Drawn To You

by Lily Summers

  “Ezra,” I say. “What do you understand?”

  He sinks down next to me on the bed and stares at his hands.

  “I’m from New York City,” he says. “You knew that, right?”

  “I’d gathered,” I say.

  “Well, the truth is that I ran away from New York City.” He reaches around to grip his shoulder. “You remember asking me about this tattoo on my back?”

  I nod.

  “It’s to remind me to survive, because when I left the city, I was barely alive. Not in the physical sense, but in the spiritual sense. I was broken, and part of me will always be broken.”

  His words hit me so strongly that I feel winded. It’s like he took the words from my own head, but when I look at him, I don’t see a broken man. I see bravery, loyalty, and love. I see a bright light in the dark.

  Is that how he sees me?

  I can tell there’s more to the story, so I ask, “What happened?”

  “My dad happened,” he says. The way he says “dad” makes it sound like a curse word. “He gambled all the time, didn’t matter what. He’d bet you how many pigeons were on the statues in Central Park on a given day if he thought he could swindle you out of a buck. He ruined us. Whatever he didn’t lose on betting, he spent on booze. We almost froze to death one winter because the heat in our apartment went out and the landlord wouldn’t fix it until my dad paid back the money he owed him.”

  My fists are clenched so tightly that I feel my nails cutting into my palm. I don’t know his father, but already I want to make him answer for the harm he’s caused.

  “Whenever the money ran out and he couldn’t get some sort of fix, he’d take it out on us. My mom would take the brunt of it whenever she could, but eventually he’d always come after me or Oz.”

  I let out a breath. “Oz?”

  “Oscar,” Ezra says, his pain clear. “My little brother.”

  A sharp pain cuts through me, and I finally realize how Ezra knows what I’ve gone through. I look at him and I see such patience and kindness. I don’t know that I’d be able to come out the same way after what he’s been through.

  I throw my arms around his neck, burying my face against him. He holds me close and I feel something warm through my shirt. Tears. I hold him even tighter.

  His words are quiet. “I couldn’t protect them. I was the oldest, I should have stood up to him, even if he killed me.”

  “You were a kid,” I say. “It’s not your fault.”

  Almost like he didn’t hear me, Ezra goes on. “After the bastard died, I had to get away from the city. I left my mom and Oz most of the money I’d squirreled away from my part time job, everything my dad didn’t manage to steal, and I got out. What does that make me?”

  “Brave,” I say. “A survivor.”

  As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I realize we’re both survivors. We came to Portland to outrun our pasts, but we can never really be rid of them. We can only learn to be better. Together.

  “I’m no survivor,” Ezra says. “I’m a coward. I ran. And what’s worse? His blood’s in me. Whatever it is that rotted him from the inside out is part of me, too. I’m so afraid that one day my anger will get the better of me.”

  I reach out and gently put my hands on either side of his face, drawing him in until his ear is pressed up against my heart. He wraps his arms around my waist and stays there, listening while I run my fingers through his hair. He has to know what I see.

  “You’re not a coward, and you’re not rotten. You did what you had to do, and I know your mother and brother want that for you. I think whatever nastiness your father might have passed down must’ve been burned away by whatever your mother gave you, because you are brave, and you are kind.”

  “I’m not,” he murmurs.

  “You are. You’re the most genuinely kind and supportive person I know.” I pause for a moment before adding, “Except for maybe Audrey, but I’m not sleeping with Audrey, so you get preference.”

  I feel the puff of his laugh against my arm, and then he straightens back up again. “It’s going to creep up on me one day,” he says. “All the pain I’ve built up is going to decay until I’m hollow inside, just like him.”

  “Never going to happen,” I say. “You’re not letting that pain sit and fester. You’re turning it into something beautiful. Your pain and your love are what fuel your art. You can see that, can’t you?”

  His smile is tired and sad. “I guess you could look at it that way.”

  I raise my thumb to my mouth and bite it between my teeth, debating whether to say what I’m thinking out loud, wondering if it’s too personal. In the end, I decide to ask.

  “The woman in your paintings,” I say. “She’s your mother, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” He leans forward and rubs his hands together, staring at my bedroom carpet with unfocused eyes.

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  He nods. “Yeah. She is. Most beautiful woman in the world. I took her surname when I left. My way of starting fresh without my dad’s brand on me.”

  “Do you ever think about going back to visit?” I ask.

  “All the time.”

  “Well, you did come into some money recently from a certain contest I may or may not have encouraged you to enter. Maybe you can use it for a plane ticket.”

  Ezra leans back on the bed, the blanket shifting beneath him. “That’s not a bad idea,” he says. “It’s time. On one condition.”

  “Name it,” I say.

  “That contest brought in enough money that I can probably swing two tickets, and I think I’ll need some moral support.”

  I grin. “I give great moral support.”

  He kisses me and we both smile in each other’s face like fools.

  “I’ll tell your mom all about her son, the incredible artist,” I say.

  Ezra fiddles with the hem of my sleeve. “No one’s ever considered me a real artist before you, you know.”

  I swallow. There’s a secret I’ve been keeping buried so deep inside the cage of my heart that not even I realized it was there until very recently. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, something I haven’t trusted myself to feel for a while. Saying it out loud will make it real, crystallize it in the air between us to be cherished or shattered, and that’s a big risk.

  But I think it’s one I’m finally willing to take.

  When someone’s art moves you, you should let them know.

  “Not only do I know you’re a real artist, I also think your ability to take raw emotion and turn it into a visual masterpiece is what I love most about you,” I say.

  There. There it is. It may take some reading between the lines, but Ezra’s good at that.

  The look in his eyes tells me he understands.

  “The thing I love most about you is the way you can look at art full of pain and sadness and see the beauty underneath,” he says.

  Our next kiss is gentle, full of something more than just passion. My heart is wide open. My pain still lingers at the edge, but it’s not in control anymore. Not so long ago, Ezra asked me if I thought something beautiful was worth the risk. I said yes, but I didn’t realize that I had to believe I was worth it, too. I imagine he feels the same, because we’ve reached an understanding.

  We are survivors in love, and letting that love in is its own act of bravery.

  29

  The next morning, Audrey barely gives me fifteen minutes to get dressed and brush my teeth before she herds me out the door and straight to a Southern-style hipster greasy spoon. Without hesitation, she orders us two coffees and the house specialty and then leans on the table with her chin resting on her hands while she looks at me.

  “So,” she says. “How old are you? Anything else you’ve been keeping from me, like the fact that you’re actually a 45-year-old with really great skin?”

  I roll my eyes at her, but I’m smiling. “I’m twenty-two. This is the skin of a youth.”

  “Cool, cool. I take it
Ezra’s out of the doghouse?”

  “It was more of a temporary time-out than a permanent ban, let’s put it that way,” I say. “We had a lot to talk about.”

  “Uh huh. ‘Talk.’” She gives me an exaggerated wink.

  I kick her under the table and she squeaks.

  “I’m glad you two worked it out,” she says. She takes a thoughtful sip of coffee before adding, “Don’t get me wrong, if you’d decided you were on the outs, I would have been in your corner 100%. I just really like you two together. You’re like two perfectly paint-splattered sides to the same coin.”

  The server comes and sets down two plates that are stacked a mile high with friend chicken, orange waffles, and battered bacon. Everything is drizzled in syrup that looks tooth-achingly sweet.

  “What even is this?” I say.

  “Your birthday present,” Audrey says as she digs in to her own plate. “Enjoy.”

  How did I luck out and end up with so many fantastic people in my life?

  After breakfast, I go to meet Ezra at the MAG, which makes me nervous. Partly because we maybe-sort-of said “I love you” and partly because I don’t know if I’m ready to be confronted with Iris’s portrait again.

  I decide to think of it the way I think of the sketches I draw of her – a reminder that she was here, that she existed. I can’t hide her away from the world anymore, and besides, maybe other people seeing her and being moved by her will help her live on. It seems like a nice thought.

  As soon as I get to the MAG, I notice right away that it’s barred by a sign that says “Private Engagement.”

  I feel a hand at my elbow and find Angela there. She smiles and guides me along toward the door, where she unhooks the rope blocking it off and waves me through.

  “This is your event,” she says. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  I’m confused, but I walk down the stairs anyway.

  I’ve only taken three steps when she adds, “And I still suggest you keep him, by the way.”

  I reach the gallery, and it’s completely empty. There are no artists, no patrons, no attendants.

  “Hello?” I call, and my voice echoes around sculptures and canvases. Around one of the dividers, I hear footsteps approaching.

  Ezra appears, and he looks so good it makes my breath catch. He’s wearing slacks and a loose white button down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair, which is usually falling out of its tie in a charmingly attractive way, is carefully gathered back, sleek and shiny.

  He carries two flutes of sparkling wine. When he gets to me, he hands one over and I accept it. His arm wraps around my waist and he pulls me in for a kiss that leaves me tipsy, no bubbly necessary.

  “Happy belated birthday,” he says, clinking my glass with his before taking a sip.

  I sip mine as well, and it’s fantastic, whatever it is. When I swallow, I say, “What’s all this about?”

  He glances over his shoulder. “You didn’t get to properly enjoy the artists’ showcase, so I called in a favor so I could redo the night over again. I think the director likes me.”

  I laugh and tug him down for another kiss. “You could say that.”

  When I look around him to try and see the painting of Iris, I notice that the large canvas is once again covered with a cloth. I arch my eyebrow in question.

  “We’ll get to that,” Ezra says. “First, I want you to tell me about all these other exhibits. Get your art nerd on. I insist.”

  “You’re going to be sorry you asked,” I say with a wicked grin.

  My nerves continue to spark as we work our way through the gallery, but it’s nothing like the other night. Those were nerves of the unknown. These are nerves of knowing what to expect, but enjoying the anticipation anyway.

  I go into full-on student mode, describing the materials, the technique, and my interpretation of each work. Ezra is a captive audience, nodding in approval and asking all the right questions. I’m enjoying myself so much that we’re in front of his painting before I know it.

  I grip the stem of my glass hard as Ezra gathers the cloth up in his hands.

  “Ready?” he says.

  I nod. “Show me.”

  The cloth floats to the floor, just like before. I’m prepared, waiting for Iris’s face.

  Instead, I’m met with my own.

  It takes me a few shocked moments to register that it’s the same painting, but he’s reworked it. The shape of the face is different, as are the cheekbones, the curve of the mouth, the turn of the eyes. It’s unquestionably me, surrounded by a flowing sea of blues and purples, my eyes watching something in the distance and my hand touching a flower in my hair.

  An iris flower.

  “Oh,” I breathe.

  “Is that a good ‘oh’ or a bad ‘oh?” Ezra says. He looks nervous.

  Tears prickle at the corner of my eyes. I expected to see a work of art in honor of Iris, and it never occurred to me that it’d be me captured there instead. Instead of painting Iris through my eyes, Ezra’s painted me through his. I look beautiful.

  I look loved.

  He moves to comfort me, and I smile. “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever given me.”

  He pulls me in close, resting his forehead against mine. “This is the way I see you. It’s the way I think everyone should see you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, wrapping my hands around the back of his neck. There’s no way I can articulate exactly how thankful I am, so I show him in kisses.

  We sway there beside his masterpiece, and I finally feel worthy of being in an art gallery.

  I pick up my glass and take a sip of wine while I admire it again.

  “You gonna analyze this one, too?” Ezra asks.

  “I would, but this artist is an open book.”

  He takes my hand, twining our fingers together. “He knows what’s good in his life, is all. Take your time. I have lunch waiting at my place when you’re ready.”

  I examine every inch of the painting while I finish my wine, noting the blending of the colors, the shapes in the background, the turn of the subject’s (my) head, and all the other details. The tribute to Iris is my favorite. It feels like he understands that she’s always on my mind.

  Back at Ezra’s apartment, we snack on fruit, cheese, and more wine while I admire his painted walls. I’m looking at them in a new light now, knowing that it’s his mother and brother staring back at me. His love is so clear in their faces.

  Unbidden, I feel a squeeze in my heart.

  “You look like you’re having deep thoughts,” Ezra says, popping a cherry in his mouth. After he swallows, he says, “Should I ask?”

  “I was thinking about how it’ll be a year since Iris died in six days,” I say.

  He runs his fingers along my forearm. “You going to be all right?”

  I smile weakly and set my glass down. The wine’s making my tongue loose. “I don’t know. With every day that goes by, she gets further away. I tried to draw her the other night, and it was like the memory of her had slipped through my fingers. I’m so scared that the day will get here and I won’t be able to picture her face anymore.”

  “I don’t think that’ll ever happen. Even if you can’t remember the exact shade of her eyes, you’ll always remember her spirit,” he says, tracing circles on my thigh with a light hand.

  I sigh. “I wish remembering her spirit was good enough, but what I’d really like is a physical memorial of her. For me, and for everyone else. I’ve been keeping my pain hidden for so long that it feels strange to want to make it public now.”

  He pauses his tracing and thinks for a moment. “It sounds weird coming from me, but our pain is what defines us,” he says. “It makes us who we are, and when I look at you, I see someone who loves so deeply and sees such beauty in the world she can hardly stand it. That’s an amazing thing to share with other people.”

  He moves closer, cradling the side of my face. His breath smells like cherries and wine.

>   “Don’t be afraid of your pain, Mia. Without it, you wouldn’t be you.”

  I kiss him then, over and over, on his mouth, his neck, his chest. He kisses me back and we blend into one another like paint on a palette. The bursts of color on his walls surround us, swirling until we’re in the center of a vortex, clinging together in the eye of the storm.

  We stand, stumbling backward toward the bed. I run my fingers over his buttons, pulling them loose one by one. He turns so I can slip the shirt down over his shoulders, and the cloth falls off his back, revealing his skin as another canvas, the colors of his tattoos surrounding the empty darkness of the angel in between his shoulder blades.

  I run my fingers over the broken wings, then lean in to place an open-mouth kiss to it, imparting through my touch how much I love him for who he is and everything that’s made him this way. He sighs and relaxes his muscles into my touch, reaching over his shoulder to touch my hair. Then he turns to scoop me up and we both tumble onto his mattress, the down comforter making a soft whump as we land.

  We’re all hands and lips, exploring one another as if we haven’t done it before. Our clothing falls away until there’s nothing but us pressed together, our skin mottled and flushed like an impressionist sunset.

  Ezra peppers kisses along my jawline and I lean back, exposing the length of my throat to him. He moves to my breasts, his mouth open and needy as I arch into him. His fingers run over my thigh and find my center, sending shivers pulsing along the length of my body.

  When I can’t stand it any longer, I put my palms against his chest and push him back against the pillows, straddling him. His eyes are so dark as they watch me, half-lidded, and he touches my belly and digs into my hips. He only breaks long enough to open a drawer and hand me a condom.

  I lean over him for another kiss and guide him into me. When our hips meet, we can’t help but move together.

  We rock in a rhythm as old as humankind. We are canvas and paint, instrument and song, sculpture and chisel. This is frenzied inspiration, moving toward an epiphany.

  Tension mounts low inside me, building and building. Ezra’s hands guide me as I start to lose control, my pleasure peaking and then rolling through my thighs like waves, making them shake. I ride it out, letting it stretch out before it starts to fade.