by Madison Faye
…But not really.
Between the two jobs, I barely have time to paint or draw. What I do have plenty of time for is regrets and second thoughts. And missing him, a lot, all the time. But, on the upside, I tell myself it could be worse. I could be in jail, I guess, if circumstances were slightly different.
I haven’t even bothered to look for teaching jobs. A few weeks ago, I did get a nice email from Colton Kane, telling me he was sorry for the way things shook out, he hoped I understood that he didn’t have any other option but to let me go in light of what happened. He did tell me he’d be happy write me a recommendation, and while that’s a nice thought, I know how small the world is, especially the world of academia and art. Maybe Principal Kane’s recommendation would open some doors for me—and I’m sure it would—but word would eventually get back to whoever I spoke to about exactly why I left Winchester.
I know damn well there’s a scarlet letter on my back now, and no academic institution is going to take me with that.
And so, I walk on, through the cold late fall air, to my art supply store job. And mostly, I just miss Ethan. A lot, even though I know deep down this is the right way we need to go. Or at least, I’m still trying to convince myself that this is the right or only way for us to go. I left because I love him, and I knew loving him mean letting him go, for his sake. I wasn’t about to make his life any more complex, or any more marked up. Or any more messed up than the life of a guy his age should be. He’s already dealt with an absent mother, and then reform school. He didn’t need me and the drama being with me would have brought down on him.
I brush away a single tear as I duck my head down further into the wind and trudge on down the street. I stopped answering Ethan’s texts three weeks ago. He stopped texting at all a week later. And maybe that hurts even more than leaving him the way I did, but again, I know it’s the way it has to be.
The bell dings on the art supply store door, and Mildred, the older shop owner slash eccentric photographer slash half-crazy cat lady, looks up and smiles as I step in.
“Cold out there?”
I nod, smiling as I pull my coat off and stash it and my bag in the tiny back office.
“It’s been slow all morning,” she says with an absent wave of her hand before snatching up her own wacky jacket.
“So, I’m going to take Mr. Tiddlywinks to get that ear of his checked out.”
My face falls.
“Aww, poor little guy. Are you going to see if the vet thinks it’s an ear infection?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh, no, I know what it is.”
“Oh yeah?”
She nods solemnly, leaning in close.
“Yes, dear, it’s that Native American spirit fellow again, Chief Wompahasset, trying to communicate with me again.”
Ladies and gentleman, this is my boss.
“Oh… uh, yeah?”
She nods matter-of-factly.
“Yes, dear. He reaches out now and again. He loves my work from my trip down to the southwest. I think he wants one of my photos to take back with him.”
I clear my throat, searching for words.
“Right. Right, yeah of course.” I frown. “Back with him where, Mildred?”
She sighs, shaking her head and smiling patronizingly at me as if to say, “oh poor dear.”
“The spirit realm, silly.”
“Ah, yeah, of course,” I nod, and she smiles.
“Anyways, I’ll be back later this afternoon. Madame Yvonne—that’s my medium, dear—said she can take us now if we hurry.”
She slips her coat on and grabs her keys and bag before scurrying to the door.
“Call me if you need anything, Emily.”
“Yep, will do.”
“Well, don’t actually call. Madame Yvonne says the spirit world hates to be interrupted by cellphones. The cell signals burn them, you know.”
“I didn’t, but now I do.”
She smiles and taps her temple. “Knowledge is power, dear.”
“I hope Mr. Tiddlywinks feels better.”
She flashes a smile and a wave as she slips out the door.
Yikes.
I shake my head as I start to go through the store, taking notes on what needs to be stocked. Mildred might be completely nuts, but she’s a sweetheart too, especially after she gave me a job like this.
I hear the sound of the bell above the door clinking.
“Hey!” I call out, still in one of the back aisles of the small shop checking for stock. “Let me know if you need anything!”
“Y’all sell size five brushes?” A sort of weird, southern-drawled man’s voice calls out.
“Yes, we do!” I call back. I put a smile on my face as I walk down the aisle towards the front of the shop. I stick my head out from the aisle, but blink as I see no one.
“Hello?”
“Back here, missy,” the weird cowboy voice calls from further back in the store now.
“Oh, okay. Size five brushes are going to be in aisle two, with the rest of the brushes.”
“How about size four brushes?”
I clear my throat.
“Also, aisle two.”
“What about size eights.”
I roll my eyes.
“Sir, all the brushes are going to be in aisle two.”
“Even size ones?”
“Sir, every brush is there.”
“Them size ones are purdy tiny.”
I frown, heading down an aisle towards his voice. But when I get to the back of the store, he’s gone again.
“Sir?”
“Hey what about sketchpads? You got them?”
No, dude, it’s an art supply store that doesn’t sell the thing eighty percent of the people who walk in here are looking for.
“Yes, we do,” I say thinly. I frown again as I head back to the front of the store, but yet again, I’ve missed him.
“How about easels? You know, for paintin’?”
My jaw tightens as I glance around the store at the annoying voice that keeps dodging me.
“We do.” I say tightly. “Sir, do you have a list of things you’re looking for? Maybe I could help you shop.”
“Naw, missy, you’re doin’ a fine job of helpin’ me out. I’m going to the Art Institute of Chicago. Just got in, so I need all my paintin’ stuff.”
My brows raise. “Wow, congrats! That’s a great school. I actually graduated there myself.”
“Yeah? Well shee-it. How come you ain’t doin’ art right now?”
I frown, half running down an aisle for the front of the store again. And of course, he’s not there.
“Pardon?”
“Art. How come you’re working here instead of doing art?”
I scowl. “Well, sir, it’s not exactly easy to make a living as an artist. And we’ve all got bills to pay.”
“Yup, yup, I hear ya,” he drawls from somewhere in the store.
“You ever thought about teaching?”
My heart skips, and my mouth tightens before I shake my head.
“No.”
There’s a silent moment before he speaks again.
“I think you’d be good at it, missy.”
“Thanks,” I say thinly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“You know, what you need is one of them patrons.”
“Excuse me?”
“A patron. You know, like DaVinci had? You need one of them rich folks to support you in your pursuit of the muse, ya know?”
I laugh a brittle laugh.
“Yeah, well, if you know any, let me know.”
“I might.”
I shriek. And it’s not just that the voice comes from right behind me, it’s that this time, the goofy cowboy lilt is gone. It’s that this time, I recognize his voice. And I recognize it because I’d know the sound of his voice anywhere.
I whirl, and when my eyes drag up over his chest and his chiseled jaw, and his perfect lips, to his gorgeous blue ey
es, my heart jumps into my throat.
“I—”
“Ms. Hayes,” Ethan drawls quietly, his eyes burning like blue fire into mine.
“I—how—”
And then, I break. With a sob, I rush into him, throwing my arms around him so tightly, like I’m afraid he might be an illusion. But I know that hard body I’m holding so tight. I know the smell of him. I know the feel of his big arms as he wraps them around me.
“How are you here?!” I blubber into his chest, squeezing him so tight.
He chuckles as he leans down to kiss the top of my head.
“Heard this was the place to go for art supplies.”
I laugh, kissing his chest before I pull away.”
“No, I mean here, in Chicago.”
He shrugs that cocky, smug shrug and grins in that infuriatingly sexy way as I bite my lip.
“Because I live here now.”
My jaw drops.
“Wait, what?”
“I mean, I can’t exactly commute to the Art Institute from Southworth. Shit, Emily, that it’s like a twenty-hour drive.”
He just keeps grinning at me as I shake my head.
“Wait, wait, you’re seriously going to AI?”
“Seriously.”
My smile grows wider, and before I know it, and before I can even think about it, I’m tumbling into his arms and searing my lips to his. I whimper as I kiss him, those big hands holding me so tight as I lose myself in the kiss, pouring my heart out into it.
Suddenly though, I yank away and jab a finger at him.
“Did you seriously drop out of Winchester?” I hiss, suddenly angry. Angry because him letting go of a golden ticket like that, even if it means him being here right now, is more than I can take.
“Goddamnit, Ethan! I told you, you have to grad—”
“Emily!” he laughs, pulling me close, his hands on my arms. “I did.”
“In the month since I left?”
“Yup.”
He grins.
“Finished my credits, took a few state-qualifying exams, and got my GED.” He shrugs. “See this cute chick I know told me I should try applying myself from time to time.”
I blush, chewing at my lip. But then I scowl again, shaking my head.
“Ethan you can’t just—”
“I did,” he says quietly. “I already did, Emily. I’m technically a high school graduate, and I took the portfolio I’d shown to Rhode Island School of Design and showed it to the admissions board at AI here in Chicago.”
“And they accepted you halfway through a semester?”
He shrugs again, and this time it’s my turn to grin smugly.
“Damn right they did,” I purr softly, sliding back into him. “Because you’re insanely talented.”
He smiles.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime—”
“No, I mean thanks for kicking my ass to get it in gear,” he says quietly before he leans down and kisses me softly.
“What did your dad say?”
He chuckles.
“He, uh, he has some opinions. But he respects mine.” He grins. “Plus, I’m not just hear to paint some pretty pictures, you know.”
“Oh?” I arch a brow as he grins slyly.
“Nope.”
“Well do tell. What else do you have up your sleeve, mister.”
“An investment.”
“What kind of investment?”
His smile grows, and his eyes burn into mine.
“You.”
I blink.
“What?”
“You’re too fucking good to be working here and at that bar, Emily. You’re way too fucking talented.”
I swallow. “Ethan, I’m not looking for a handout,” I say thinly.
“Good, because I’m not giving you one. What I’m giving you is an investment in your career. Capital for a real work space, supplies, show and gallery fees, and all of that.”
My lips tighten.
“You know some might call that a handout.”
“Oh, you’re gonna pay interest, believe me.”
I giggle, slapping his arm as he grins.
“Ethan, all of that would be a lot of money.”
“Yeah?” he reaches into his jacket pocket.
“Would this work?”
He hands me a folded-up check, and I swallow thickly as I take it. I glance up at him, and he nods at. And slowly, I unfold the slip of paper, and my jaw drops.
…It’s a check for five-hundred thousand dollars.
“Ethan!”
I gasp, staggering back, my hand flying to my lips.
“No. No, absolutely—”
“Absolutely yes, you’re taking it.”
I shake my head.
“Jesus Christ, where did you even get this kind of—”
“You know all of those rich trust fund douchebags at Winchester?”
I roll my eyes. “How could I forget.”
“Right, well, turns out…” he grins. “Turns out I’m kinda one of them. I mean, not the douchebag part. At least mostly not.”
“But the money?”
He nods. “It’s part of the trust my dad set up for me.”
I slowly shaky my head, staring at the insane amount of money in my hands.
“Ethan, I seriously can’t accept this.”
“You seriously can. And you will.”
“What’d your dad say?”
“Emily, it’s an investment, not a handout. And I showed him my homework on you.”
I blush. “Your what?”
He laughs. “No, I mean, I showed him your work, and I showed him what artists who ‘make it’ can bring in with paintings, especially in a place like Chicago. My dad might be a lot like me, but he knows a sound investment when he sees one.”
I balk. “Sound? What if…” I bite my lip and look down before I drag my eyes back to his.
“What if I fail?”
“You won’t.”
“Okay, but what if I—”
“Emily.”
I gasp as he pulls me close, leaning in so his lips brush mine.”
“You won’t. Because I believe in you, and because you’re too fucking good. And because someone back in Southworth wouldn’t quit on me, and now I’m not going to quit on her. Not ever.”
He growls as he pulls me close, his lips crushing to mine as I moan into his kiss. I melt into him, hugging him fiercely.
“Scale of one-to-ten, how much does your family hate me for what I did?”
He chuckles.
“Takes two to tango, gorgeous. Dad gets that, and so does Celia. Plus,” he grins. “Plus, all of this gets me out of the house, and as much as I like my dad and Celia, and as much as they love me, I think we all knew it was time for me to head out into the world.”
“Wait so you’re really going to AI?”
“I really am.”
“And you’re really living here?”
He grins, pushing his fingers through his dark hair.
“Well, technically. I don’t exactly have a place to live yet, but I was sorta hoping I could bunk in with this girl I know.”
I grin, wagging my brows at him.
“You asking if you can move in?”
“Yep.”
“Bold move.”
“Would you want me any other way?”
I blush, raking my teeth over my bottom lip as I shake my head.
“Uh-uh.”
“Good,” he purrs, pulling me close as he leans in again.
“I love you, Emily Hayes.”
“I love you too, Ethan Scott,” I whisper.
“When are you off?”
I grin. “Why?”
“’Cause I want to draw you.”
I blush. “Oh really? Like one of your French girls?”
He shakes his head as his lips brush mine.
“Actually, I was just kidding about drawing you.”
I make a fake pouty face, and he grins
wickedly.
“I do want to take all of your clothes off. And I do want to draw you, I just had a few ideas for how to spend some time in between those two things.”
“Just a few, huh?”
“You want the broad strokes or the detailed agenda?”
I blush furiously, moaning as he scoops me against him and kisses me slow and deep.
“I—I have to wait for my boss to get back from the vet. No, the psychic.”
Ethan give me a confused look and I shake my head.
“Forget it, it’s a long story.”
“How about this then,” he growls. “New plan. You do what you gotta do, and I’ll draw you. And then the second this boss of yours gets back, I’m dragging you outside to my bike, driving to your apartment, and then I’m going to pull every single one of your clothes off with my teeth and make you beg.”
I gasp quietly, shivering heatedly as my thighs squeeze together. The shop goes quiet, and we’re both just standing there panting hungrily at each other before suddenly, we snap.
“Oh, fuck waiting,” I gasp, jumping into his arms as our lips crash together. We stagger backwards as he pulls me up into his arms, my legs circling his waist as my back hits the front door. I reach back, fumbling for the lock as Ethan flips the “open” sign around to the “closed” side and pulls down the blinds.
“Fuck I missed you,” he groans.
“Don’t ever let me run away again, okay?”
He grins into my lips. “Even if I have to tie you down, you better believe it. I love you, gorgeous.”
“I love you too.”
We tumble to the floor behind the cashier’s counter, and that’s exactly where we stay for a very, very long time.
Epilogue
Ethan
A week after I got to Chicago, we moved in together in this big old artist space I found in Wicker Park. Big ceilings, big old factory windows with a ton of light, and tons of wall space for artwork.
Art school is great, but she’s better. Actually, she’s better than great. She’s fucking amazing. And fuck is she killing it out there. She finally took my money—my “patronage,” I guess you could call it, and used it to get herself set up on the road to doing art and just art. It’s been a few months since I got here, but already, she’s taking this town by storm. Emily’s got work—new and old—up in four different galleries around the city right now. She’s got an agent too, this super-driven woman named Jen who’s setting her up for a major show circuit in a couple cities across the country. New York, San Francisco, L.A., and Miami.
