by Landra Graf
“It’s okay. Tricia brought us pizza.”
He glanced where she pointed to the box perched on the kitchen table, a now completely clean table. “Why’d she do that?”
“Said she ordered extra and they wouldn’t finish it all. So, dinner is not ruined. We were saved by the neighbor.” A very convenient save, but she’d keep the thought to herself. “Where are you hiding the plates?”
“I’ll get them.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You sit down and take it easy for a minute.” There were times everyone needed help and it seemed he did at the moment. The more he tried to take on, the more problematic things became, from what she’d experienced so far. As she looked around, it appeared he conquered the Herculean task of cleaning his kitchen and living room. Stuff looked near spotless, and she admired him for doing so much.
He did as she told him and sat at the kitchen table. “They are in the cabinet to the left of the sink.”
The room went silent with the exception of the clinking sound as she pulled two black glass plates from the cabinet. After setting the plates on the table, she placed one piece of pizza on each—how she always served herself with the proper portion. Then she took a seat across from him. Murph stared at the pizza, fingers steepled and resting against his chin.
“What’s wrong?” She could guess his answer, but the question still needed to be asked.
“I fucked up, again. Here I was, doing so well. Didn’t get lost in my work today, pulled together a dinner with real food, and even took care of paperwork. Then I burn the dinner.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Things happen. You can’t beat yourself up about them.”
“I bet shit like this doesn’t happen to you.” He bit into the pizza, then rose from the chair and moved toward the refrigerator. “Beer?”
“No, I’ll take some water, though.”
He reached in and pulled out a bottle of Against the Grain G’Night Ryder and a bottle of water. “Here you go. Amazing, I can do something right.”
“You’re really worried about what I think, aren’t you?”
Maybe he worried about how everyone perceived him, but lately, the focus had been directed toward her.
“And shit like the dinner doesn’t happen to me, but other things do. We all have our burdens.” As she waited for him to respond, she found herself not hungry.
No, her workday left her more tired than hungry, and she still felt uneasy in the new place. Thank goodness for Friday, she could spend time relaxing this weekend and getting comfortable in her space.
“Yes, I care about what you think. You’re my friend and a fairly new one. You only make first impressions once.”
She laughed. “You already made a first impression and a favorable one, evidenced by the fact I moved in here.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way. Then I won’t scare you off?” He chugged a few swallows of beer and finished off his first slice while she contemplated his words.
Sure, he’d acted a bit off, but since he’d announced his diagnosis, it was easier to come to terms with some of his more extreme actions. She found herself fine with them, as long as he remained nonviolent. Yet, most of his negative actions were geared toward punishing himself.
“You’re not going to scare me off. If anything, I’m more determined to be a good friend. Good friends offer help, so if you need any, let me know.”
Smiling, he grabbed another piece of pizza from the box. “Thank you. I don’t get offers like that from other people.”
“I’m sorry your dinner got ruined.”
“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control.” He reached over and their fingers touched, a spark...heat bloomed between them and a flush crept up her face. Here she’d been trying so hard to keep her distance, to stay strong and keep space between them.
After meeting Tricia and the move—all a bit too much, too fast. She refused to do Murph an injustice by starting something, which would only end with both of them hurt, if her past track record continued.
She pulled back. “Force of habit, sorry. And I did it again. See? I have my own problems.”
“You think apologizing all the time is a problem?”
Had to be. At least, she’d figured her constant apologies as one of the reasons Jordan left. “It’s possible.”
“I don’t think so. What’s really a problem?”
A question she didn’t want to answer, but— “It’s going to sound crazy, but I’m unlovable.”
“I call bullshit.” Murph’s words came out clear, even with the bite of pizza in his mouth.
Aggie shook her head in defiance. “Nope, it’s true. People leave me. They may have all the good intentions of staying, but without fail, they leave. It certainly gives me the impression there is something wrong with me.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to need examples if you expect me to believe this.”
“What do I get for dragging up these bad memories?”
“Best I can offer is a hug once it’s over.” No grin or cheesy smile accompanied his proposal, instead, he looked at her with interested eyes, ones that communicated the idea he was ready to listen to whatever she wanted to say.
At the moment, she figured a hug would make him feel as good as it would her, so she decided to take a risk. A risk for friendship, and strong women also helped their friends...at least, being strong meant facing your past. All in the name of making Murph feel better, which was the reason she’d go with. “Fine, I’ll take your offering.”
Chapter Seven
For Aggie, these memories would be difficult on her, but she’d talk about them regardless. Where to start? “My dad left America and moved to Greece when I turned nine. He divorced my mother, and I remember they were having an argument about me. I’d pulled a bully’s hair and got in trouble with the school, again. I was told to be nicer, more forgiving.”
“What did the bully do?”
“She shoved me into a wall and called me fat. I retaliated. My father believed my mother’s job involved taking me in hand, and when I refused to follow all the rules, he left.” The memory of the day was burned into her brain, waking up to her father carrying a suitcase out the front door, her mother still asleep in bed.
There was no note, no hugs and kisses goodbye. He’d just left and broke her damn heart. “My mom stuck around, bouncing between replacement husbands to support us until my senior year of high school. Then she went on a cruise for spring break while I was working overtime at my job. She met some sugar daddy, married him on my graduation day, and took off.”
Another burn to her fragile psyche. No graduation parties for Aggie. Instead, it had been a freedom celebration. At least, that was how dearest Mom, or as she called her now, Edith, referred to it. They were celebrating the freedom to live life as they chose. Really, Edith got to live the life she wanted. Aggie got stuck with whatever she could come up with on her own.
“We hardly talk now. She calls every so often, and we move through a perfunctory conversation with the same questions, same answers.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It’s reality, and I’ve moved on, but then there’s my best friend. June and I were joined at the hip...through high school, even into college. She meets a guy who introduces her to this church. When I couldn’t work my schedule around to try this place out, more than a couple times, she ditched me. I mean, cut off all contact. No matter how close we were, she still gave up our friendship.”
Murphy frowned. “These people sound like assholes, Aggie. Including your parents. I don’t really think they left because you were unlovable. It sounds like these people took advantage of you and your quiet nature.”
She tried to believe it, tried to so hard, but then, “I can sometimes convince myself they possessed selfish natures until I get to Jordan.”
“The boyfriend who cheated on you?”
“Yes, if I’d been more, less needy, maybe he wouldn’t have cheated on me.” She’
d looked at it from every angle. Several times during their relationship, she’d been inattentive, less responsive to him. Her mother would have called that a serious lapse in judgment. “I stopped paying attention to him. We lost some of the closeness from earlier on, and I let the gap widen. I failed at communicating or trying to put the spark back in our relationship. I let things fall apart.”
“Is this your own personal observation or something he told you?”
Moisture welled in her eyes and she heard Murph’s chair squeak as the legs slid sharply against the linoleum floor. Before she could object, or even answer his question, he hauled her to her feet and wrapped her in a hug. The way their bodies aligned, in some perfect way, like two puzzle pieces joining together, hit her straight in the chest and a knot formed there.
This hug touched her emotional center more than the first one. She could easily blame it on all the memories she’d stirred, coupled with this display of affection. Jordan had heard her cry about her family before and always told her to forget them, live in the now with him. Murph did the opposite.
“They were assholes, and I know it hurts. But this hug is a good memory. One you can draw on when the bad ones surface, which they always do even when we don’t want them. I’m not leaving you.”
She squeezed him back, loving how his muscled parts fit against her soft ones. She was incredibly softer than him, but it worked. He held her tighter and smelled of pine and paint, a refreshing scent. When they finally pulled apart, more like their upper halves loosening the hold on one another, he kept his arms and hands entangled with hers. They’d shared something, a common respect for both of them being a bit damaged, a bit not-quite-right.
They locked eyes and for a moment, Aggie believed he’d kiss her. She wanted him to. Just once, to know what the experience of kissing someone who got her was like.
Instead, he said, “Let me paint you.”
#
Aggie sharply inhaled and then asked the hard-to-answer question. “Why?”
“You’re so strong, fierce. I want to capture the emotion, the essence of you.” Sometimes he surprised himself—the reason sounded decent. He also didn’t want to let her go, but she pulled away from him and started pacing the kitchen.
“I’m really uncomfortable about showing my body to anyone.”
He held up his hands. “No, you’re misunderstanding me. This is clothes-on, completely. I would never spring nude posing on someone as a fun, random suggestion.”
That seemed to be the reassurance she needed. “Okay, where do we do this?”
He pointed to the living room. “In there. Feel free to take a seat on the couch or wherever...the chair even. You do what feels natural, and I’ll move to paint you.”
So she did. Grabbing her bottle of water, she propped herself into the large chair in the center of the room. He would’ve suggested she grab that one, just because the shape was more versatile to poses. She tucked her legs underneath her and propped her head in one hand.
He grabbed a blank canvas from his supply room, one already treated and ready for use. When he walked back in, she’d kicked off her shoes and let her hair free from its ponytail. She became the embodiment of his muse, and in a way, his savior. How could he ever tell her how she’d helped him, kept him from falling into dark places?
“Is this what you were thinking?”
Mouth dry, it took him a minute to respond. “Whatever is most comfortable for you. Ultimately, I’m at your mercy.”
Murph concentrated on gathering his supplies. For now, it’d be his stool, easel, canvas, and sketching pencils. The pre-sketch was essential to helping him line out the rest of the painting.
When he finally looked back at her, she appeared the opposite of fierce. No, Aggie transformed into sultry. Hair down around her shoulders, a smile teasing her lips. It was downright the exact opposite of what he’d expected, and he adjusted his pants and scooted away from his stool. “I’m going to fix the lighting.”
He moved to the controls on the wall for the track lighting angles. One of the few alterations he’d made to the apartment, and desperately needed. For a painter, light proved the difference between a decent painting and a masterpiece.
As the lights positioned into place, he tried to think about something unattractive. Something he disliked, merely to calm himself, like rainy days or sunburns. This woman drove him to the breaking point. If he’d been a tube of paint, he’d have exploded from heat exposure.
“How often do you have models for your paintings?”
Finally, an easy question. “Never, you’re my first one.”
“That makes me a little nervous.”
The last light finally in place, he moved back to his seat. “No expectations, Aggie. I want to paint you, any way and any how. I’m open to your conditions on this.”
She laughed, a little self-conscience-sounding laugh. The kind of laugh to sprout gooseflesh on his skin and send a tingle down his spine—a good one. “My conditions? Maybe I should set some.”
“You can, if you want.”
The way she phrased the sentence made it sound like she had something sexual planned, but he refused to let his mind wander in carnal directions. Easel set, pencil in hand, he gave his full gaze to Aggie. The lighting, now perfect, illuminated her hair and left part of her profile in shadow. “Would it hurt for you to turn your head a bit to the left?”
“No.” She did as he asked. “Is this all right?”
“Perfect.” As Murph started to sketch, his eyes took notice of things he’d not paid attention to before. The narrow slant of her eyes in comparison to her angular nose, the slender elongated neck, and even the elf-like structure of her ears were all new, exciting things to him.
Painting his muse in the flesh, even the sketching part, proved to be ten times better than what his own mind’s eye could conjure. He found happiness here with her, joy. “So talk to me. You can speak while I sketch. Ask questions. You confessed plenty of things to me.”
An audible sigh came from her. “Thank goodness. If I had to stay silent, this would end with me asleep.”
Then she paused, taking a moment to think, and he used the opportunity to start a quick sketch of her lips. Those two pieces of flesh were perfect, a cupid’s bow with a lush upper half compared to its pouty bottom twin.
She broke his focus when she asked, “How long have you wanted to paint?”
“I’ve been sketching and drawing since elementary school. Then I went to high school and fell in love with the classics. College is really where I went head first into tempera.”
“Tempera?”
“The ways of the masters. Tempera is painting with egg yolk, a simple definition, to be sure. It also involves layering and building upon the painting with multiple colors. Da Vinci used to paint this way before he moved to oils. Oils, of course, became the technique of preference.”
She moved, sitting up straight, which worked with the lighting and gave a nice view of her neck. “Really? Why paint with egg then?”
“It calls to me, a challenge to fully absorb me. I also wanted to dispel the belief that oil paintings are more vibrant than tempera oils. A common argument, but so far I think between myself, and several others, we’ve got them beat.” And he’d never been so fascinated by a painting process. It caught his interest and never let go.
“So you love it enough to make it a career?” He liked her interest in him, his life, and his hobbies.
“It’s really a hobby. My main income is the apartments. They were left to me by Grandma, along with enough savings to keep me comfortable. I invested a little bit, and it turns out those guys at the investment firm place they advertise everywhere on the radio are pretty smart. I’m making money, not losing it. The show and everything is something that fell into my lap. It’s kind of out of control.”
Truly, it was. “I met Patrick on a fluke visit to his gallery, shared a painting with him, and he loved it so much he put it on display. Then he convi
nced me to do the show...seemed like a great idea at the time—until someone ruined all my paintings. Now, I’m starting from scratch.”
“Why not postpone?”
Murph shook his head. “There are people interested in my work. Reputations are on the line, not only mine. For the first time in forever, I’m committed to something and it freaks me out, I guess.” Pressing too hard on the canvas, trying to nail the curvature of her shoulder, the tip of the pencil broke. “Shit.”
He reached into his pencil pouch for the sharpener and came up empty-handed. “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked as she stood.
“Busted the pencil and my sharpener is missing.” He set the pouch on the floor and the pencil on the easel. “My biggest issue lately is I keep moving things and I don’t remember doing it. A bad side effect, I guess. Memory is playing games with me.”
Aggie walked over. “Do we need to stop for the night?”
“I probably have another pencil in the spare room where I keep all my supplies.” When Murph stood, the distance between their bodies disappeared. When had she gotten so close? Heat radiated from her like a slow-burning fire in need of a new log to stoke the embers. “Unless you want to quit?”
She had to look up to make eye contact, then her hand touched his chest. He inhaled sharply and froze. There were moments in time he’d recalled never wanting to end. This fell in that category, and yet, he knew he needed to say something, do something...intelligent.
“Aggie—”
“Hush, I want to do this. Just this once. I want to be impulsive like you are and give you a happy memory. Like the hug, except not a hug.”
Then she leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
#
If Aggie looked herself up in the senior yearbook, she’d find the words Most likely to follow the rules next to her photo. Kissing Murph broke every damn rule; at least, the ones she’d wanted to stick to about taking care of herself, not getting involved with someone else. But she’d be a fool to regret it. Not when his lips were soft, different from the rest of his body. Not when she pressed a little harder, and he responded, fisting her hair.
