Drawn To You

by Lily Summers

  Part of me wants to resist, but the other part of me is demanding simple sugar right this second. After a brief internal battle, I decide eating my feelings isn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Audrey singsongs to me as I shuffle into the kitchen in a tank top and pajama bottoms. She sets a plate down in front of me and grins like the Cheshire Cat. “You got in late last night.”

  She steeples her fingers in front of her mouth, watching me expectantly and failing to hide her smile.

  I pick up a piece of toast, take a bite, and intentionally chew very slowly so I can watch her squirm.

  When I finally swallow, I say, “It’s not what you think. Nothing happened.”

  “My ass nothing happened.” She hops up to sit on the counter by the breakfast bar and steals a piece from my plate. “If you don’t give me details, I’ll belt that song from Wicked that you hate until you relent.”

  “Ugh, fine,” I groan. “Ezra and I went out last night. But like I said, nothing happened.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me and starts humming the first few bars of the song.

  I groan and cover my ears. “We kissed, okay? We kissed. Stop, for the love of all that is good in the world.”

  Her humming ratchets into a high-pitched eeeeee sound and she says, “Was it a kiss…” She makes a so-so gesture with her hand. “… or was it a kiss?” She waggles her eyebrows.

  I take another bite of my toast before responding. “The second one.”

  She makes that eeeeee sound again.

  I clamp my hand over my ears, almost wishing she’d go back to the show tunes. “Not that it matters,” I say. “It’s not going to happen again.”

  I finish the toast and pick up my plate to take it to the sink.

  “Oh no.” Audrey stops me with both hands on my shoulders. “What did you do?” she says with a glower.

  I’m kind of offended she assumes it’s my fault, even though it’s true. “I didn’t do anything. We’re not right for each other, romantically speaking.” I sidestep around her. “I’m not on the market for a boyfriend, anyway.”

  “God, Mia, I’m not encouraging you to go off and elope, but being around that guy is good for you.”

  “How do you figure?” I mumble as I dump my plate in the sink.

  “Honestly, I haven’t seen you out of your room this much in months. You smile to yourself when you think I’m not looking. You’re wearing actual colors instead of your usual gray-on-gray. You’re going outside for something other than work, for shit’s sake. He’s making you come alive, and I don’t think you should shut that out.”

  I force a laugh and try to joke, “Should you really be giving me advice about my love life?”

  She waves her hand in the air like she’s batting my words away. “Do as I say, not as I do. You don’t have to fall in love, that’s not what I mean. But I do think you should give this a real shot. He’s fun, he’s gorgeous, and he makes you smile. Plus, he has hot friends who you could introduce to your fantastically supportive roommate, just saying.”

  Audrey’s words are getting to me, so I pick up the sponge and start washing things. She doesn’t leave, though, so after a while I sigh and say, “I’m too broken and boring for him.”

  “Not a chance,” Audrey says. “You’re book-smart, funny, just the right amount of weird… and don’t think I haven’t noticed you dragging around those sketchbooks, even if you’ll never let me see them. You’ve got intrigue seeping out of your pores.”

  I clam up. After spending months studiously avoiding compliments, all this at once has my systems overloaded. Gently, Audrey continues, “I don’t know what happened before we met, Mia, and I’m not going to pry, but it was obviously something that left a scar. Scars don’t change the fact that you’re worth knowing, though.”

  I sniff and rub my nose with my wrist to hide the fact that she made me tear up. “What did I do to land such a great roommate?” I ask.

  “You answered the ad,” she laughs. “And it helps that you’re cool enough to get invited to The Catacombs.”

  I scoop up a bunch of bubbles and blow them at her. She squeals and returns fire.

  Since it’s my day off and the sun’s actually shining, I decide to get out of my dark room and soak up some rare Vitamin D straight from the source. I tuck my newest sketchbook into my bag and catch the bus, thinking of last night. I stay on until Pearl District comes into view.

  The district is fully alive in the daylight, despite it being a workday for most people. I hang a left and walk past a few boutique shops and galleries. My favorite gallery is the Modern Art Gallery, but it’s not located here. Too bad, since I’m tempted to pay it a visit. Maybe next day off.

  I make my way to the nearby park and set up next to the bubbling fountain. A family plays nearby. Two little girls and a puppy chase each other across the grass, hiding behind bushes and pouncing out at one another. The next breath I take is painful, working its way around the lump in my throat. I flip open my sketchbook and let my heart spill onto the page.

  Thirty minutes later, the drawing shows the form of the older sister curled around the younger, protecting her from the thorns growing up around them both.

  “Daddy, look up there!” one of the girls calls. “What’s that painting?”

  The father says, “It’s a mural, I think.”

  Ezra’s new painting stretches high above the park. I feel a jolt seeing it, remembering the rush of last night, the pressure of his hand against my waist. Seeing it in the daylight is literally seeing it in a new light – it’s stunningly beautiful, the colors popping more than they could in the dark. Like his other painting on the bookstore building, I’m finding new things about it that I missed on the first pass. The shadows curling around the two boys are filled with color. In the moonlight, I hadn’t noticed the shades of gold and midnight blue that braid through the darkness. It casts a glow around the subjects, even in their fear and dread. How does Ezra do that? The mural shows sorrow and joy simultaneously, twining into each other, multiplying their beauty.

  The nuance of it catches in my chest. Maybe there’s something to that idea. Maybe I don’t have to keep my sorrow wrapped so tightly that it blocks out joy.

  Maybe I can be brave.

  I put down my sketchbook and pull out my phone, bringing up Ezra’s recent texts. They’re all pretty tame. Some mild flirting on his end, none on mine.

  I chew on my lip and think maybe it’s time to change that.

  It takes me fifteen minutes to work up the nerve. Even once I start typing, I feel my brain fizzle out. Seriously, what are words? I keep writing and deleting ridiculous texts along the lines of “did it hurt when you fell off the hottie wagon” and “you have an awesome face.” Finally, I bite the bullet with a simple and very banal “Hey, what are you doing?”

  The text goes out into the ether and I can’t take it back. Oh God. I bite my lip and watch as it’s declared delivered. A moment later, it’s marked as read… He doesn’t answer right away. My heart hammers in my chest as I try to wrench my gaze away from it. Who the hell thought read receipts were a good idea? I put my phone down and try to clear my mind, but when I look up, all I see is his mural on the wall across from me and it only makes it worse. This was such a bad idea.

  My phone chimes at me and I snatch it up. Subtle.

  “Sorry, working. On my break now. What’s up?”

  I sit there with my thumbs poised above the screen for too long. Now what do I say? I didn’t think this through very well.

  “Not much,” I send back. “Where do you work?”

  Should I already know that? I feel like I should already know that. God, I’m bad at this.

  “I’m a server at Toad In The Hollow,” he answers, and I recognize the name. It’s one of those super trendy small plates and mixology places. He follows it up with a second text: “Why, you planning on stopping by?”

  “Depends on whether or not you have a cute se
rver uniform,” I respond. Nailed it. I fight back a ridiculous giggle. I can’t believe how cheesy I’m being.

  I can’t believe I’m openly flirting. Rust practically flakes off my flirt muscles, but at least they’re working.

  Ezra apparently can’t, either, because his next message says, “Who is this and what have you done with Mia?”

  “Mia’s just fine. She’s wondering if you’re working tomorrow night.”

  “Nope, lunch shift tomorrow.”

  Half of my brain tells me to cut and run before I do something stupid. The other half keeps replaying that kiss on the rooftop last night, an endless loop of his insistent lips and the gentle scratch of his beard against my cheek. The latter half is much more appealing.

  Time to do something bold.

  I take a deep breath and send another text. “That’s good, because she also wanted you to know that Mr. Smith Goes To Washington is playing at Cinema 21 tomorrow, and she loves that movie.”

  There’s a long pause and I’m sure I ruined it. He’s probably telling his fellow servers what a dork I am right now.

  My phone vibrates and a new message pops up on the screen.

  “Checked the show time. Pick you up at 7 and we’ll eat there?”

  I suck in a breath and hold it. He asked me on a date. Or maybe… did I ask him? Should I respond right away or make him wait a minute? What are the rules?

  No. Screw the rules.

  I respond, “Sounds like a plan, that’s the end of my shift at Pages & Stages.”

  “See you then, Autumn,” he messages. “Looking forward to it. I’ll brush up on my filibustering skills in the meantime so I can reach Mr. Smith’s level.”

  My grin could outshine the sun.

  “Until tomorrow, Summer,” I reply.

  I put down my phone and pick up my sketchbook, turning to a fresh page.

  10

  Time crawls by at a snail’s pace. No matter how many customers I help and how many books I shelve and reshelve, I swear the clock’s actually going backwards.

  Sampson’s suspicious of me today. He keeps trying to catch me off guard by asking why I look so nice, which is oddly sweet in an overprotective dad sort of way. Audrey helped me put together today’s ensemble – a pretty patterned bubble skirt and knit crop sweater borrowed from her closet – and my hair’s actually tamed into a fishtail braid over one shoulder. I even took an extra thirty minutes to do my makeup the way I used to, with a full cat-eye and blush and everything.

  “I’m trying to clean up for the customers,” I say, not meeting his eye. “I’d have thought you’d be glad I don’t look like a… what did you call me?”

  “Certified ragamuffin,” he says.

  “Yeah, that.”

  He runs a hand through his beard and hmmms at me. “You sure there isn’t something, or someone, I ought to know about?”

  I heave a dramatic sigh and fling my hand over my forehead. “Father, you’ve caught me out, for I am eloping with a Montague, thy sworn mortal enemy.”

  Sampson responds with a blank stare. “Monta-who?”

  “You’re impossible.” I shake my head and go back to shelving cozy mysteries. “I felt like being fancy today. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Speaking of fancy, we got in a new shipment of Cat Fancy magazines. Make sure you put them out before five. That’s when the cat ladies start rolling in after picking up food for Fluffy and Mittens.”

  “Yes, sir.” I give him a mocking salute and he rolls his eyes skyward like he’s asking the heavens why he bothers with me.

  For the six hundredth time since my shift started, I go behind the front desk to pull my phone out of my bag. No messages, and the clock only reads 3:30.

  It’s going to be a long day until seven o’clock.

  As I’m ringing up some high schooler’s copy of High Times, he nervously looks over his shoulder at Sampson. I can’t stop the chuckle that bubbles up.

  “You know weed is legal here now, right?” I say.

  “I know,” the kid snaps, sneering at me. “If you’re 21.”

  “So turn 21, then. In the meantime, they can’t arrest you for reading about it. Shoo.” I wave him off and he gives me another scowl before snatching up his magazine and rejoining his friends outside.

  I pull out my phone again.

  It’s now 3:50. I groan and slump off to the warehouse ladder to pull down those Cat Fancy issues.

  Three long hours and several cups of coffee later, I’m practically vibrating from nerves and caffeine. Ezra should be here any minute. He hasn’t texted, so I assume that means he’s on schedule. I hope.

  Sampson notices my fidgety behavior and shakes his head at me with a smirk. He’s got a fitted t-shirt on today, revealing another tattoo on his bicep. This one must be new, or maybe I just haven’t seen him sans-flannel in so long I forgot about it. The piece is a long thin blade with an intricate handle and the name “MacLeod” engraved on it. Underneath on a ribbon, the lettering says, “There Can Be Only One.”

  Before he can ask more prying questions, I point to the tattoo and say, “Is that your family motto or something?”

  He glances down at his arm and then slowly looks back up at me, completely scandalized.

  “You’ve never seen Highlander?” he says. “I’m offended, Mia. Honestly offended.”

  “Hey, you look at me like I’m speaking an ancient dialect every time I mention an artist who sounds vaguely French, so you’ll forgive me for not knowing all your weird film references.”

  “But you like movies,” he argues.

  I cluck my tongue. “I like classic movies.”

  He puts his hand to his chest. “Highlander is a classic. How dare you?”

  I laugh and nudge him on the arm. “We can argue about the merits of film later. Go do your inventory, I’ll wrap up out here and let you know when I’m leaving.”

  With a grumble, he agrees, shaking his head as he walks toward the back room. I take a deep breath and smooth my skirt, then check my phone one last time.

  It’s 6:57.

  I’m actually doing this. I’m going on a date. I haven’t been on a real date since…

  The bell above the door jangles, catching me by surprise. I drop my phone and let out a nervous laugh, dipping behind the desk to pick it up. When I stand up, I’m wearing the biggest grin.

  “It’s about time,” I say. “I thought you were going to be —”

  I freeze, my smile shattering into a thousand pieces and falling off my face. I’d assumed it was Ezra. It’s not.

  The front of the shop’s empty. There’s no sound besides the slowly dying ringing of the bell.

  “You look great,” the guy says.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice is frozen solid, cold as ice.

  Damien takes a hand out of his jacket pocket and runs it through his short hair. He licks his lip, shifting from one foot to the other and furrowing his brow like a confused goddamn puppy.

  It’s the look that made me fall in love with him three years ago.

  It’s the look that makes me hate him now.

  White-hot rage overtakes the cold that settled in my chest and I rush around the counter, growling, “What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here.”

  The sound of his voice grates on my eardrums.

  “I needed to see you, Mia,” he says. “We need to talk.”

  I shake my head and clench my fists. “No. You need to get out. Out of this shop, out of Portland, out of my life. Forever. Do you understand me?”

  How the hell did he know I work here? Who’s he been talking to?

  Who’s betrayed me this time?

  It’s getting so hard to breathe. Panic claws its way up my throat. He can’t be here. I came here to get away.

  Damien sets his jaw and raises his head. “I’m not going to leave until you listen. There are things I have to say, all right?”

  He crosses the store, reaching for my hand, and I reel back like I�
�ve been electrocuted.

  “Don’t you touch me,” I snarl. “Don’t you dare. There’s no room in my life for a cheater and a drunk. You can go to hell.”

  He looks annoyed, but he doesn’t try to touch me again. “I’m in a program, okay?” he says, crossing his arms. A spark of anger glints like iron in his eyes. “At least I did something productive after what happened. I didn’t run away.”

  The air rushes out of my lungs at his words. I’m too stunned to respond. He might as well have slapped me.

  He uses the silence to continue. “I finished my stay in rehab last week. I knew the very first thing I had to do when I got out was come see you. This is one of the steps of my therapy.”

  I recoil back to the counter, as far away from him as I can get, and manage to find my voice again.

  “What is?” I say, and I don’t even know why I’m asking. I shouldn’t care.

  “Seeking forgiveness,” he says. His eyes shine with tears, his mouth twists in pain. As if he has the right. It makes me hate him even more.

  My laugh is high and forced. “Forgiveness? What, you thought you would show up unannounced at my damn job and say you’re sorry for what you did, and I would absolve you so you could go on your merry way? Are you kidding me?”

  He cringes away from me, and I’m glad for the space. The farther he is from me, the less my skin crawls.

  “I am sorry,” he says, his words coming out strangled. “I can’t ever make this right, I know that, but I’m so, so sorry.”

  I need him gone. There’s no air in this room anymore, and I can’t breathe until he’s gone.

  “Get out of here and don’t come back,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head and looks at me with renewed fire. “I can’t do that, Mia. I need you to listen. I need you to forgive me.”

  “Get out, get out, get out!” I shove him, but he catches my hand and holds it against his chest.

  I’m paralyzed by his touch. Fear and nauseating fury thunder inside me, pulling me in a million directions. Bile rises in the back of my throat and I try to pull away, but Damien’s grip is iron.