by Wendy Owens
“You can help yourself to anything you need. I’ll be working in the master bath, but there is also a bathroom down that hall if you need one.”
Placing my bag on the couch, I looked around the place, a little in awe that he didn’t find such a huge project overwhelming. Attempting to ease the awkwardness, I made my effort at small talk, careful not to seem too friendly. “This looks like a big undertaking.”
“Yeah, it is. The biggest project I’ve ever taken on. I can’t decide from one day to the next if I want to jump for joy or throw up.” Colin laughed as he poured the coffee grounds into the device. Had I not had a little of his history told to me beforehand, I might have actually fallen for his charms.
I wanted to ask why he was talking to me? Why would I care about how nervous his next rich boy venture made him? Why would I care anything about him? I wanted to tell him how disgusting he was for treating women like they were objects, to be played with and then discarded. But I didn’t ask those things; I simply nodded with a half-smile, arranging my supplies carefully on the reclaimed wood coffee table.
“Well, good luck,” I lied. I didn’t wish anything bad to happen to the man, but I also couldn’t care less if anything good happened to him.
“Thanks,” he called across the room, placing the filled kettle onto the stove top before making his way over to my location. “Clementine, I—”
“Emmie, you can call me Emmie,” I interrupted. I actually did not consider him a friend, but when he called me Clementine it only reminded me of his Orange comment. At least if he was calling me Emmie I didn’t want to strangle him—mostly.
“All right.” He seemed very pleased with the nickname offer. “Emmie. I wanted to talk to you because of my behavior when we met.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, unsure if I was actually hearing him correctly.
“I know I can be a bit sensitive about this project. You have to understand, I have a lot riding on this, so when a beautiful stranger came in and was so honest about the current condition of this place, it kicked my defense into overdrive. I was rude to you, and for that, I’m sorry.”
My mouth dropped open. Did he really just have the nerve to call me beautiful? Was he flirting with me? Was that a bad thing? Wait, girl, listen to yourself. Of course it was a bad thing. He chewed women up and spit them out. Besides, you didn’t come here for love! Focus! Don’t look at his eyes, don’t look, no, don’t do it. Damn it! I looked. How did he do that? It was almost like he smiled with those gray pools of intensity. Oh God, when did I get so cheesy?
“It’s fine,” I replied, pleased I had avoided coming unraveled on the exterior.
“So, you’re an artist? Do you have anything you can show me?” he asked, and I was sure he was only pretending to be interested.
Before I could say anything, the kettle began to rock, the water within boiling. He turned back and rushed over to relieve it from the heat, transferring the liquid quickly to the press.
I stared as he waited for the perfect timing. “Nothing here, really. I sell my work online, so you could go there and see a lot of my stuff.”
“Oh wow, you’re already selling your work, huh?”
I couldn’t help myself—talking about my art was something I was proud of—even if he was a pig, it didn’t change the fact that I still loved my craft. “I’ve actually been selling my stuff for a couple years. I’ve had over three thousand paintings and prints sell.”
“Holy shit, that’s amazing. Why bother with college? Sound like you’re doing great on your own. I never bothered with college myself, seemed like a waste of money.”
Of course he skipped college, his parents probably started buying him properties as soon as he could walk. I had been around enough wealthy people in my life. Ashton was the same way—he never had a clue about how real people in the world made it. I think that was why he always struggled once his dad’s business went under.
“I want to be better at what I do,” I offered, my answer completely sincere.
“Sounds to me like there are a lot of people who think you do what you do just fine.” Colin suggested, pouring the black richness into two mismatched mugs.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. He was right, I had already achieved a lot of success in my art career. I wasn’t about to explain my past to him—that I had wanted to go to art school since high school, and I lost that dream because I married a bully. A guy that probably respected women about as much as he did. Then, when I decided I would go and achieve that dream, that bully took everything I had left away from me. I needed this, I needed school to help me find my way back to what I wanted before I became Ashton’s widow. Nobody got to know that part of who I was, though; that belonged to me.
“You can always be better,” I finally said.
“I suppose. Cream or sugar?” he asked searching around for the items he had offered me.
“Black.” When I replied, he looked relieved, then placed the mug carefully on table near me.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, turning back to retrieve his mug. “Well, Emmie, you’re welcome to work here whenever you need a break from Paige and my brother’s incessant savagery. If my work is too loud, there is plenty of space in this building, so we can find a spot for you.”
I wondered if Paige had said something to him about studio space, despite my protests. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I won’t model nude for you, though, so don’t ask. All right, maybe if you say please,” Colin said, turning to deliver a wicked grin. Leaning back against the counter and raising the mug to his lips, he watched, waiting for me to come undone by his comment.
There it was, that egocentric, degenerate, smug attitude I knew was lurking just below the surface. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
My reaction was clearly not what he expected. I pulled out my sketchpad and flipped it open to the shading exercise we had been given. Plopping down on the couch, with my back to Colin, I was confident I had sent him the message I intended, loud and clear.
“So, is there a boyfriend back home in—where are you from again?” He clearly had not gotten the message.
Glancing over my shoulder, I replied as coolly as possible without being rude, “Indiana, and no, I’m not interested in dating right now. I have a lot of work to do, so was there anything else?”
I was quite proud of the way I was asserting myself with him. It had always been something I had failed at in my younger years. It didn’t take much pushing for people to get me to do what they wanted. I had no intention of repeating those same mistakes.
“No, sorry, I’ll let you get to it then.” His smirk faded, eyelids dropping to where I could no longer see his irises. His disappointment was obvious. For a brief moment I wavered, considering an apology for my rude behavior, but then decided to hold strong as he exited the room.
I could hear the occasional clinking of tiles, but I did not see him again that night. After a couple hours passed, I assumed it was safe to return home to the apartment, and snuck out. I knew it was rude to leave without a word, but I couldn’t fathom what to possibly say to him.
The first week of school was over, and I had somehow managed to avoid Colin for the remainder of it. I didn’t even need to take his advice about talking to Paige about her and Christian’s activities. When I got home that first day, she was waiting for me on the couch. After apologizing profusely, she assured me they would keep their alone time confined to her bedroom.
Though I was appreciative of the sentiment, I still wasn’t sure how soon I would be sitting on that couch. Of course, based on their boldness with such activities, I wasn’t sure if many spots in the apartment would be untainted.
I worked on my sketches in my bedroom and used the school studio for my paintings. It was working out exactly like I had envisioned it. Occasionally the space was booked, but nothing I couldn’t work around. I was focusing on my work and successfully avoiding distractions. Now
here I was, my first Saturday as an actual New York resident, and I was eager to experience everything. I had gotten up early and visited the farmer’s market in Chelsea.
After a quick trip home to unload my bags of goodies, I packed up my travel portfolio, excited for an afternoon of sketching in the park. I wasn’t sure if all the members of this amazing city appreciated what they had at their fingertips all of the time, but it was clear some did.
People were out in droves, enjoying the outdoor time with their pets and loved ones. When I used to see couples, huddled close together, it would bother me, but now I could actually look around and not burst into uncontrolled sobbing fits. That was probably one of the hardest feelings to wrestle with: I was leaving Ashton, yes, but to have him completely taken away from me—someone I loved no longer be part of the world I was walking around in—created an unexplainable emptiness.
Arriving at the 14th Street Park, I was pleased to find an area with grass, but also amazed at what little green space qualified as a park in this city. Opening the gate that surrounded the place, I struggled to balance the lunch I had packed, a blanket, and my art supplies as they overflowed in my arms. As I attempted to close the gate behind me to ensure no animals or children could slip out unnoticed, my sketchpad fell from my grasp, hitting the sidewalk and sending the loose pages scattering in the wind.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, dropping the remainder of my items and giving chase to the random sheets, blowing about. Stretching out one arm and a leg, I extended my toe as far as I could stretch it in order to press a sheet against the ground, engaging in the invisible game of solo twister. As quickly as possible, I gathered up the drawings, my cheeks burning form the sheer embarrassment of my clumsiness.
Frantically, I shoved the pages into the back of my sketchbook, looking around to ensure I hadn’t missed one. Confident I had them all I made my back to the gate where a man was standing, giving me a disapproving look for leaving it ajar, unaware of the efforts I had made to avoid that. Based on the tiny Chihuahua in his arms, his beloved companion had attempted an escape.
“I’m sorry, my arms were full, and I was trying to balance it all, but then my stuff fell, and the wind, well—it was a mess. Sorry.” I realized quickly my speedy apology sounded more like rambling. After the man with the ascot decided he had gotten his point across with his snotty look, he turned to head back into the park and engage in more play time with his tiny sidekick, who, based on the incessant barking, seemed to dislike me as much as his owner.
Using my foot to kick the rest of my belongings into the park I secured the gate behind me before scooping up my bag and blanket. The beautiful shady areas, underneath the few trees, were all taken, and I was left spreading out my blanket in an open area, the blazing sun directly overhead. I was determined not to let the start of this excursion deter me, certain I would have a good time if I simply resolved myself to the fact I would.
I sat my sketchpad down and placed my packed lunch on top to guarantee I didn’t have a repeat of the great tornado of art incident. I spread out my blanket, folding it in half so I wouldn’t take up more space than a single person should. On my knees, organizing my remaining belongings around myself—sweat was already causing my sunglasses to shift down my nose.
I flipped open my pad and searched the pockets in my oversized patchwork hooded vest for my pencil. I tidied up the pages before staring at the blankness before me. One of my professors instructed we go out and sketch things in motion, pulling things from real life to see what art comes of them. Across the park I saw the man with the ascot playing with his dog… no definitely not.
On the opposite side of the park was a young couple openly sharing their expression of love on a park bench with some public groping… nope, not going to work. A small child was playing near her parents who were arguing in the background… nope, too depressing.
“Is this yours?” an oddly familiar male voice asked from behind me.
I turned, surprised to see Mr. Sexy Pants, whom I had met a week ago, staring at me, holding a sketch of a fruit bowl. Apparently I had not found all the victims of the art tornado.
“Hey, it’s you! Clementine, right?” Oh my God, he remembered my name. Shit, what was his name? The only thing I could think of was Mr. Sexy Pants. Damn it!
“Yeah, hi!” I exclaimed making it clear I did in fact recognize him. What was his name?
“So—is this yours?” he asked extending a hand with my work.
“Yes, thank you so much. I had a little mishap when I got here, and the wind must have carried it away.”
“Well, you don’t want to lose such a masterpiece.”
Damn it, he was hot and nice. Just ask him. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t remember your name.”
“Really?” he asked and then laughed.
“Is that funny?” I was confused by his reaction.
“Kind of, since I have a name people tend not to forget. I was teased a lot growing up, and I’m just surprised you could forget it.” First, I had trouble believing anyone could make fun of him, and second, I felt even worse I had forgotten his name now.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. William Stryker.” That was it! Now I remembered. He motioned toward the blanket, clearly wanting to take a seat. “May I?”
I hesitated. I had no idea who this man was and wasn’t sure if I felt comfortable cozying up to a perfect stranger.
“Unless you’re already waiting for someone else, of course,” he added, sensing my edginess.
“No, of course not, have a seat,” I replied. Calm down. It’s no big deal, he’s just a nice guy and you’re only having a conversation with him. Stop being such a spaz, I told myself.
“Didn’t you say you were working for the school? Are you a professor or something?” I made a feeble attempt at small talk.
“No, no—” he began, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. I’m doing some consulting work.”
“Oh really? What kind of consulting work does a school need?” I questioned, truly interested in what he had to say.
He didn’t answer right away, and looking around the park, I wondered if perhaps his work was sensitive in some way. Then looking back at me, he explained, “Sometimes they hire people, and before they give out certain positions they want to make sure that they are hiring someone who won’t have—oh, how do I say this gently, any skeletons in their closets.”
“You’re a cop? No way!” I cried out in disbelief.
“Oh hell no, nothing like that. Let’s just say, I’m really good at research. What about you? Are you a freshman?” he asked.
It was obvious I wasn’t an eighteen year old girl anymore, so for him to ask if I were a freshman, I was certain he was trying to flatter me. The compliment unnerved me and exhilarated me at the same time. It had been so long since a man noticed me, and even though I wasn’t seeking it, the bigger problem was I didn’t know how to react to the attention.
“Nice one,” I laughed.
“What? I’m serious? Are you a student there?”
“Yeah, I’m a transfer student. I’m finishing up my studios there so I can graduate,” I explained, surprised by how good it made me feel to say those words.
“Based on what I’ve seen, you’re very talented.” He was laying it on thick, never shifting his eyes from me. I had always been self conscious of the way my face was so round. It never seemed to matter if I thinned out… my face was always thick. My mom used to call it baby fat, which only made it worse. He didn’t seem to notice, his gaze never shifting from my blue eyes no matter how much I avoided looking at his.
“That’s very kind of you to say, thank you, and also very hard to determine from a sketch of a fruit bowl.”
“It’s the best damn fruit bowl I’ve ever seen,” he said, leaning forward and flashing his broad white smile.
“I’m already beginning to see that I’m behind other students. I think doing m
y courses through correspondence made it harder on me. I just don’t have the same hands on and critiquing experience some of the other students have had.”
“You can’t tell,” he insisted, reaching over and lifting a couple pages into my sketchbook, revealing the hidden images. “These really are fantastic. What were you working on before I so rudely interrupted?”
“You weren’t rude.” I giggled as I replied, and I wondered who the hell had taken over my body. “After all, you rescued my fruit bowl.”
“That I did. But you didn’t answer me. What were you working on?” He rested himself on one arm, lying on his side with his legs crossed as he stared up at me. I watched as he licked his lips, and I struggled to think of what to say next.
“Nothing!” I shouted, excited to remember any word in the English language. He smiled at me; he must have thought I was a mad woman. “I mean, I hadn’t decided what to draw yet. We’re supposed to pick something in motion that we find in real life.”
“Hmm…” he hummed, sitting up, brows furrowed, clearly deep in thought about my assignment.
“What?” I probed, truly curious about the idea he obviously consumed by.
“How about this?” Stryker asked, hopping to his feet. He proceeded to extend his arms outward. One fingertip jerked, and he proceeded to perform an arm wave that rippled through his body.
I burst out laughing, looking all around us to see who was watching. There were a few onlookers, but Stryker didn’t seem to care. He didn’t take his eyes off me. He just continued staring at me, wiggling his body around wildly for me.
“That’s perfect!” I squealed, quickly placing pencil to paper and capturing the fluid movement.
“What I won’t do for art. But you have to credit me as your muse,” he added, laughing.
I don’t know why I let him sit, and I certainly don’t know why I ended up drawing fifteen sketches of him that day. He was handsome, that was for certain. I knew I didn’t want to start dating anyone. Love was not in the plans for this phase of my life.