by R.S. Grey
I pretend to busy myself by adjusting a pillow on the couch.
“Just washing dishes, I think.” I scrunch my nose. “I couldn’t really tell.”
“Then why are you blushing so much?” Matthew goads.
“Am I?” I press the backs of my hands against my cheeks, trying to cool them down.
More curious than ever, the two of them immediately look back outside, scanning the area where I pointed.
Walt finds them first. I know, because he slowly turns to look over his shoulder, a devious grin in place. He doesn’t say a word.
“What?” I say, poking him with my tone.
“Elizabeth.”
“Don’t say my name like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re chiding me.”
“I’m not chiding you. If I were, you’d know it,” he says, and there’s this immediate recognition between us, like a line pulled taut. Flutters fill my belly and I look quickly to Matthew, hoping he’ll save me.
“I still don’t see anything,” he says, scanning the window. Then finally, “Oh. Ha. Yup, those two people are totally having sex in that window.” He shoots me a comedic grin and a thumbs-up. “I think you win the game.”
“On that note, let’s call it a night,” Walt says.
“Great idea. C’mon, Matthew, I’ll walk you out,” I say, waving toward the front hallway.
“You don’t have to be so eager for me to leave. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. So you like watching—so what? It’s a perfectly normal fetish.”
I’m behind him now, prodding him along, pushing with my hands on his shoulder blades.
“Oh just please leave, will you?”
“Fine, fine. I’ll get your number from Walt and we can meet up soon to finish the conversation we started earlier. About your art.”
“Good. Yes. Art—let’s focus on that.”
Walt claps his brother on the shoulder and all but pushes him into the elevator. “Good night, Matthew. Get home safe.”
Matthew salutes the two of us with a cheeky grin before the elevator doors close.
Then, Walt turns to me and props his hands on his hips with a look of fierce authority. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “You sound like you’re going to help get me there.”
“I am. You’ve had too much champagne.”
“Pfft. I’m not drunk.”
“Walk in a straight line,” he demands with a tone that’s slightly teasing but mostly haughty.
“Sure thing. I will. All the way to my room,” I say indignantly as I start to stomp down the hall, accidentally colliding with an umbrella holder so that it tips over and crashes to the ground. “Right, well…that thing came out of nowhere, I assure you. Did you put it there just now?”
Twelve
“Maybe I should be putting you to bed,” I quip with my hands on my hips.
He stays quiet as he assesses me.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
He lets his head fall as he shakes it back and forth before looking back up at me. “I was just trying to imagine it.”
“Oh you want specifics? Okay, well, first I’d get your favorite pair of footie pajamas and zip you right up into them. Then I’d tuck you in nicely, get you a glass of warm milk, read you a book, and then it’s lights out, mister.”
I clap my hands together like I’m trying to activate a clap-on, clap-off lamp.
“Sounds great, apart from the warm milk,” he says, walking over to me so he can touch my shoulder and gently push me in the direction of my bedroom.
“I’d like to specify now, while you think the worst of me, that I don’t usually drink this much. It was just such an awkward evening. I mean, I talked about your butt in front of a group of strangers, so put yourself in my shoes.”
“To be fair, you didn’t have to talk about my butt,” he says as we walk into my room and he flicks on the light.
We stop in the threshold together for a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the brightness. I follow his line of sight to see he’s staring at the framed newspaper clipping we were sent as a wedding gift. I still have it propped on my nightstand behind my lamp.
“I thought it was a cute memory,” I explain. “Don’t get any other ideas.”
“Ideas?”
“Yeah, like I’ve put you next to my bed so I can go to sleep staring at you.”
He nods. “Don’t worry—I know the score. If anything, you put me there because my image bores you right to sleep. Best eight hours you’ve ever gotten.”
I grin up at him.
“Well, now you’ve seen me to my room, off you go.”
I turn to walk toward my closet, and once I arrive there, I’ve completely forgotten what I was meant to be doing. I turn in a slow circle, studying the clothes for a stalled thirty seconds before snapping my fingers.
“Pajamas,” I say aloud before tugging open a drawer and taking out one of the two pairs I own.
It’s a white silk set: shorts and a tank. I undress quickly, trying and failing to hang up my cocktail dress before giving up entirely and making it a problem for Morning Elizabeth. Then I unclasp my bra with a shiver of delight. Bras really are the work of the devil.
Once I slip into my pajamas, I head back out into my room, drawing to a quick stop once I see that Walt’s still standing at the door.
“Oh,” I squeak. “Did you see all that?”
“Just shadows. You could have turned the light on, you know. It would have made it easier for you, I’m sure.”
I glance back to confirm my closet is pitch black. Then with a mocking pointer finger and squinted eye, I tell Walt he’s a smart cookie.
“Well, you might as well come in,” I add. “Are you like a vampire? Not allowed to enter until I explicitly invite you?”
He steps inside, his shoes the only sound in the room as they tap against the wood floor. The atmosphere is markedly different than it was only a second ago. He’s been in here before, but only once, and not like this. I swallow past the feeling of anticipation as he drags a hand through his hair and glances around, eyeing all of my things.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d assume you’ve lived here for months, not just weeks.”
I try to look at the space through his eyes, and it’s true. It is rather cluttered.
“Yes well, I do know how to make myself at home.” I nod toward the sketches I’ve put up on one of the walls. “Don’t worry, there’s just painter’s tape on the back, holding them up. It won’t leave marks when I take them down.”
“It’s fine. I really don’t care,” he says, walking toward them.
Panic spikes my blood. He’s going to look at them. Oh joy.
It’s like with every step he takes, he peels back another layer of my skin, exposing me.
Having someone new look at my art never gets easier. I could be told I’m the world’s greatest artist a hundred times over and I’d still hang in suspension—just like this—waiting for approval.
“These are really good,” he says after a long moment, pointing to one in particular.
It’s a quick sketch of a man I encountered at Washington Market Park. He was feeding pigeons from a bag of old bread. I liked the way his shoulders drooped and his head bent, following the arc of his spine like the letter C. In the drawing, I used one continuous line so the linear perspective is stripped and his form takes on a more geometric shape.
“Cézanne would be proud,” he adds, before moving to study another sketch.
I laugh like he’s ridiculous. “Yeah right.” Then I realize what he’s just said. “How do you know so much about art, anyway?”
“I don’t,” he insists.
“That’s a lie. A layperson would never have known that was a cubist drawing. Or if they did, they would have attributed it to Picasso, not Cézanne. But Cézanne was the real inspiration behind cubism. The movement was actually named after one of his paintings, so…” I
narrow my eyes. “How did you know that?”
He leans closer to another one of my sketches, studying it intently. “I like art.”
“Just looking at it? Or do you like creating it too?”
“I made my parents an ashtray out of clay when I was five. Does that count?”
He gives me a teasing smile over his shoulder, and I can’t help but laugh.
“To be honest, it’s not my forte. I do appreciate other people’s talent though.”
“Well that’s only fair. You can’t be good at everything.”
He hums and finally spins around slowly to look at me instead of my art. For a brief moment, his gaze falls across my silk pajamas, and my body floods with warmth. Nerve endings stir and tingle, and maybe I’m just drunk or maybe we’re both feeling the same thing.
I’m so aware of my own heartbeat I can hear it drumming in my ears as his eyes rise to mine.
“Do you have any sketches of your work with A Banquet Still Life?”
I look to the black portfolio in the corner, and the hum of desire deadens like it’s been cleaved with an axe blade the moment I’m reminded of my afternoon at Hauser & Wirth.
I look away, busying myself with my bed, tossing pillows aside so I can pull back the blankets.
“Yes, they’re around here somewhere.”
“Can I see them?”
“I’m too drunk to find them right now.”
Besides, it’s all just coffee shop art.
My eyes tingle with unshed tears.
God, I had too much champagne.
I need to just go to sleep.
I turn quickly and disappear into the bathroom, grab my toothbrush, and apply much too much toothpaste. I don’t care. I brush my teeth with angry swirls.
Walt doesn’t follow me into the bathroom, and that’s for the best.
I look at myself in the mirror after I’m done brushing my teeth and washing my face. My dark lashes barely conceal the fact that my eyes are rimmed in red.
For the first time in weeks, I feel stripped of all my defenses. The reality of what I’ve gotten myself into comes back to me like a great rush of wind, nearly knocking me off my feet.
I’m married to the man in the other room.
A man who was, at the time, a great mystery shrouded in suits and severe expressions and curt conversations, but now the distance between the man I assumed Walt was and the man he’s turning out to be is starting to widen with every moment we spend together.
Worse, I’m starting to think I might actually like my husband.
How…disconcerting.
I do think this arrangement would have worked best if we’d kept up pretense and only interacted with one another when it had to do with the business arrangement we struck in that courtroom. But then he agreed to let me move in, and now we’re (read: I’m) liable to catch feelings. Feelings are messy. My feelings are messy. Walt seems perfectly capable of reining in his feelings so at any given moment they’re nothing more than a pesky fly he can flick away with a wave of his hand.
After I spread some lotion on my palms, I rub it in as I walk back into my bedroom. Walt is still there, sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at my sketches.
“Are you still worried I won’t make it to bed safely?” I ask, slightly amused.
Surely, I’ve proved to him I’m at least capable of that. Even if it’s done a little clumsily.
“No. I think I’m just too tired to move. It feels good to sit here.”
I nod in understanding as I move around my bed and sit down beside him. The mattress dips slightly under my weight, and I glance down. My eyes immediately catch the contrasts between us. My silky shorts are hiked up, revealing a bit too much of my thighs. My skin looks pale and soft. Feminine. His legs are still clothed in his dark suit pants. Soft versus hard. Gentle versus severe. I could paint a portrait of our legs on top of the white comforter and present it as a study between feminine and masculine forms.
Walt’s looking down at us too, and I feel it again: unnamed emotions that seem too close to desire. Too close to something I haven’t felt in…
Walt stands up abruptly.
“Good night, Elizabeth,” he says, sounding almost stern.
“Oh.” I shake my head, trying to keep up with the sudden change of energy. “Good night.”
He doesn’t look back once he steps out the door. I listen to his feet carry him away, trying to compartmentalize my sadness.
The next morning, I sit up in bed, shove off my blankets, and listen for Walt. It’s Saturday. He should be working here, in his office. I bet if I walk out into the hall, I’ll hear him on the phone. Or maybe he’ll be in the kitchen, grabbing ingredients for his smoothie again.
I’m starving since I slightly overslept. I want eggs and toast and bacon. I could make enough for the two of us and invite him out of his office to sit and eat with me. Surely, he’d be able to take a fifteen-minute break. Five minutes, even.
I’m too excited to care about what I look like. He’s seen me every which way, including last night when I was more than a little tipsy. I can’t look any worse this morning.
I head for the kitchen first, to get myself a cup of water, and as I’m taking my first sip, I hear the elevator ding with an arrival. Walt must have left the apartment this morning. Probably to go on a run or something, or ideally, he could have left to go get us donuts.
I’m smiling at the preposterous thought as I round the corner quickly, only to find—to my shock—Camila standing in the entry gallery, a box of pastries in her hand.
She spots me and there’s a fleeting look of annoyance before she retrains her features into a soft smile.
“Good morning, Elizabeth.”
Oh dear, this is awkward. I’m still in my pajamas, probably with a drool spot on my chin and a nice crop of bedhead. Meanwhile, she’s already dressed for the day in a cream form-fitting dress beneath a coordinating jacket that’s tied with a sash around her thin waist. Her knee-high brown leather boots are polished and add a few more inches to her already intimidating height.
Her hair is smooth and slightly curled.
Her makeup is light and flawless.
I am in awe. Truly.
So much so that I’ve forgotten I’m supposed to greet her back. I force out a meek “Hello” just before I hear Walt walk into the entryway behind me. I turn to see he’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. His brown hair is slightly mussed and there’s a light dusting of stubble across his sharp jaw. He is, in short, drool-worthy.
He looks between Camila and me, and then I glance between him and Camila. It seems we’re all confused.
Camila frowns.
“Did the two of you just wake up?” she asks. “You’re usually an early riser, Walt.”
“I’ve been in my office working since 6:00,” he says, setting her straight. “You should have called first. I could have come to your apartment or met you for breakfast if you wanted to talk.”
She smiles sheepishly and holds up the box of pastries as if it’s a peace offering. “I appreciate that, but I figured I owed you both an apology after how I behaved last night. It wasn’t my proudest moment to say the least.”
Is she kidding?
“You handled it better than I would have,” I say before I can think better of it. I try on a small friendly smile, just to let her know I’m being earnest.
God, if Walt was my boyfriend and the situation were reversed….my stomach clenches with jealousy just considering it. And worse, that jealousy doesn’t let up as Walt walks past me to go to her and take the box out of her hand.
I can’t see his face, but I watch her cast her eyes up at him like he’s the second coming of Christ, and suddenly, I’m the third wheel here, an awkward understudy who should be exiting stage left.
“Here, let me take those so you two can talk,” I say to Walt, walking forward to grab the pastries from him before scurrying out of the room.
I take them int
o the kitchen and peer inside the box even though I don’t really have an appetite. She’s brought us delicate almond croissants, chouquettes, and pain au chocolat. She must have gone to a fancy French patisserie on her way over here. No Dunkin’ Donuts for this gal.
I close the box and take a seat on a stool by the kitchen island, twisting my ring on my left hand while I wait to see how long Walt plans to talk to Camila. I’ve worn the ring ever since Walt and I had a conversation about it. I’m starting to become habituated to its weight and size, like it’s an extension of my body.
Walt and Camila’s voices don’t carry into the kitchen, so I have no way of knowing what they’re discussing. I drum my fingers on the counter, crack the pastry box, pinch off a bite of a croissant, and make myself a cup of coffee. By then, my patience is all used up. I slink off my barstool and tiptoe toward the doorway. I’m not going to eavesdrop, per se. And if I am, it’s only for a moment! Only so I can get a sense of how their conversation is going!
I press my back to the wall then try to conjure up some previously untapped font of spy skills as I peer around the doorframe. I see them hugging in the entryway, Camila’s face buried in his chest. Walt’s arm is wrapped lovingly around her shoulders, and now it feels as if there’s a painful lump in my throat as I turn away quickly and scurry to my room.
I shouldn’t have done that. Shame and annoyance flood through me as I close my door behind me, look down, and tug off my ring.
Thirteen
I leave the apartment later that morning when I’m sure the coast is clear. I’ve opted for comfort with my sneakers and yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt. I plan on staying out for as long as possible. All day, probably. I’ve got my sketchbooks in my bag. I want to hide out at the park and draw as long as my hands can stand the chill without gloves on. With any luck, I’ll find a few interesting subjects to help distract me from this funk I can’t seem to escape from.
I tell myself I’m just tired and I had a hard day yesterday. I try to justify the way I feel by reminding myself of the shitty afternoon I had at the gallery.
I find a park bench and sit down, staring off into space for so long a squirrel mistakes me for a statue. When I move, it squeaks and scurries away quickly.
