Which is super strange with Diego. And very depressing.
I’ve been humiliated long enough, I think. I chug the last of my wine and set my glass down with a clink. “Tastes awesome. But I gotta go. Thanks for letting me join in and all but I’ve gotta go do stuff, other different stuff. I’m very busy.” I stand and head for the studio door as fast as I can without sprinting. I’m out of the storage room and almost to the front entrance, but then I hear Diego’s footsteps on the gallery floor, coming up behind me.
I slow down and turn to face him, not wanting to look too much like I’m panicking. “What’s up?”
“Verity . . .” he starts, then he pauses in front of me, searching my face before finishing. “I think it’s my turn to apologize.” I’m taken aback by his sheepish tone. He suddenly looks as embarrassed as I feel. “Francesca can be . . . odd.” He blows out a puff of exasperated air as if he’s not quite sure what to do with her.
“Well, it was nice to meet her,” I say, not really meaning it. But I’ve been enough of an honest bitch for one day, I think. Even though I haven't really been honest at all.
He gives me a sideways smile and I see he doesn’t buy my words. “Thank you for saying that, but I can see what you’re feeling in your eyes.”
I swallow, hoping that's not true. “And what’s that?”
“Discomfort and maybe a little terror if the quick exit is any hint.” He moves closer, leaning on the counter a foot away from me. “Am I close?”
“Okay, yes. This has all been completely weird,” I say with a small laugh. “I acted ridiculous and then I’m just supposed to sit there and fake normal? Especially when that woman, like, leaks sex. She’s freaking Jessica Rabbit.”
He barks out a laugh. “An honest answer. I knew you were annoyed.”
I relax a little at his easy tone, and I dare to push at the truth a little. “You and her seem to have a . . . secret?”
His smile disappears. I assume he’s going to pretend I didn’t just poke the bear, but then he surprises me, answering, “Yes, many secrets. Many I wish we didn't have.” A far-off gaze fills his eyes. He almost looks pained.
I step a little closer, suddenly wanting to comfort him. But I’m not sure how. Or if I even should. Did he just open himself up in a way he never has before? My chest constricts as his lips quirk in a sad smile.
“I’d like to tell you the story someday.” He reaches out and casually brushes my shoulder, gently sweeping away a fallen strand of my hair . . . just like Fin did this morning. But this time everything in me goes still and my breath catches.
“I’ll see you Tuesday night?” he says, oblivious to my reaction.
I nod slowly, the effect of his fingers on my skin rooting me to the spot. I search his face, the one I've been worshiping silently forever. I start to move closer. I open my mouth to confess everything again, say out loud how much I care about him, how much I want to know him, how conflicted I am about it all.
But then he says, “I'll want to hear all the details about this new guy,” with a genuine twinkle of friendship in his eyes. And my throat goes tight. “I need to be sure he's being good to you.” And then he fist-bumps my shoulder, like I’m his little sister.
I swallow. “Yeah. Sure.”
Before I can say anything else I turn and walk away, not letting myself think about the woman he’s going to be spending the evening with, trying not to think about the way he looked at her, the way she pressed close to him.
He’s not mine. He never will be, gay or straight. He doesn’t see me like that.
And I need to just grow up about it.
TWELVE
My classes blur by the next morning. I try to take notes but I keep ending up drawing hands in different poses in the margins of my notebook. They remind me of Diego’s hands. And how much I want them to touch me the way Fin’s did. The more I draw the posed fingers, the arched wrists, the more I feel like my decision to get over this thing for Diego that exploded in my head since our drunk kiss—it’s a lost cause. I’m losing my grip. I should be paying attention to my professor, not mooning over my boss, not doodling and feeling tortured.
If I don’t get out of this place with a B, that fall-back graduate study program in New York will end up being a pipe-dream.
This Arbor Show has got to go well. Nothing can ruin it. Especially not my erratic imagination—I can’t let my mother be right about me wasting my time with art. Even if my dream is ridiculous and impossible to reach I still have to try.
I know Diego's stressed about money. A lot is riding on this show. Things tend to be very feast or famine in the art world, anyway. I'm guessing his stress is because the gallery is in famine mode from what he’s hinted at lately. You’d think that if things were really bad he'd tell me, though—this can't be the first time the studio has gone into the red. Hopefully a few good sales at the show will float him the rest of the year.
Night comes and it’s Monday so Willow has her usual poker game with the guys from Hollister in the mall where she works. I hide in my room and stare at my tree woman, but all I see are wrong lines and muddy colors. I can’t seem to envision the thing right with this jumble still tangling my head. A woman that’s a tree, what was I thinking? What a tired idea. So obvious.
And the thing looks lonely and pathetic.
Like me, I guess. How fitting.
I’m so desperate that two mornings ago I was making out with a guy who I’m fairly sure would make out with a house plant—I mean, he touched Lindsey Tredwell. Not to mention the fact that he called me by some other girl’s name with his hand on my breast. But I can’t judge the guy; apparently, I have a rabid crush on my mentor. But whatever Diego is to me, it was obvious he wasn't a huge fan of kissing me.
I’m a mess.
Why did I say that I would go to coffee with Fin tomorrow, anyway? I’m kidding myself, thinking I’ll be able to follow through with Flirting 101. What a dumb idea that was. How pathetic must I be to even be considering it still after my perfectly-timed introduction to Gwen? My standards have apparently been lowered to the point of being non-existent.
I was too embarrassed to talk to Jade or Willow about my introduction to Gwen. It may stay my little secret due to my pride already being at such a life-threatening level.
And now I can only stare at the painting that’s supposed to be my attempt at being taken seriously and feel ill as the tangle of thoughts roil through my head.
Eventually, I collapse across my bed again and wake up Tuesday morning with a vague spark of terror. It’s like I’m coming to a crossroad. If I go to coffee with Fin I’m opening that door. He’s some sort of female hypnotist when he gets his hands on me. If I’m around him anymore I know it’ll lead to him expecting sex from me—and I’ll probably break my neck this time when I have my inevitable panic attack.
Bonus: if I end up in a coma, I won’t realize how embarrassed I am.
Rebound-Verity has gotten in over her head this time.
I grab my phone off the bedside table and find the number Fin typed into my phone before he left my bed yesterday morning. I tap “Send Message” and text: Can’t meet, sorry. Too much work. Maybe another time.
My pulse races as my thumb hovers over “Send”.
I don’t want to hurt him. I could just arrange another time with him. Like when I don’t have work. Unless . . . maybe a day like today when I have to be at the studio later is better? That way I’ll have an excuse to leave. Plus, I won’t have a chance to be dumb and fall into his arms again, so he can call me Deloris or Melissa this time.
Oh my god. I’m totally overanalyzing this.
I press “Send” and throw my phone onto the bed, trying to toss all thoughts of Fin from my mind with it.
WHEN I ARRIVE AT THE studio at six that evening Fin still hasn’t texted back. I’m guessing he’s pissed. Or maybe he forgot. He could’ve looked at my name pop up in his phone and said, Who’s this Verity bloke? I’m in love with Gwen.
/> Diego is talking to someone on the phone in his office when I get there so I slip past the window with my head down, going straight to the mural. Today I'll start the process of laying down the tape to outline all the angles for the layered design. Diego and I decided on a basic shape with a tree illusion in the negative space. Fairly simple. It takes time getting the lines right and set in place.
After I’ve got a good third of the second layer masked-off, Diego comes out of his office and starts studying my progress. “I think these sections should be in graduating shades of green,” he says pointing at a part I haven’t taped yet.
I'm relieved to be focusing on work again. It's common ground, and keeps me from thinking about asking him a million questions that are none of my business. “That’s what I was thinking. And I wanted to do some of these in red and orange tones for the leaves. Since it's that time of year.”
He nods. “I liked the all-green, black, and white idea that you had, too. But you go for it. I trust your eye.”
A spark lights in my chest and I can’t help it, satisfaction fills me as I continue to tape. He couldn't have said anything better.
But then he asks, “So, how are things with this new guy?” and I have to bite back a groan as he walks over to the coffee pot.
All I say is, “Nothing came of it.”
He pauses in his scooping of the coffee grounds. “I’m sorry.” He looks at me and my chest constricts with the worry in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
I swallow and realize there's no way I can talk to him about the details of what happened with Fin now. Which sucks. So, I glaze, “He’s a nice guy, he’s just . . . not my type, I guess.”
Diego stands there holding the full scooper of coffee in his hand and watches me, waiting for me to say more like I normally would. Because we're friends. He's still my friend, isn't he? I need him to be my friend. I step off the ladder and confess, “He called me Gwen.” I sigh and toss the roll of tape onto the work table. “We were making out and . . . well, it sorta ended there.”
Diego’s features scrunch up in confusion. “What do you mean, he called you by the wrong name when you were kissing? Was it dark or something?” And I instantly regret saying anything, realizing with a heavy thud in my gut that I don’t want to describe my clumsy kissing with some other guy to Diego.
I’m letting myself be too vulnerable with him. And he barely tells me anything about himself. Case in point: sexy French woman.
So, I just shrug and turn back to the mural. “He was really drunk. We both were.”
“Let me guess,” Diego says, going back to the coffee. “He left with no explanation or promise of one.”
“Actually,” I say, feeling the need to defend Fin, “he said he’d explain. I think he was going to do it at coffee today.”
“But then he stood you up?” He scoffs.
I laugh. “No, I stood him up.”
Diego pauses and turns to me. “Verity, that doesn’t sound like you.”
I hesitate and then ask, “Is that good or bad?” feeling a bit chided.
He seems to consider. “I’m not sure.” Then he goes back to making the coffee.
After he gets his full cup he disappears to do more things in the office, leaving me to be annoyed at myself for telling him anything. Because now I feel bad. Bad that he doesn’t seem to care that Fin kissed me. Bad that I ditched Fin when I barely gave him a chance.
I totally opened Pandora’s Box when I forced that kiss with Diego. It's seriously screwed with my head.
He eventually comes back out for a coffee refill and my brain goes quiet for a minute. Which is lovely. But then after he pours his second cup he doesn’t return to his work, instead he moves to stand silently behind me.
I keep masking, nearly done. I might be able to do a few more sections if I hurry. It’s only nine o’clock. “Did you see the new Tom Cruise movie?” I ask. Something to fill the odd silence.
“No, is it good?”
“I haven’t seen it; I was hoping you could let me know if it was worth the ticket price or if I should wait for iTunes.”
“We could go tonight,” he says, almost to himself.
I freeze mid tape and turn to look at him. “Really?”
He shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “You’ve made a lot of progress. And I could use a distraction.”
Well, I could definitely use a distraction too, but going somewhere with my current dilemma isn't exactly going to be helpful. Exactly the opposite. But, as we’ve established, I'm a dummy. “Okay. Let me just finish this line.”
“I'll check the times,” he says, pulling out his phone. After a few seconds he says, “There’s one at ten-thirty. That's not too late, is it?”
Does he think I have a curfew? I usually stay here working until midnight when I'm doing a project. “That's fine,” I say. I can't believe I'm going to the movies with him. That'll be a good three hours with the two of us alone, no work distractions for my brain, no way to not look at him and think about how I want to touch him again. But I can't help myself. It's like I enjoy torture.
We leave twenty minutes later. It’s very strange getting in the car. The last time I was in this Mercedes I mortified myself quite spectacularly. We make small talk most of the way, and I start to feel a little more at ease, settling back into how it used to be between us. Easy. It was always so easy with Diego. Until I ruined everything. We pull into the parking garage and I realize we’re at a theater I’ve never been to, downtown.
We walk along the crowded sidewalk and I notice a lot of heads turning as we make our way to the front of the theater. It’s not every day a girl gets to go out in public with such a hot guy. It’s kind of a nice feeling, being with someone so lovely, inside and out. Half the people are probably wondering how paint-stained-jeans-and-t-shirt chick got a guy like Hottie-McStud to take her out in public.
And I really don’t have a clue other than pity. Or torture.
We get to the ticket clerk and Diego’s bought both tickets before I can even get out my money. I argue but he waves me off and heads for the popcorn. I never took him for a Red Vines guy but he is. I get Milkduds and, again, he pays.
Okay, now I feel bad. He’s not poor but I know things are tight at the gallery and I’m no mooch.
When we walk into the theater I pause, looking at the seats. They’re not regular movie theater seats. They’re more like loveseats.
Oh, great.
We walk over to our couch and Diego plops down like nothing is weird.
As I sit down I’m repeating to myself: This is your boss, Verity.
Boss, boss, boss.
Don’t touch your boss. Don’t date your boss. Don’t kiss your boss.
And, of course, he's totally oblivious to my panic as our thighs brush. It's all just me and my freaked-out brain. My very freaked out brain. Especially once the lights go out and all I can feel is his heat all over the right side of my body.
But eventually the movie starts and thankfully I get distracted by aliens and hidden caves and mysterious plants that eat people. I'm not sure if it’s my nerves or my relief at the diversion, but it seems like the movie is really good. Until the romance scene hits and the two leads get naked. Then the weird confusion fills my chest again. Diego clears his throat and I sense him glance at me when the alien woman writhes and cries out in pleasure from Tom Cruise’s touch, and I have to wonder if he's thinking about my lack of good sex. I try not to sink down into the seat in mortification.
The scene fades but my awareness of Diego beside me lingers, our bodies too close for me to ignore that ache of attraction I have for him. The parts of me touching him feel like they’re touching fire; our shoulders brushing, my hip nestled against his. He smells like sweet musk and cherry Red Vines. It’s distracting as hell and I can't even focus on the rest of the movie. Instead I’m only seeing how his muscles press against his pant legs, how his hands look as they rest on his knee. Hands I've dreamt about, hands I've drawn a hundred tim
es. Strong hands. Close hands. Hands I want on me.
When the weird alien plants are all dead and Tom Cruise has saved the world once more, the credits begin and Diego leans over, his breath sweet, like Coke. “What’d you think? Ticket or iTunes?”
I have to clench my legs together and force a smile. “Definitely ticket.”
“Really?” he asks sounding surprised. “You liked the exploding rocks, laser guns, and alien cross-breeding?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” Though, I barely recall any of it.
“Good to know when I’m deciding on new things you can do around the studio.”
My eyes dart to the side, a vision popping into my head of Diego as Tom Cruise and me as the sexy alien lady, the two of us writhing on the studio floor. I start to slip on my jacket to cover up the heat in my face. He didn't mean it like that, lame brain.
When we find our way outside again we walk along the sidewalk, the night enfolding us in the sounds of the city. Diego points across the street to what looks like a bar. “Let’s go get a drink. Want to?” There’s a strangely hopeful look on his face.
"S-sure," I manage. Then he takes my hand, and as soon as the light turns green we’re in the crosswalk and I’m trying to compute the feel of his fingers woven into mine. We’re not walking that quick, but my pulse is frantic.
When we’re on the other side he releases me and I have to flex my hand to stop the intense tingling in my palm.
My boss, my boss, my boss.
Live music is spilling out of the bar along with the smell of strong liquor. It’s really crowded. There’s no space to walk through the din until Diego moves in front of me. And then people begin to clear a path, as if he’s Moses parting the Red Sea.
We find a seat near the stage where there’s a live band playing a bluesy song. A couple is abandoning the spot so we grab it; it’s closer to the dance floor than I’d like but I’m guessing we won’t be here long. Diego’s not the kind of guy who usually goes for these type of places—noisy ones. He’s more the sit-and-read type, or the playing Bridge with the old guys at the Y type.
Twisted In You_A Twisted Romance Page 9