Drawn To You

by Lily Summers

  “Having a good time?” Ezra asks. He’s talking to Audrey, but he looks at me.

  “This party is incredible,” Audrey calls over the bass thumping nearby. “Thank you so much for inviting my favorite bookworm along for the ride. I only had to twist her arm a little.”

  “Well thanks for doing the twisting,” he laughs. He catches the bartender’s eyes and mouths something to her.

  Audrey’s bouncing to the beat, hopping in place. She’s wearing insanely tall heels and I don’t understand how her feet aren’t killing her.

  Ezra reaches over us to grab three bottles and hands one to me and Audrey each. I peer at the label. It’s an IPA from a local brewery, with a typical Portland name: She Wants the D(ry Hops). I peer up at Ezra, raising my eyebrows. Is he trying to imply something?

  He shrugs with a fake innocence I don’t believe for a second. But I guess I can forgive him. It’s one of my favorites, after all.

  “I love this remix,” Audrey says, totally oblivious. “This DJ is fantastic.”

  Ezra smirks. “Funny you should say so. He’s a good friend. Would you like to meet him?”

  Audrey’s squeal sounds more like a dog whistle. “Absolutely!”

  Next thing I know, we’re being herded along back into the thick of the party. Ezra’s bun is coming loose in that artfully messy way, and my cheeks warm as I think about fixing it for him. It doesn’t need fixing, but it’d give me an excuse to touch him.

  I’m starting to feel things I haven’t felt in a long time.

  And it’s freaking me the fuck out.

  We get to the podium where the DJ’s set up his table. He focuses on his laptop, but he spares a second to flash Ezra a megawatt smile. After some more fiddling with his setup, he hops down to pull Ezra into a quick hug – one of those shoulder-bump things that guy friends do to each other.

  “What’s up, man? Didn’t know if you’d make it tonight,” the DJ says.

  “I did, and I brought friends,” Ezra says.

  The guy laughs. “You always bring friends.” He turns his attention to us and holds out a hand. “Name’s Duke.”

  I accept Duke’s handshake. It’s hot, probably from fiddling with electronics all night. He’s a tall and fit black guy, his dark skin and eyes warmed by the bright reds in his shirt. He has a matching red cap, and I can see he wears his hair cut close to his scalp. I’m not sure what it is about these party guys that makes you feel like they’re already your best friend, but Duke makes me feel instantly at ease. Even though he’s easily six hundred times cooler than I am.

  “I’m Mia,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

  Duke turns his attention to Audrey, and she’s much more on the ball than I am. Within seconds, she’s complimented his remixes and they’re going on about Tiësto and Major Lazer and other names I’ve never heard of before. Not five minutes later, I watch him take her phone to type in his number. I wonder how many numbers she’s collected tonight. Audrey never gives out her number, she has guys give her theirs so she can pick. It rarely works out in her favor, but she feels like she has more control this way.

  I fold one arm around my body and feel like the weird kid at a high school dance as I take another gulp of my beer.

  Ezra’s grin is easy as he leans in closer and says, “You okay? You look like someone died.”

  His voice is light, joking, but he has no idea the effect his words have on me. My stomach drops to my knees and comes back with a roiling vengeance. The sting of tears prickle behind my eyes and I will them away as I do my best to school my face blank. Something must’ve shown through, though, because Ezra’s half-smile fades and he looks concerned.

  It’s that horrible moment just before he asks me what’s wrong. I hate this moment. Luckily, we’re spared by yet another guy in a knit cap hitting Ezra on the arm to divert his attention. I release the breath I’m holding.

  They trade barbs and typical party small talk that I don’t have to follow because I don’t recognize a single name they drop. It gives me enough time to collect myself.

  The new guy is a few inches taller than I am, broad at the shoulders, and growing a beard reminiscent of a dwarf out of a Tolkien novel. I watch his eyes settle on the beer in my hand and he looks pleased.

  “Nice choice,” he says. “How do you like it?”

  “It’s pretty good,” I say, glancing at Ezra out of the corner of my eye. “Honestly, I prefer the double IPA from Wreck City. They’re out of —”

  “Seattle, yeah. They’re good at what they do,” the guy says. He elbows Ezra. “You didn’t tell me this one knows her beer, dude.”

  This one? I wonder.

  Ezra rolls his eyes. “Mia, this is Leon. He owns Underweather Brewery on the river near the Saturday Market.” He slings an arm around Leon’s shoulder, slapping him on the back. “He’s incredibly easy to impress if you know anything about beer.”

  My eyebrows tick up. “You own Underweather? No shit?”

  “No shit,” he laughs.

  “I loved that limited edition grapefruit gose you did over the summer,” I say in a rush. “Ezra, why didn’t you tell me you had a superstar for a friend?” I ask and I’m only half-joking. Ezra laughs, spreading his palms to feign ignorance. “I mean, She Wants the D(ry Hops) is pretty good, but have you tried Underweather’s apricot sour?” This is totally dorky. I’m completely fangirling, but I can’t really stop myself. “It was a revelation.”

  “Truly a girl after my own heart,” Leon says.

  Before long, Leon and I are as engrossed in conversation about our favorite breweries and craft beers as Audrey and Duke are about music. With Ezra’s hand resting easily on my waist and the banter between the three of us quick and interesting, the party melts away. I feel light, present in a way I haven’t felt in months. For a few minutes, I almost forget that I’m the least interesting person under this roof.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a streak of blue threading through a mane of rich brown hair and turn to see the most beautiful girl yet. Her kohl-rimmed eyes are hazel and bored, scanning the room like she’s seen it all a million times before. Her makeup is absolutely flawless, her long hair swept to one side to reveal the undercut beneath. The clothes she’s wearing look like they came straight off a runway, they’re so effortlessly stylish. She looks like she came straight off a runway.

  Like every other person at this party, she offers Ezra a smile, but I get the immediate impression that her smiles are only given out sparingly. Sure enough, as soon as Ezra says hello and gets my attention to introduce us, her mouth returns to its former disaffected pout.

  Ezra barely even notices. “Mia, this is Skylar. I totally thought she was skipping out tonight and you wouldn’t get the chance to meet.”

  I start to reach out my hand for a shake, but realize too late Skylar isn’t budging. Her arms fold into each other as she crosses them, leaving me hanging, my hand empty and extended between us. You’ve got to be kidding me. Thankfully her attention is so fully on Ezra that she doesn’t notice me awkwardly retract to grip my beer bottle. “We just wrapped up a show at The Hill,” Skylar says. “I almost didn’t come, but I heard you’d be here, so I had to come say hi and see the latest masterpiece.”

  As she says that last bit, she puts a hand with perfectly manicured black nails in his and squeezes.

  I swallow and attempt to be a good sport. “So, you were playing a show?”

  Her stare would be withering if it weren’t so disinterested.

  Ezra clears his throat and says, “Skylar’s the singer for Blank Form.”

  “Oh,” I say, very aware that I’m supposed to recognize that name. “Awesome.”

  “I guess,” she says, clearly apathetic.

  The room’s starting to feel too hot and I throw back the last of my beer. It’s warm and extra hoppy on my tongue.

  “Wish you could have been there instead of here,” Skylar’s saying to Ezra. “These parties are the same thing every week.
Maybe you could rethink that collaboration show I suggested last month, yeah? We play, you paint, we sell it for charity at the end. People love that shit.”

  She’s playing with the hair at the base of his neck and I suddenly feel like an alien in my own skin. Something dull and aching feels like it’s pressed against my ribs. I look around to try and find Leon, but he’s moved on to conversations with other people. At once, the dynamic of this whole party sharpens in clear relief. I’m an ugly duckling trying to fit in with the swans.

  Ezra’s saying something to me but I don’t quite catch it. I don’t look him in the eye, either.

  The room is way, way too hot.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” I say, shoving my way to the side and past beautiful girls and beautiful boys and beautiful lights that don’t belong to me. “Thanks for the invite,” I mumble over my shoulder.

  I’ve already made it to the steps when I hear Audrey call my name. I ignore her and push my way past the gatekeeper and back into the misty air where I finally feel cool.

  5

  I’ve barely made it three steps out of the door before Ezra reaches me. He catches me by the shoulder and I feel it like a jolt. His touch on my arm is becoming addictive in the very best way, and that unnerves me. I don’t want to crave a connection as much as I’m craving this one.

  But I do.

  “Hey,” he says, that look of concern back on his face. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I answer automatically, my voice coming out breathless as I pull my sweater tighter. “Big parties aren’t really my thing. I probably shouldn’t have come.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did, but I’m sorry you weren’t having a good time.” He leans his weight on one leg and puts his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. How does he make casual look so good?

  I sigh and shake my head to clear it. “No, it’s not… it’s a great party. I do better one-on-one, is all.”

  I don’t mention that I also do better when I’m not monstrously uncomfortable and surrounded by amazing, intimidating people. Being reminded that you’re an art school dropout is even worse when everyone around you is making incredible art.

  Ezra light years away from me in terms of talent and confidence, and the fact that he’s paying me any mind at all feels like a miracle. A miracle that makes my stomach flutter.

  Ezra’s touch traces down my arm to settle at my hand. His fingers interlace with mine and I feel my heart in my throat. “If you prefer one-on-one time, let me walk you home.”

  “You don’t have to do that, I’m fine.” The words spill out of my mouth before I realize I don’t really mean them. I actually do want him to walk me home. It’s been a while since I wanted anything to do with anyone.

  He looks over his shoulder. “Just so you know, your roommate made me promise to come get her if you refused.”

  Oh Audrey, of course. I know she’d come out here the second I asked, but I also know I’ll never make her leave a party where she’s obviously having so much fun.

  I’m out of excuses. To be honest, I don’t know why I was searching for them to begin with when he’s so lovely in the low light from the warehouse. I hear myself say, “She’ll kill us if we make her leave.”

  Ezra’s lips curl into a smirk. “Guess that leaves us with no other choice.”

  My pulse is pounding in my ears. I fight the urge to pull my hand out of his, despite how much I love his reassuring pressure, the electric sensation of his fingers laced with mine. He falls into step beside me and I fight away a crazy, stupid grin that’s creeping across my face. I shouldn’t be doing this. Getting too close is something I can’t afford.

  But my brain is egging me on, playing a constant refrain of “get closer, get closer, get closer” with a side of “I bet his hair feels nice.” I feel my hand go numb in his. I don’t deserve to find out.

  Besides, what could he possibly see in me when he’s got girls like that lead singer fashionista fawning over him?

  He clears his throat as we pass a 24-hour diner stuffed full of truckers and college students.

  “I’m glad we got away from the crowd,” Ezra says. The neon lights from the diner cast colorful shadows across his face, framing his hair in a halo of blues and reds. He looks like a figure from one of his paintings. “We couldn’t really talk back there. This is much better. So, what’s your story?”

  I snort. I can’t help it. “My story? Who are you, a greaser from the 50s?”

  Ezra throws his head back and laughs with me. “Okay, fair,” he says. “Maybe the diner had me feeling sentimental for sock hops and soda shops. But it’s an honest question. Tell me something about yourself.”

  The glow from the neon lights fade into the background. I chew on my lip and do my best not to look at him, at his captivating smile and magnetic eyes. I drop his hand.

  “I’m a bookstore clerk with charcoal stains on her fingers,” I say as I kick at a pebble.

  He elbows me gently. “I knew that much already. Tell me something else.”

  Something catches in my throat. What else could I say that wouldn’t clue him into the fact that I’m a flaming hot mess? It’s a miracle he hasn’t picked up on it already, but I can’t imagine I’ll be protected by his ignorance for long. Oh me? I’m just your average, shut-in, art school dropout with a tragic past. Good taste in beer, bad taste in TV, mountain of debt—the usual.

  “Tell me about one of your favorite artists.”

  The question is so unexpected that I stall in my tracks for a second. He stops to wait for me, cocking his head at my reaction. Laughter tugs at the edge of his expression, his lips softening.

  I’m overwhelmed. I can’t help it. It’s like when somebody asks what your favorite movie is and you suddenly forget every single film you’ve ever seen except for that made-for-TV slasher flick you watched the night before. I start walking again, and the movement helps get my brain working. “Alphonse Mucha,” I finally say. “There’s something about the color and life breathed into his women. It’s like they’re in on a secret, inviting you to ask what it is.”

  “Nice,” he says in approval. “Didn’t he do those women who represent the seasons?”

  “Yes,” I say, my cheeks warming. The rest comes out in a rush. “He did more than one series of them, actually. I’m partial to the 1896 set.”

  “Which one are you?” Ezra asks, rolling up one of his sleeves casually, revealing a sliver of bright color on his skin. Oh no. Tattoos on hot boys are one of my many weaknesses. I have to lean forward to hide my glance behind my hair. Man, I’m doing a bad job of clamping down my attraction.

  Probably because I don’t really want to. I should. But I don’t.

  Then I remember that he asked me a question. “Huh?”

  “Which of the seasons?” he asks

  Oh. Duh. Well, maybe not duh, since nobody has ever asked me something like that before. Even after all that time in art classes. Leave it to Ezra to stump me about something I’m supposed to be an expert in. I steal a glance at him and see that he’s watching me, running a hand across his stubbled jaw thoughtfully.

  “You know, I don’t think it’s occurred to many people to cast themselves as the paintings,” I finally say.

  Ezra cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not many people.”

  He’s right about that.

  “Well?” he asks.

  I chuckle, shaking my head. Gamely, I think about each of the paintings in turn. “Autumn. I like sweaters and apple picking, like any stereotypical Northwestern girl. You’re Summer, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he agrees. “Though my hair’s not quite as luxurious as Mucha’s Summer. I’m working on it.”

  Great. He’s funny, too. I’m a goner.

  I’ve drifted closer to him without meaning to, and I reluctantly make more space between us. I clear my throat and ask, “How about you? Who’s your favorite artist?”

  “Banksy,” he replies instantly.

  I half-laugh, shak
ing my head until I realize that he isn’t kidding. “Come on,” I say, “you can do better than freaking Banksy.”

  For a second I worry that I’ve offended him, but Ezra hasn’t lost that light in his eyes. He puts his hand to his chest in mock offense. “And what, pray tell, is wrong with my idol?”

  My lips quirk into a wry grin. “His stuff is such surface-level commentary. It looks all deep and profound at first glance, but all he does is tell us things we already know. War and fascism are bad, wow.”

  Ezra laughs, shaking his head. “I like your honesty, Mia. You’re authentic.”

  “Like Banksy?” I smirk.

  “Like you,” Ezra says, genuine now. “You and no one else. You say what you really think, like this morning in the shop, or back there in the party. It’s incredible after being around people who put up a front all the time.” He grows quiet for a minute, before adding, “The game gets old, you know?”

  We stop at the curb to wait for a light to change. I feel heat rising to my cheeks and wonder if they’re steaming in the damp night air. That glimmer of his vulnerability catches me off guard, snagging in my chest and pulling me closer to him. I clear my throat in the silence and say, “I have a lot of feelings about art.”

  “Me too.” The light changes and Ezra ambles forward, his thumbs hooked into his back pockets. Just like that, his vulnerability has melted away. I can’t help but marvel at his recovery as I catch up to him in the crosswalk. “I’d really love to see some of yours some time,” Ezra says. “Your art, that is.”

  My chest tightens. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, stepping onto the curb.

  He regards me for a minute and then lets it drop, to my relief. “Sure. Art’s personal. You can only show your soul to so many people, after all.”

  My throat goes dry. “How personal is your art?” I ask.

  Now it’s his turn to stop. A car turns the corner just behind us, careening through the night, then leaving us in a quiet lull. After a beat, Ezra looks away and chuckles, but it sounds a little hollow. Seeing him alone under the diffused yellow streetlight is like seeing an entirely different person. He’s more soft-spoken than the guy at the center of the warehouse party. More thoughtful, less boisterous and showy. Still pretty as hell either way.