He grinned. “No. It’s kiwi.”
I took a sip. “Mmmm, I love it! Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” Christos opened the box of crayons for us and we both went to work on our own crayon paintings for a time
“So,” he asked, pausing to peel back the paper on his lemon yellow crayon, “you still planning on changing your major?”
“I’m thinking about it,” I sighed while selecting a crimson crayon from the box.
“You sound like you’re not sure.”
“Maybe I’m not.”
“What’s worrying you?” Christos asked.
I leaned back in my chair and looked around the café while collecting my thoughts. I noticed an older couple sitting next to us stealing glances at our crayon pictures.
I don’t know what it was, but whenever I was out drawing in public with Christos, people wanted to watch. It wasn’t just because of hot-bodied Christos either. Sure, women were always checking him out, but when we were drawing, the people seemed genuinely interested in what we were doing. I guess it wasn’t every day that you saw people over the age of eight or nine drawing with crayons in a public place.
“Lost in thought?” Christos asked.
“Oh, sorry. What was the question?”
“Changing your major to Art?”
“Oh yeah. Hmmm. I’m worried my parents will freak when I tell them I’m changing my major to Art. They’ll probably threaten to send me away to a convent or make me get electro-shock therapy.”
“That’s crazy,” he said dismissively while sipping his iced tea. “Don’t they see how talented you are?”
“Don’t you remember what they were like over Winter Break?”
Christos nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, they did seem somewhat uncertain about the whole idea.”
I choked out laughter while shading purple shapes on my drawing. “Somewhat? You literally told my dad you made over six figures in one night of selling paintings at Charboneau, and he acted like that was something that only happened to other people, like you were a myth or something.”
Setting his crayon down, he grinned. “Just because your parents don’t realize that an art career is an actual possibility for you now, doesn’t mean they won’t come around eventually. Maybe you have to prove how serious you are. Show them all the steps you’re taking.”
“I feel like the only way they’re ever going to believe Art is a valid career choice is if I show them the mansion I bought with my as-of-yet unearned art earnings, and a hefty art-funded retirement portfolio.”
Christos smirked. “I get it. It’s just not real to them. So put a piece in the Contemporary Artists show at Charboneau Gallery. When you sell it, you can show the check to your parents. Take a photo of you standing in front of your painting during the show.”
“Wait, you’re talking like I’ve already sold the painting! I haven’t even painted a painting! Aren’t you jumping ahead?”
“Not in my book. You’ve got to set the intention.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to buy my painting? You?”
“I could,” he smiled, “if you wanted.”
“Thank you, Christos,” I said, picking up a tangerine crayon to draw some squiggly lines. “I totally appreciate the offer, but if this crazy idea of yours is going to make any kind of sense, some stranger would actually have to buy it. And that’s never going to happen.” I glanced at the older couple, who were still sitting next to us. They looked like they were eavesdropping. For some reason, I felt like they were going to report everything I was saying to my parents. Whatever.
Christos said, “Don’t start doubting everyone else in the world. You already doubt yourself, and that’s more than enough of a struggle. Your job is to put your work out there, and hope for the best.” He winked at me, flashing his sexy dimples.
“Thanks, Christos,” I sighed, doubt dragging me down. I completely appreciated his confidence in me, but it all seemed like a distant fantasy.
“Excuse me,” the eavesdropping man sitting next to us said. He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore reading glasses. The woman with him wore her hair in a short silver bob. She set down her eReader and smiled at me warmly.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the man continued, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with your friend here.”
I was right. Eavesdroppers! And there weren’t any eaves for miles around. At least this guy was with his wife, so he probably wasn’t a creepy stalker.
The man continued, “My wife and I have been watching both of you drawing this whole time, and we were wondering, are you Christos Manos?”
“That I am,” Christos nodded at the man and they shook hands. “How do you know my name?” Christos asked casually.
“We’re both fans of your grandfather’s work,” the man said.
“You know my grandfather?” Christos smiled.
“No,” the woman grinned, “but we’ve met him.”
“Really,” Christos smiled.
“Yeah,” the man said, “my wife and I used to go to the gallery openings here in town quite a bit. We’ve chatted with Spiridon more than once. In fact, I seem to recall seeing you as a young man at one of the openings. Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Oh yes,” his wife beamed, then said to Christos. “But you wouldn’t remember us boring old farts—”
I giggled when she said “farts”.
“—but you must’ve been twelve or so at the time.”
“That’s great,” Christos smiled. “So, are you guys collectors?”
“We are,” the man said. “We bought several of Spiridon’s smaller seascapes back in the day.”
“That’s terrific,” Christos said smoothly. I could tell he was used to conversations like this. I was in awe of how comfortable he was.
“Speaking of which,” the man said, “my wife and I were looking at the work you two were doing, and thought we’d like to buy it.”
“Oh,” Christos said, somewhat surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever sold one of these crayon paintings before. I usually just sell my oils at Charboneau Gallery in La Jolla.”
Wow. Christos wasn’t even trying and people were approaching him to buy his work. I was both amazed at the power of his family’s reputation and bummed that I was at least a decade or ten behind him in my own embryonic art career. Oh well. Maybe when I turned sixty it would be like this for me too. Assuming I didn’t throw in the towel and carry the torch of my family’s legacy. I could imagine forty years from now, silver-haired couples in coffee shops asking me if I was Sam Smith, CPA, and would I be willing to do their taxes this year? Sigh.
“Actually,” the man said sheepishly, “we were hoping to buy your friend’s piece.”
Christos’ eyes lit up and he grinned. “You mean Samantha’s?”
“Yes,” the man smiled. He offered his hand to me to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Samantha.”
His wife shook my hand and said, “We heard you two talking about trying to sell Samantha’s work. We’ve always tried to support the arts any way we can.”
I was blown away. “Are you guys serious?”
“Yes, we’re serious,” the man smiled. “And we’re not just doing you a favor, young lady. I can tell from here your work is good.”
“Oh, Ted,” his wife said, “Stop. You’re embarrassing the poor girl.”
“I’m serious, Victoria. I think her work is excellent.”
I blushed from head to toe and smiled wide. I think my teeth were blushing too.
“Do you mind if I take a closer look?” Ted asked, reaching toward my crayon painting.
“Sure,” I smiled.
He picked it up and held it so his wife could get a better look.
“Isn’t that beautiful,” Victoria said to her husband, then turned to me. “You have a terrific sense of color. And I can’t believe you did this with kids’ crayons!”
Ted peered through his reading glasses at my art. “It really is g
ood. Excellent composition.” He looked at me over his reading glasses. “How much do you want for it?”
“Uhhh,” I was stunned. “I don’t know?”
Christos chuckled. “Samantha’s new at this, as you may have guessed. Why don’t you guys make an offer.”
I was glad Christos stepped in. I was going to say they could have it for free.
“How about a hundred bucks?” the man said, pulling out his wallet.
“A hundred bucks!” I clapped my hand over my mouth.
Victoria smiled at me and giggled.
“Okay, how about one fifty?” Ted said.
“Oh my god!” I slapped my other hand over my mouth, totally surprised and slightly embarrassed, like I was manipulating them somehow.
Ted looked at Christos shrewdly. “I think your lady friend is an expert negotiator. One fifty it is. But she has to sign it.” Ted winked at me.
“I, no! I mean, I didn’t—” I looked at Christos for help. He merely smiled. “I can’t take your money! You guys can have it. I can’t believe you actually want it.”
Ted and Victoria exchanged a laugh while Ted counted the money out of his wallet and laid it on the table.
"Go ahead and sign it, Samantha” Christos encouraged.
“What? How?”
“You know how to sign your name, don’t you? Pick a color and sign the thing on the front or the back.”
“Oh, on the front, please,” Ted said. “We want people who come to our house to know who the artist is.”
I selected a gold crayon from the box. It seemed appropriate for the occasion. I signed my name on the front corner. When I was finished, I handed my crayon drawing to Ted. “I’ve never sold a painting before,” I squeaked.
He read my signature. “Now we can tell people that we have Samantha Smith’s first sold work in our collection.” He turned to his wife. “This oughta be worth something in a few years.” He handed me the money.
“Thank you so much!” I said to Ted, then reached over the table and hugged Christos. “I sold my first painting!”
Ted and Victoria chuckled.
“Here’s my business card,” Ted said, pulling one from his wallet. “Be sure to let us know if you have any work in the Contemporary Artists show you guys were talking about.”
“Ted, we should go get this framed,” Victoria beamed. “Thank you guys so much. Good luck!”
When they were gone I gaped at Christos. “Did you like, plan that or something?”
He laughed. “No. But I did help set the intention for you.”
“I really can’t believe that just happened!” I said, still gaping.
“I’ve seen crazier shit a hundred times in my own life. This is just the beginning, Samantha. I promise, agápi mou.”
I wrapped my arms around him gave him a huge smooch. “I love you so much, Christos!”
SAMANTHA
When Christos and I left the boardwalk café we both were getting hungry for dinner. We walked past the strip mall where Thai Doughnut was located. They were still open.
“Hey,” I joked, “want an Apple Fritter for dinner?”
“Tempting,” Christos said thoughtfully. “Maybe dessert?”
“Okay, let’s get regular Thai food.”
Back at my apartment, we hopped in my VW and drove to Bangkok Bay as the sun went down. Christos ordered Roasted Duck Curry and a side of Drunken Noodles.
“How much do you eat a day, really?” I asked.
“Same as a regular horse,” he joked.
I ordered yellow curry, and we drove back to my apartment. We ate sitting on the floor with our backs against my couch, our food on the coffee table.
“Congrats on selling that crayon painting today,” Christos said before forking noodles into his mouth.
“Are you sure that wasn’t a setup? That woman Victoria said she remembered meeting you.”
“That was ten years ago. Probably my grandfather’s last gallery show. There were tons of people there. If I met them, I don’t remember.”
“Are you sure sure?” I prodded.
“Accept it, Samantha. Someone bought your artwork today.”
“I know!” I shook my hands in a seated happy dance. “I made a hundred fifty bucks!”
“Now you’re on your way. I think this deserves a celebration. Maybe even a pageant,” he winked.
“Uhhhh….” I squirted a gush of Sriracha hot sauce on my yellow curry.
“Whoa! You got enough hot sauce?” Christos laughed.
“Whoops! Guess I like it hot,” I protested.
“Me too,” Christos winked.
Gulp. I took a bite of my curry. “Woo, hot!”
I was reminded again of the intense oral sexcapades I’d shared with Christos right on this floor, beside this couch and table, less than two months prior. We had been eating Thai food then, too.
As I chewed my curry, the spicy Sriracha sauce must have kicked in because my whole body was hot-flashing. That was the only rational explanation. I was also sure that my equally sudden horniness had nothing to do with the fact that the hottest man on the planet was grinning at me with his sexy dimples from less than a foot away.
“Are you sweating?” he asked.
“No!” I said, fanning my face. I gulped a swallow of water from my glass.
Christos grinned. “You look all hot and bothered to me.”
“It’s the hot sauce!” I choked, pointing at my mouth. “Totally spicy!”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
I nodded.
“Let me see…” He leaned toward me and slid his tongue across my lips. “You’re right. It is pretty hot. But I don’t think it’s the Sriracha.” He sat back down. “I can think of a few good ways to cool off,” he murmured.
“Ice cream!” I jumped up and went to my freezer. I still had several pints of that sweet salve remaining. I grabbed three and carried them back to the coffee table. “This should keep us busy for awhile. Oh! Forgot spoons.” I jumped up and got two spoons from the kitchen. “Dig in!” I said, handing one to Christos.
“I haven’t even finished my duck.”
“Better hurry up, before I eat all the ice cream.” I popped the lid on Double Mint Chocolate Chip and shoveled out a bite.
“You okay, Samantha?” Christos asked shrewdly.
“Mime fine,” I mumbled over a mouthful of ice cream.
“You sure, agápi mou?”
I gazed into his amazingly soulful blue eyes. I felt his intense yet endlessly comforting love wrap itself around my heart. I was instantly calm. What was I doing? Running away again? From what? From Christos? Was I crazy? Yes. But for once, I finally felt like I had a choice not to be. I set my spoon down and took a deep breath.
“Christos, ever since we got back from D.C.,” I said, “I can’t stop thinking about how lucky I am to have you in my life. You’re the most amazing guy I’ve ever met, but I keep thinking I’m going to wake up back in high school in D.C., with everyone calling me Whore and Suicide Watch and laughing in my face in the hallways.”
“I’m not a dream, agápi mou. I’m real.” He leaned into me and pinched my forearm gently. “You’re awake.”
“For the first time ever.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I sighed, “maybe this is the first time I’ve ever been awake in my whole life. Like I’d been walking through a haze until I met you. I sold a fricking painting today!” I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him. “Thank you, Christos. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, agápi mou.” He kissed me again, passionately. Our lips slipped across each other’s mouths as mutual desire kindled between us.
“I want you, Christos,” I said, feeling suddenly bold, “Now.”
He pulled back. “Are you sure?” he asked, his face serious. “Have you thought this through?”
“No.”
“Then maybe we should wait. Until the time is right.”
I s
ighed and considered for a moment. “That’s what I did with lame Damian. I waited and waited, and everything turned out terrible.”
“I’m not Lamian,” Christos smirked.
“Did you say Lame-ian?”
“I did,” he grinned. “Samantha, I can wait as long as you want. I’m not going to rush you or throw a tantrum because you’re not ready.”
I collapsed into him. “I’m soooo ready.”
Christos slowly stood up, leaving me on the carpet.
“Where are you going?” My heart clamped up.
“To put the ice cream away. So it doesn’t melt.” He picked up all three pints and carried them into the kitchen.
Silly me.
When he returned, he said, “Are you ready to host your pageant?”
“Yes,” I smiled.
“What does that mean, anyway?”
“Don’t you know? It’s my V-Pageant Celebration tonight,” I smiled coyly.
He chuckled. “Is that the same as turning in your V-card?”
I grimaced. “No. This is way more upscale.”
He squatted down next to me and pulled me into his arms. I instinctively wrapped mine around his neck as he stood up and carried me to my bedroom. My heart raced. My toes tingled. This was it. It was really going to happen.
With the man I loved.
“Shouldn’t we brush our teeth first, or something?” I asked nervously.
“If you want.”
We stood in front of my bathroom mirror, brushing our teeth together. We’d done it before, but it still felt like we were two little kids having a sleep-over, getting ready for bed together.
He grinned. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said shyly.
When we finished brushing, he stood by the bathroom door, gesturing back into my bedroom. “After you.”
“Oh my god, I’m so nervous.”
“Relax. It’s going to be fine.”
Somehow, I knew it was. Because I was with Christos. Then panic seized me. I slapped my forehead. “Wait!”
“What?”
“I don’t have any condoms! Do you have any condoms? I’m not on the pill.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t.”
“Don’t you carry a condom in your wallet like most guys?”
“I used them.”
“Them? As in, plural?”
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