, tangled and mangled, one of the wheels rotating pathetically in the air.

  “Uh… Stay there,” I say, stepping over to my VW to get a closer look. I reach out to tug at the bike, to try to free it from my car’s metallic teeth, but it won’t budge. I fall backward onto my bottom with a sigh. “It’s stuck.”

  “Figured.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She waves a hand dismissively, then winces, as if the slight movement caused her pain. “Not your fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I was…” She gives me another weak smile, which succeeds in making me a little weak in the knees. “…off in my own little world. As usual. The curse of the artiste.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  She nods, inspecting a brush burn on her shin.

  I open my mouth and almost ask her what mediums she works in—and then I realize how ludicrous this whole situation is. We’re sitting in a typically busy parking lot—right now, my car is blocking the entrance—and she probably has a concussion, and oh, my God, I just hit her with my car. I shake myself a little. This is no time for small talk, Molly, or lascivious thoughts. With a barely suppressed whimper, I crawl beside her, sheepishly offering my hand. She takes it, looking amused.

  I draw in a deep breath. “Okay, listen. I’m Molly Mason, and I’m a terrible, horrible person. I can’t believe I ran you over… I could’ve killed you—”

  “Hey. You didn’t run me over. You ran over my bike. I just kind of…flew.”

  “Did you hit your head?” Anxious, I rise to my knees and inspect her head from all sides, frowning. “Do you remember? I can’t see any wounds or bumps, but—”

  “No, the old noggin’s fine.” She shakes her head from side to side, as if to prove it to me. “I lucked out and landed on my softest part.” She reaches behind her to pat her back pockets with both hands. “Gonna have an awesomely sore tailbone tomorrow, but I can deal. It’s better than a cracked skull.”

  I feel ill. “Oh, how can I ever make this up to you?” Hands covering my face, I try to take deep breaths, but my lungs are too tight, and my upset stomach roils. “I’ll buy you a new bike, obviously. And I’ll drive you to the hospital—”

  “No hospital.”

  “What?”

  She shrugs, leaning back on her arms. “No insurance. No hospital. Besides, I’m okay. I’ve been in worse shape, believe me.”

  “Worse shape than being hit by a car?”

  “Like I said…” She bends toward me now, tucking her bloodied knee beneath her. Her mouth curves up into a half-teasing, half-reproving smile. “You didn’t hit me. You hit my bike. And maybe we could go half-and-half on a new one, since I’m at least partly to blame.”

  “No, no, no. Please.” I smile at her sadly. “It’ll do my guilty conscience good to pay in full for the bike. I mean, it’s the least I can do.” Cursing the tears in the corners of my eyes, I turn my head quickly and swipe my face as I rise to my feet. Then I extend my arm down to the woman to help her up.

  Her grey eyes regard me silently for a long, still moment. And then she wraps her fingers around my wrist. “Thanks,” she says, grunting a little as she hoists herself up, holding fast to me. When she’s upright, standing beside me, she breathes out hard and then wobbles a little on her feet, so I hurriedly wrap an arm around her waist and begin to guide her over to my car.

  “I really wish you’d let me take you to the hospital. I’ll pay for all of the bills—”

  “No. But thank you. You’re very kind.”

  I look at her then, surprised, and shake my head. “I’m only… I was careless. I hurt you. And it’s my responsibility to make certain you’re all right.”

  “Well…” She eases away from my grasp and leans against the side of my VW, squinting down at me. She’s at least a head taller than I am—and even more gorgeous when she’s vertical and gazing at me with those incredible eyes.

  My superficial heart tap-dances in my chest, despite my severest scoldings.

  “I was headed to this address.” She fumbles in her back pocket for a moment, then shows me a folded piece of paper. I take it from her, open it up and read it quickly. “There’s a place for rent that I was hoping to check out. The owner might not be there right now, though. I’ve left message after message but haven’t gotten any calls back.”

  I skim the note three or four times, just to make certain that I didn’t hit my head and start hallucinating. “Um… Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “About ignoring your messages.” My mouth twitches into a smile. “Thing is, that’s my address. It’s my cottage that’s for rent.”

  A slow grin spreads over her striking, angular face. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  She tilts her head back and laughs. “Well, I guess this little run-in was meant to be, then, wasn’t it?”

  Blushing again, and distracted by her beautiful smile and her intricate tattoos, I shift my gaze down toward the ground, where the air is shimmering with heat. It’s then that I realize that I’m drenched in sweat. Self-conscious, I shove my hair behind my shoulders and move around to the other side of the car, opening the passenger door. Then I come back to the woman’s side and awkwardly slip my arm around her waist. “Come on. I’ll take you to the cottage. You can rest there for a while, and then make up your mind as to whether or not you like it enough to rent it.”

  “Pretty sure I’m going to like it,” she says softly, chuckling, her mouth mere inches from my ear. When she turns her face to gaze at me, smiling, we’re near enough to kiss.

  Her grin widens, then, as she bows her head. “But a re
st would be nice.”

  “Okay,” I squeak, carefully easing her into the seat. She hesitates to lift her right leg, wincing again, as if in pain, so I bend down and lift the leg for her, placing her foot gently upon the car floor.

  When I straighten, she’s regarding me strangely, shaking her head from side to side.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, smoothing my shirt and readjusting my tie. There’s no standard uniform for a museum curator, but one of my female mentors wore a necktie when she worked, so I adopted the accessory in her honor. Juliette always teased me for it—“You have more ties than the President!”—but she encouraged it, too. Tattoos were taboo in her book, but ties were sexy.

  Now, though, I feel like I’m being strangled. I loosen the tie slightly as I gaze down into the woman’s grey eyes.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she tells me, smiling warmly. “It’s just… I realized I never told you my name.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Without breaking our gaze, the woman finds my hand and shakes it, laughing softly. “Nice to meet you, Molly Mason, the terrible, horrible person.” Her smile slants to a grin. “I’m Ash Rosenburg.”

  I swallow and summon a small smile. “Ash. Is it short for something?”

  “No. Just Ash.”

  I step back from the door as she swings it closed, and then, blood rushing hot through my veins, I hurry around the car to slide into the driver’s seat. The car’s still running. I just hope it didn’t sustain any serious damage. The last thing I want is to ruin Ash’s day further by getting stuck on the side of the road…

  But the old VW—my trusty steed—wheezes onto the highway, tugging Ash’s bike along with an ear-splitting screech.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, wincing, as Ash laughs and covers her ears.

  And I realize then, in a soul-shocked moment, that I don’t have a headache.

  I’ve been dreading this moment: I’m about to show the cottage to a potential renter. Even more than selling off nearly all of my and Juliette’s belongings, renting out the cottage symbolizes to me the true and final end of our relationship.