The Lifetime of A Second

by Jennifer Millikin

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re running from?”

  My hand freezes inside the bag. Slowly I unfurl my fist and listen to the items clatter as they join the contents. We’ve talked about this briefly once before, but he’s asking again. I can’t blame him. I’d be curious about me too.

  “You don’t drive, you don’t go anywhere except the few stores that are a couple streets over. You haven’t made friends except the Vale boy. Who I saw you kiss last night, in case you’re wondering.” He gives me a pointed look. “No, I wasn’t spying. I happen to have a front window and eyes. That’s all.”

  Despite my upset, I chuckle.

  “You’re doing a job that doesn’t suit you. No offense, and it’s not that you’re not a hard worker, but you’re charismatic. That job doesn’t exactly require personality, which you have in spades.”

  “You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.” Walt is more than observant. He takes his observations and turns them into conclusions.

  He lifts his shoulders and drops them right back down. “I just call it like I see it, and right now, I see you’re dodging my question.”

  “It’s hard to explain.” I stand up, dropping the big bag and letting it fall slack against my ankles.

  “I’ve found there isn’t much that’s hard to explain. You add one word to another and soon you have a sentence. The hard part is everything the sentence doesn’t say.” Walt slips his hands into his pockets and continues. “When Daisy died, it was easy to think She had cancer and she died. The difficult part was saying the words out loud, for my own ears to hear, because it meant a lot more than those six words. It meant I was alone. That my love was gone. That my reason for waking up had closed her eyes for the last time.”

  My heart lurches. I think I would’ve loved Daisy.

  Wiping my forehead with the inside of my forearm, I look up at Walt. “We’ve talked about this once already. Something bad happened in Phoenix, and I had a hard time.” I shake my head, thinking of just how hard a time I had. “It became clear I needed to get away for a while. Maybe for forever, and here I am.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  I shrug. Possibly yes. Possibly no. I don’t know for certain. The threat of trouble is present, that I know for sure.

  “Are you safe?”

  “As safe as the next person,” I say, trying to turn it into a joke. In my head, I see Eric Prince’s angry letters, his blunt, capitalized words.

  “Alright, I’ll mind my own business. Just let me know if you ever need something.”

  I draw in a sudden breath, feigning shock. “Walt, do not tell me I’ve managed to wriggle my way into your heart.”

  He flicks out a hand like he’s shooing my words. “Bah. No way. You’re cheap labor and you keep me from having to eat so much cereal.”

  “I think you mean I’m free labor,” I tell him, winking.

  He laughs, and we work together for another hour. It’s more me working, and Walt arguing about why he needs to hold on to things he can’t remember why he bought.

  I leave at four, take a shower, let my hair air-dry, and send an email to Darby, my property manager. Walt’s questions this afternoon made me want to check in with her.

  Connor told me to wear my attitude on my chest, so I pick out a shirt that should make him roll his eyes. I wonder if he’ll paint it into the picture. Actually, I wonder what this night will be like at all.

  12

  Connor

  That fucking shirt. Of course she would pick out a shirt that would say that.

  “We’re not going straight to my house,” I tell her after I read the shirt. ‘I can’t be held responsible for what my face does when you talk.’ It’s funny, actually, but Brynn might not want to wear that shirt to meet Anthony and his new girlfriend, Julia.

  She sets suspicious eyes on me. “Where are we going first?”

  “I told Anthony we would meet him at Riley’s Tavern. I’m hungry and I thought maybe you would be too.”

  Brynn looks down at herself. “Crap. Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  She comes back out a few minutes later and my heart picks up speed at the sight of her. She’s wearing a white sundress, the kind that looks sweet and innocent but the longer you look at it you realize it’s deceptively sexy. The red cowgirl boots make it even sexier.

  Brynn stops a few feet from the truck and turns in a circle. “Better?”

  “Yep,” I cough. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve seen a woman before. It’s the cowgirl boots. Holy fucking shit.

  Brynn hops in and looks at me, wary. “You okay?”

  “Um hmm. Just fine. How was your day?”

  Brynn squints like she’s trying to figure me out, but she lets it go and tells me about helping Walt.

  “Is he still being nice?” I ask.

  She blows out an irritated breath and lets me have it. “Maybe you should take some time to get to know him. He’s a sweet old man and he’d probably be a lot nicer to everybody if they’d just be kinder to him. How you all can continue to castigate a man who’s clearly just lonely is beyond me.”

  She falls quiet, and I feel awful. Especially because I’m certain she’s talking from her own experience.

  “You’re right,” I say, starting up the truck and driving away. “I’ll make an effort. He goes to the diner for lunch on Tuesdays. The next time I see him, I’ll make conversation.”

  Brynn beams. Rays of blinding sun could be shining right from her, that’s how happy she looks. “Thank you.”

  Anything, if you promise to look at me like that again.

  “Tell me about Anthony,” she says, relaxing into her seat. “What’s his story?”

  “He’s been my friend since seventh grade. Went to college on a football scholarship but was injured and never played again. He came back and started the auto body shop I found myself needing after a gorgeous blonde wandered into the road and I had to swerve to miss her.”

  She smacks her forehead and groans. “Oh no. Anthony is the friend who fixed your truck? Great. I bet he thinks I’m a lunatic.”

  “Brynn.” I reach over, putting my hand on her leg. Her dress has ridden up since she climbed in and my hand falls onto the warm, smooth skin of her thigh.

  She looks down at my hand and back up to me. Her eyes are watchful, and her chest rises with a big gulp of air.

  “Red light,” she says, pointing.

  At first I think she’s talking about my hand on her, but then I look up and realize she means it literally. “Sorry,” I mutter, braking harder than I’d like to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me.

  When I’ve regained my composure, I tell her Anthony has been looking forward to meeting her.

  “He’s on a date tonight, and he asked me if I’d bring you around. He has been seeing Julia for a month and I haven’t met her yet.”

  Brynn tucks her hair behind her ears and nods. “Sounds good.”

  “Plus you can have a drink and loosen up a little bit. You seem nervous. The painting will be fine, I promise.”

  Brynn looks out her window. “I don’t drink.”

  “Like, ever?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope.”

  “Sparkling water it is,” I say, but my brain is turning this over. She doesn’t drink, or drive. Is that why she acts the way she does sometimes? Did something happen related to drinking and driving, something bad enough to make her swear them both off?

  She asks me about my day, and I prattle on about what I did. I set up the workspace for tonight, I drove to a place twenty-five minutes away to get some new paint, and then I went to the boxing gym. She’s happy to listen, interrupting to ask me questions about the gym.

  We get to the tavern and park. Inside it’s packed, but Anthony has a booth along the back wall.

  “Hey,” I call out above the music.

  His arm is around Julia’s shoulders, but when he hears me, he scoots out of the booth. Julia gets up too, and everyone
does that awkward hello, nice to meet you thing. Anthony asks me to go with him to grab drinks from the bar. After we place an order, he looks back at the booth. Julia and Brynn have sat down, and now they both lean forward against the edge of the table, talking.

  “You didn’t say she looked like she stepped out of the pages of Sports Illustrated.” Anthony punches my shoulder. “I prefer brunettes, but Brynn must have the men falling all over her.”

  Just as he says it, two guys approach the table. Brynn shakes her head at them and they turn around, dejected.

  “See, what did I tell you?” He laughs. “Did you do what I said to do?”

  The bartender passes our beers and Brynn’s sparkling water over the bar top. Anthony thanks me when I throw down a twenty and turn away, two bottles in one hand and Brynn’s drink in the other.

  “You were right. She says a lot more than I thought.”

  Anthony can’t keep back his shit-eating grin. “You’re welcome. Next time I’ll charge.”

  We get to the table and hand out drinks. Anthony slides in and puts his face in Julia’s neck.

  “What did those guys want?” I ask Brynn.

  She sips her water. “They wanted to know if you guys are single,” she says around the straw still in her mouth.

  I bark a laugh and grab her thigh under the table, squeezing. She squeals and squirms, giggling. One hand falls to my chest as the other pushes against my arm, trying to push it off her leg.

  “Stop,” she pants, laughing still.

  I keep my hand there but release the teasing grip. She smiles and leans into me. Across the booth, Anthony raises his eyebrows.

  “So, Julia,” I start, and ask her a question. I follow that up with another one, and then one more after that. Soon she and Brynn are talking a mile a minute about something called contouring, and which shows they’ve seen in Vegas.

  While they talk, I plan out my process tonight, thinking about lighting and positioning and what paints will work best for her skin tone.

  At one point she glances at me and grins, reaching over to rest her hand on my knee. She turns back to Julia, her sentence never faltering.

  The hot robot who made me dent my fender can also charm the pants off a complete stranger. I shouldn’t be surprised. The grumpiest guy in town is her new best friend.

  “Your place is nice.” Brynn circles the kitchen, touching the cabinet pulls I installed last year. She runs her fingers over the forest green agate, her index finger bumping along the irregularities in the rock.

  She seems nervous. She keeps touching things. If it’s not the countertops or the agate, it’s her fingers drumming on her thighs. I’m nervous too. Grabbing the pitcher from the fridge, I pour two glasses of water.

  “Are you ready?” I ask, handing her one.

  She rests her lips on it, but she doesn’t take a drink right away. “I guess so. I’m not sure what it entails, but I’m game.” She sips from the glass and watches me.

  “Come on,” I say, taking her by the hand and leading her to the living room. We both ditched our shoes as soon as we walked into my house, and the drop cloth is rough against my bare feet. I love that feeling because it means I’m creating.

  I walk with her to the stool I’ve set up two feet from my canvas. “This is where you’ll be. For now, just sit down. I’m going to think for a moment about how I want you.”

  Brynn listens, lowering herself gracefully onto the seat. I stand back, watching her. She points to the picture of the eye, her eye, and asks about it. I would tell her all about the painting, how she was the inspiration, but I’m not sure she’ll be happy about it. Instead, I give her a blasé response. I’m busy watching her talk, thinking about angles.

  “It’s captivating,” she says, her voice warm and appreciative. “It has depth. All the colors, everything about it, it’s incredible.”

  Watching her talk has given me an idea. As much as I love her face, I think I want to paint her profile.

  “Turn to your left about forty-five degrees,” I instruct. She does as I ask, but it’s still not quite right. “Turn the same direction, but half that distance.”

  Again, she listens, but now she’s facing away from me. I step closer, reaching for her shoulders and twisting her upper half.

  “Can you manage this? Twisting this way? I’d really like to get your profile, but like you’re looking out over your shoulder.”

  She listens well, dipping her right shoulder toward me and looking away.

  “Perfect. Yes, just like that.” I hurry to the canvas, pre-drawing as fast as I can. “Brynn, you’re stunning.”

  “I’m sure you say that to all the women you paint.”

  I pause, my pencil poised. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Okay.” She doesn’t say more, but I can tell it pleases her.

  The longer she sits, the more her body relaxes. The white strap of her sundress slips from its place, falling to her upper arm and dangling there. She reaches to fix it, but I stop her.

  “Wait,” I say, studying her bare shoulder. It’s soft and womanly, her skin creamy. “Would you mind if we kept it off?”

  Her eyes meet mine. “The strap?”

  I nod. She watches me, and in her eyes I see her making a decision. “Would it be better if I lost the top half of the dress? I’m not facing you. It’s just a suggestion, I’m not the artist here, but—”

  “Yes,” I blurt out. “It would make the painting more sensual, with your bare back.”

  “I like that idea,” she says, her eyelashes fluttering as she looks down.

  “Me too.” My voice is low, and I need to get a grip. I’m a professional. I can see Brynn’s bare back and survive.

  I turn to the canvas, busying myself with absolutely nothing. Really I’m pretending to run my pencil over the lines I’ve already drawn. Brynn is in my peripheral vision, struggling with the zipper.

  “Do you want help with that?”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice small.

  Swallowing my desire, I grab the zipper that is only a quarter of the way down and tug. Down it goes, revealing her smooth, pretty skin inch by inch. I want to run my fingers over it, find out if it feels as silky as it looks. I keep my hands to myself though, and when I’m finished, I step away. I need to put distance between us.

  “Thank you,” Brynn murmurs. She slides the straps down her arms, pushing at the front of the dress until it bunches at her waist. “There,” she says, swiveling back into position. She moves too far forward, and the underside of her breast is visible between the inside of her upper arm and ribcage.

  “Uh, Brynn, not that I have a problem with it, but a bit of your breast is visible,” I motion to the spot, and she quickly brings her arm into her side. The underside of her breast disappears, but now there’s whole new problem.

  My eyes meet the ceiling and I squeeze them. I will never be able to unsee that. Brynn’s breasts are big and round, with exquisite rose pink nipples. I know this because trying to cover the underside of her breast makes the top of it visible in front of her arm. Her profile, with the incredible looking mound and pert, pebbled nipple will haunt me until the end of time.

  “What’s wrong now?” There’s hurt in her voice. “Maybe you can position me? I’m sure I’m doing it wrong.”

  I know better than to do what I want to do to her. Treading lightly is mandatory around Brynn. I don’t trust myself to speak right now, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings either.

  I take a big, quiet breath and attempt to calm myself down. The front of my pants has grown incredibly tight in the last minute, and I hope she doesn’t notice.

  Slipping on a mask of cool professionalism, I walk to her and stand behind her. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, desperately trying not to see anything that will crumble my resolve.

  With the palm of one hand, I press lightly on her shoulder, lowering it a fraction. Grasping her chin with two fingers, I move her jaw a couple inches closer to me an
d then push it down slightly. “Grip the side of the stool with one hand and let your elbow bend along your side body.”

  She does as I ask, and I step back to the canvas. My insides celebrate, throwing confetti everywhere. I managed not to be swept under.

  “Why won’t you look at me?” Brynn’s voice is thick. My eyes fly to her face, and in them, I see unshed tears.

  I run my hands through my hair, grabbing fistfuls in my frustration.

  “I can’t, Brynn. I fucking can’t.”

  “Why? Am I that terrible? Am I that awful? Do I look horrific on canvas?” She dashes tears away from her cheek with the back of her hand.

  I shake my head, not knowing what to do or say. How did I get into this mess with her? I’m attracted to her, and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to be. It’s driving me insane, trying to figure her out.

  “You drive me crazy,” I yell, dropping the pencil. “I don’t know what to do with you. One day you’re wearing a shirt that says ‘Fuck Off,’ and then you’re kissing me like you need air and my mouth is oxygen. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to read you?”

  Her lips tremble. She crosses her arm over her chest and rises. She turns around, facing me, and I see she has one breast clutched in a palm, and the other pressed against her forearm. In both cases, neither has enough surface area to properly cover her. Below her chest is a toned stomach and a cute-as-fuck belly button.

  “You should drive me home,” she says, her face cold. If there weren’t still tears pouring from her eyes, I’d say she were made of stone.

  “Are you going to run away from me, Brynn? From this?”

  “What should I do? Continue to sit there and watch you not look at me? You’re supposed to be painting me and you can’t stand to look in my direction.”

  “Fuck, Brynn. I think you might be a few bricks shy of a load.” My hands ball into fists. “Of course I can’t look at you. How can I? I never know where I am with you. You’re sitting there on that stool, and I can see your breasts, Brynn. They’re incredible, and you look even more incredible with your hair falling onto your shoulders. I can see your nipple peeking out from behind your arm, and of course it has to be the most delicious looking nipple I’ve ever seen in my life, and I have no idea if I can have it.” I’m nearly out of breath, but I manage to add, “So there. That’s why I can’t look at you.”