by Lily Summers
This is a mistake.
Besides, Ezra’s late.
I stamp my sneakered feet against the ground to get some feeling back into my toes and walk toward the front door to the building. My fingers have barely touched the handle when a figure in a hoodie and a leather jacket comes around the corner and heads straight for me.
My hand drops to my side. No chance for escape now, and suddenly I don’t feel like I need to anymore. Ezra’s eyes are downcast and his grin could light the entire street. What does he have planned? I want to know what makes him smile like that, so I can store the knowledge away for future use.
He pulls the strap of his backpack up his shoulder and I hear the muffled clink of spray paint cans inside.
“Sorry if I made you wait,” he says. “I was running low on blues. You ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, my voice catching.
Ezra’s eyebrows draw together. He reaches out and brushes my shoulder, his touch sending a rush through me “It’s okay if you want to bail,” he says softly. “I won’t take it personally. I’ll miss your insight, but I don’t want to push you into doing anything that’s going to make you uncomfortable.”
Oddly enough, that hardens my resolve. I tilt my chin up. I want to see his work. I want to see him work.
My curiosity is stronger than my fear. And it’s not just his art luring me in. I smile up at Ezra. Under his gaze, a boldness I haven’t known for months kindles inside me. I like this feeling. I like him. I keep trying to turn away, but he’s impossible to resist.
“I’m good. Let’s do this.”
“Right on.” He takes my hand and before I know it, we’re running for the nearest bus stop, where we hop on the first bus that pulls up.
I scan my pass while Ezra digs in his pockets for his fare. When we move down a grab a rail a ways away from the few other passengers, I lean in and whisper, “Where are we going?”
He reaches out to steady me as the bus takes a hard turn. My breath catches in my throat. His body is solid, made of lean muscle, pressed against me. I only just resist reaching out to pull him closer. I’m alarmed at how much I’d like to know how many more tattoos he has under his shirt.
“All in good time,” he says, his breath warm against my ear. I’m so dizzy from the sudden rush that I’m not sure whether he’s answering my question or the thoughts in my head.
We ride for a while and I look out the window, spotting the river at the end of the roads we pass. Before long, the bus hisses to a stop and Ezra tugs my sleeve. We get off on a street lined with fancier lofts than Audrey and I could afford on both our salaries combined.
“Come on,” Ezra says before bounding off. I do my best to follow, holding my hood in place to keep it from falling back.
We round a corner and I realize we’re on the outskirts of the Pearl District. The sounds of nightlife surround us, and I see dozens of lights lining the road while crowds bustle by, holding cups of six dollar coffee and designer purses. We pass by a few art galleries and my heart jumps into my throat. I hope he’s not planning on breaking into one.
Ezra cuts a left and leads us away from the busiest streets toward a quieter area that hasn’t been renovated yet. In a comfortable silence, we pass a few warehouses and an old railway yard before he stops next to a fire escape.
He flicks his eyes upward and I follow his gaze. Are we going to climb this thing? Like, to the roof? The warehouse we’ve stopped next to is easily three stories high.
“What do you say we give the future owner a conversation piece?” he says. Then he readjusts his backpack, grabs the ladder, and starts climbing.
I gulp as I look up after him. I’m not afraid of heights, exactly, but I don’t really love the idea of falling off a rusty fire escape ladder. This is the point where my brain would normally be instructing me to run away, but the wheedling, critical voice in my head is mysteriously absent tonight. Maybe Ezra’s chased it off.
I swallow the butterflies in my stomach and grab hold of the cold metal. Whatever’s at the top will be worth it. I hope.
Don’t look down, don’t look down.
By the time I reach the top, all my muscles are twitching with adrenaline. It’s hard to catch my breath. Ezra leans down to offer me a hand up. As I lace my fingers with his, the coil that’s been tightening in my abdomen all night tenses even more. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take before it springs.
I clamber over the lip of the roof and his hand goes to my waist to keep me from falling. Breathless, I catch his gaze, lost in his half-lidded eyes, buzzing with the rush. We’re inches apart and he’s starting to close the distance.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping carefully back. Something in me deflates from the distance, but he’s too close. And he’s not close enough.
Damn, my brain’s a mess. I rub my arms up and down, trying to work my nervousness out through my palms. I’m shaking with the combination of being near Ezra and up so high above the city, but I try to hide it as best I can.
Ezra tilts his head toward the far edge of the roof, signaling for me to follow. He puts a foot up on the barrier for balance and peers over to the street below. I may be wired as hell and high on endorphins, but I can’t bring myself to join him. Don’t look down—isn’t that the conventional wisdom?
“It’s peaceful up here, right?” he says, turning around to look at me. “The galleries are closed for the night and no one goes to that park this late. It’s just you and me.”
I inch forward enough to see the small park in view of the roof. From here, the streets are quiet, a hush settled across them like a blanket. Even the pedestrians out tonight look like ants, peaceful and very far away. He’s right. The city is ours.
When I look over my shoulder, I notice an outcropping of the building that’s raised above the rest. It’s the perfect canvas.
Ezra drops his bag to the ground with a soft metallic thud. He rolls up his sleeves and I see a half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm. Koi fish curl around the underside of his wrist and stretch toward his elbow, surrounded by blue water and kelp.
I wonder if he’s a water sign.
He licks his lip and I realize I’m staring. I can’t help it.
“I’m going to get started,” he says. “Think you can act as lookout until I need your eye?”
I nod and head back toward the fire escape, clutching tight to the metal to keep myself steady as I watch for movement on the ground. When I hear the familiar hiss of paint, I turn to peek at what he’s doing. Ezra pauses in the streak he was pulling across the wall.
“Eyes front,” he calls softly. “No spoilers. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you.”
“Are you shy?” I tease. “Color me surprised.”
He looks down at his paint. “It’s weird having someone watch me do my off-hours painting, is all.”
I can relate, so I obey his request and don’t look again, even though I’m dying to know what he’s doing. I find a barrier that’s been raised that doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to tip over the edge of the roof. I lean against it, watching people below. They’re coming from a restaurant or bar in groups, laughing as they walk. For the first time in months, it doesn’t make me feel alone. Right now I’m exactly where I want to be.
The hissing behind me stops. I fight the urge to turn around. Fumes from the paint rise up in a cloud around us, making me a little dizzy. Or maybe it’s the sound of my name on his lips. “Mia,” Ezra says.
I fight the smile tugging at the corners of my lips and turn to see what Ezra created.
It’s the woman again, a different take on the same soul that touched me so deeply. Painted in bold blues and white and purple, she’s a splash of color, dimming the browns and grays around her. This time, she’s singing, and her song flows out of her mouth as golden wind and birds and stars. The colors become clouds, and two boys stand at the far end of the music, their eyes closed, listening. My gaze lingers on the boys. One of the
m smiles. The other looks pained, his profile downcast, his shoulder slumped.
I feel that boy’s pain bloom in my chest. The beauty of his expression, the vulnerability of it latches into my heart and doesn’t let go.
In my time at art school, I saw lots of paintings that were full of emotion, fewer that showed mastery of style, and fewer still that tugged at me personally somewhere deep inside. I remember one created by an exchange student of her mother, who she’d never known. The first time I saw it, I took a picture and sent it to Iris, because it was too incredible not to share. A faceless woman stood on a bridge overlooking San Francisco. Mist surrounded her, blurring her lines, but the city shone bright and bold. Every time I looked at it, I could sense the longing for the mother alongside the joy of a life well lived.
Ezra’s piece wakens that same feeling in me – incredible sorrow edged by euphoric joy. Beautiful isn’t a strong enough word for it.
He clears his throat and brings me back to reality. “What do you think?”
I move my head side to side in awe. “This is incredible work, Ezra.”
He exhales softly. “Thanks.” After a beat, he says, “Now give me the real answer.”
“This is my real answer,” I say, taken aback.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “That interpretation that nobody else gets, the spark nobody sees but you. I need your eyes, Mia. You keep me real.”
It’s been so long since I’ve been able to experience this, to share my thoughts with someone who understands. It’s freeing. Ezra takes my hand, and I can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Underneath the lingering scent of paint, I can smell that delicious spice of his. I barely resist pulling him down by the collar and burying my nose in the crook of his neck. Instead I focus on the painting.
Opening himself up to such criticism isn’t easy – I know from experience – so I take his request seriously and reexamine it closely. I walk along the length of the outcropping, letting all of its elements wash over me. I frown, following the movement of the piece. The painting’s still lovely, still full of raw emotion, but then I start to see the imbalance.
I point at the woman, careful not to touch the still-drying paint.
“Your subjects’ faces are telling a story, but it’s incomplete. There’s a darkness here that’s not being shown,” I say.
The expressions on the boys’ faces capture my attention and I add, “One of them looks happy, but why is the other so hurt?”
When I glance back in his direction, I see Ezra’s jaw tighten and his eyes narrow, only for a second. He follows my gaze, his attention lingering on the second boy. I can practically see the ideas flickering through his mind, moving so fast he can hardly keep up. Finally, he turns to me, inspiration buzzing through him, warming all his features.
“You’re amazing,” he says. “And you’re right.”
As he brushes by me on his way to the paint cans, he pauses to pull my head in close and kiss me on the temple. It’s so gentle, so tender that I find myself leaning into him, wishing it could be more. But before I know it, he’s gone, back at work adding color to the wall. My fingers brush the skin where he kissed me, and I can still feel his lips there like a brand.
Breathe, Mia.
He lets me watch this time as he works. Before my eyes, the dripping paint takes the form of a jewel-eyed snake curling around the woman’s neck and whispering in her ear. It casts a shadow across the boys, surrounding them in darkness. That gloom takes form, becoming monstrous, threatening with sharp fangs. A shadow’s clawed hand reaches up over one of the boys’ shoulders as he strains to keep listening to the song.
Ezra finishes with a final flourish, and we both stare at the wall for a quiet minute. There’s a whole new layer in the painting now, one that makes me clutch my hand over my aching heart. There’s such fear in this story, but there’s hope, too. My eyes move from the frightened boy to his friend, who is still captivated by the woman’s song, listening and joyful, even in the face of immense darkness.
Art like this can change lives. It’s already changing mine.
I look sidelong at Ezra and watch his chest rise and fall in carefully controlled breaths as he takes in his own work. That’s a feeling I recognize, too – the sensation of seeing something that came from your own hands and not being sure where it came from, how it could have possibly spilled out of you. He turns his head toward me.
Then we come together, our hands tangled in each other’s clothes and our mouths meeting. We collide like shooting stars, bursting in a cascade of sparks on a rooftop.
I pull back from the kiss, stunned at my own boldness. He’s eager, as breathless as I am, but he waits for me.
“I want this,” he says. “Do you?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
He takes my wrist and raises my hand so he can kiss my open palm, sending a shiver down the length of my body. I can see the desire in his eyes, mirroring my own. Here, above the rest of the city, surrounded by golden city lights and paint and mist, all I want is him.
After a moment, Ezra lets me go, his fingers sliding over my skin.
“When you figure out the answer, please let me know,” he says.
When he starts to turn away, I instinctively grab his sleeve and pull him around to face me.
I have no idea how to navigate the storm inside me. All I know is that I don’t want him to leave.
“Kiss me again,” I say.
His hands tangle in my curls, and I pull him in close, standing on tiptoe to meet his mouth with mine. I lose myself in him, his insistent lips, the gentle tug of his fingers in my hair. I tip to one side, overbalancing, and he holds me steady. The roof could be tilting and I wouldn’t care, so long as he’s here to catch me.
Heat spreads over my skin and down the length of my body. My toes and fingertips tingle, and I trace them over his jaw, down his chest, over his bared forearms. I imagine myself drawing on his skin, pulling out his true colors from the bone and muscle beneath.
He takes a gasping breath and deepens our kiss, parting my lips, soft and warm. My legs go wobbly and he supports me.
My shuttered heart is creaking open again and I’m not sure I can close it this time.
Ezra’s fingers work their way around to the front of my anorak and, in a lust-fueled fog, I fumble for the zipper near my throat and yank it down. His hand slips inside and brushes against my belly, his fingers tracing down until they find the exposed skin above my jeans. When he touches me there, the heat humming in my blood gathers in my lower belly.
A fire lights in me, and I panic and cringe away from the flames.
I gasp and push myself away, stumbling back. Now we’re a universe apart and my hands are already going numb from the sudden cold. My teeth chatter from my still-firing nerves as much as from the chill, and I zip my coat back up and cover my face with my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t know if he can even hear me.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t get hurt again. My heart won’t be able to take it. I’m not brave enough for this.
Ezra is composed as he approaches me, gently pulling my hands away from my face. The passion that drove him before is softer now, calmer. There’s still heat behind his eyes, but it’s tempered by worry.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. The post-art high is intense.”
I pull away from him and fold my arms around my center. His touch is dangerous for my resolve.
“I don’t know that it’s the art giving me a high,” I say, avoiding his eye and hoping my blush doesn’t show too much.
He swallows and puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. I expect to see his annoyance then, like with any other guy I’ve dated in the past, but it’s nowhere to be found.
“I can relate,” he says. “Being around you is learning how to paint. Incredible and terrifying and I feel like a more complete version of myself. It’s bringing out passion I didn’t know I had. I’m not abou
t to mess that up. Whatever it is that you want out of this, I’m here for it.”
Tears burn behind my eyes and I look up to blink them away. “And if I don’t want anything at all?”
He bows his head, thinking. I can see the war inside him, as he tries to accept that possibility. “Then I’ll leave you alone. It’ll wreck me, but I’ll leave you be if you ask me to.”
I look past him to the painting, its vibrant colors shining in the moonlight.
“That’s not what I’m asking,” I say.
He gives me the slightest smile before going to pack up his paint cans. When he comes back, he reaches for me, but thinks better of it when I stiffen up.
“Come on, Autumn,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”
9
The following morning finds me buried in a blanket burrito of shame in my bed. I squeeze my eyes shut against the morning light and curse consciousness for reminding me what an absolutely ridiculous person I am.
What’s the matter with me?
I give in to the call of daylight and sit up, my comforter still wrapped around my shoulders. The drawings of Iris stare down at me and I run my fingers over her sketched curls. I’m tempted to ask her what she’d do if she were in my situation.
But Iris isn’t here, and besides, I already know what she’d do, and it makes me feel kind of sick.
Last night is crystal clear in my memory, and everything swirls inside my head, reminding me of the rush, the heat, the inevitable crash and burn. Ezra was incredible through it all. Not only did he create yet another painting that woke something inside me, but he understood when I shut down. Let’s be honest, I am far from a dream date. Anyone else would have washed their hands of me after that. I would have washed my hands of the whole affair after that.
And here I am on my day off, bundled up in bed and continuing to punish myself. I’m a mess and he’s amazing. What the hell does he see in me?
The smell of cinnamon and sugar wafts beneath my door and my mouth waters instantly. Despite how close I hold my cards close to my chest, Audrey’s still managed to learn that I love cinnamon toast. She’s drawing me out of my cave. Clever girl.