Draw Me In

by Megan Squires

  But buildings never fascinated me. I tried to make them, and even interned at my dad’s office back in high school when I was seventeen, but I never could achieve that same satisfaction I got when I sculpted or drew human likeness. I still loved the precise lines of architecture—the realism and the dimension—but the passion wasn’t there.

  This was my passion.

  I scratched at the parchment, digging the tip of my pencil into the shadows that formed underneath it. I smudged the oil of my thumb into the sheet to blend the charcoal and lead into one, two mediums consummating under my fingertips. I slowly pulled my finger over the curved muscle of Ian’s back and arms, bringing his deltoids and biceps into being, almost feeling uncomfortable in doing so. I was grateful for my seat in the room and the view I had because even though I wasn’t physically touching him, I did feel like I was invading his personal space with each part of his body I penciled.

  How could it not become very personal as his person transferred onto my sketchpad?

  I spent the final moments of class placing the final touches on my piece just as Professor Seyforth asked us to put our belongings away. Several students lingered a few minutes to talk to Ian, which cracked me up because we’d had many male models throughout this course. None garnered as much attention as Ian. You would’ve thought we had an Oscar-winning movie star as our subject the way the girls gawked over him. I think I even saw one ask for an autograph on her boob, it was that sort of fawning and fluster.

  Standing with my bag hiked over my shoulder, I waited until the crowd thinned out to approach him as he finished getting dressed.

  “Show me what you’ve got!” Ian demanded, slinging his tee over his head and sliding his arms in. His abs contracted like an accordion as he rolled the fabric down.

  “You wanna see it?”

  “Hell yeah, I do. I didn’t just freeze my ass off for the past two hours for nothing. Come on. I just showed you mine, now you show me yours.” He threw a wink my direction and I caught it with a reluctant smile.

  I fished my pad out of my pack. It wasn’t that I was insecure about my work, but my subjects rarely had the opportunity to critique their own likeness. I knew Ian wouldn’t be judgmental, but it felt strange having him analyze a piece of work that was all about his body. Mona Lisa, what do you think of your mouth? Are you smiling? Are you smirking?

  Flipping to the page, I held it out for him to take. The way you do when you ready for the blow, I twisted away from him in a wince, shoulders curled in a protective almost-cower.

  “Shit, Jules!” That was a good reaction. Dramatic expletives tended to be good. “I look like a Greek god.”

  “Well, hardly,” I shrugged, insecurity easing up in my frame.

  “No, I’m serious. This is amazing!” He held the paper closer to his face. “You know, you need to start putting some resumes out there. We’re graduating soon and I really think it’s time you trade in your barista talents for a job where you can put your mad skills to work.”

  “I like the coffeehouse. You should see what I can do with an espresso machine and a steamer.”

  “I’m sure you’re the best in the biz, Love,” Ian said as we walked toward the classroom exit. He propped open the door to let me slide through first. The dank hallway air bombarded my nostrils and I shook my head at both the smell and his assertion. “But I also think you don’t realize just how incredibly gifted you are.”

  “I can draw,” I agreed. “I don’t exactly know what I want to do with that. I don’t want to settle, ya know? It’s gotta be the perfect fit, and there honestly aren’t many jobs out there begging for a girl and a pencil. I’m not exactly high demand material.”

  “You’ve just given me a new project.” I could see something brewing behind those light green eyes, a toxic cauldron of conspiracy. “From now on, consider me your agent.”

  “Along with being my personal chef, therapist, and most recently, personal nude model? How are you going to have time for all of this? Tall order.”

  “I can make time for my girl. Plus, I just landed my biggest shoot yet, so I won’t be pounding the pavement for myself for a while. I’ll get bored, and you know what happens when I get bored.” Oh yes, I did. “I serial date, and that never ends well. Remember Matt? Well, and Justin and Ethan for that matter. And I think Tony was in that mix, too. That was quite a spree.” Ian gazed off into the distance as we stepped back out into the bustle of the city.

  “You lined up another shoot?” I grabbed a fistful of Ian’s shirt and tugged him close. “You didn’t tell me!”

  While I’d been working toward my bachelor’s degree in fine arts, Ian was a photography major. Our areas of study differed, but Ian focused mostly on headshots and portraits, so our interests overlapped as far as being drawn to capturing the human form. And recently, he’d been hired to photograph some pretty high profile clients. I was beyond eager to hear who would be stepping in front of his camera now.

  “Yup, last week.” Ian stopped a block from our apartment to grab a hot dog from the vendor on the corner with the blue and yellow tattered umbrella overhang. He yanked out a few crumpled dollars from his wallet and the cart owner tossed him a foil-covered dog in return. Ian unwrapped it and squirted a dollop of relish and mustard onto the bun and said, “I guess he’s some heir to Daddy’s Chianti enterprise. Modern Matters magazine is doing a spread on him and I’ve been chosen as one of the photographers.”

  “Ooh, an Italian.” I snatched the hot dog from Ian’s grip and took a huge bite. I was starving. Drawing usually did that to me. Well, breathing usually did that to me. Suffice to say, I was hungry a lot. “Sounds right up your alley.”

  Flicking a finger toward the vendor, Ian ordered another hot dog for himself. “You just commandeered my dinner, Jules. I worked up quite an appetite sitting on my butt for all that time during your class, you know.”

  “Sorry,” I apologized genuinely around a mouthful of food. I swallowed before demanding, “Why didn’t you tell me about the shoot?”

  “I just got the call this morning. It was down to two more established photographers and me. Apparently they liked the idea of the ‘up and coming photographing the up and coming.’” Ian made air quotes around his words with hooked fingers and just about dropped his newest hot dog onto the gritty sidewalk pavement as he tried to multitask. “I Googled him and he’s a total hottie. Tall, dark and handsome doesn’t even do him justice. He’s all towering and tanned and gorgeous. Deserves a completely new category.”

  “No chance this job requires a sketch artist, too?” I teased as I followed Ian into the entrance to our apartment’s lobby and then through the steel elevator doors. He shook his head no with a smile.

  When I envisioned moving from North Dakota to New York City back when I was a little girl, those visions were filled with high-rise buildings, sleek modern lines, and an apartment that could house all of my life-size sculptures, canvases and drawing pads. What I ended up with was a fifth story loft that had more cracks in the walls than an 18th century cobblestone road. You couldn’t quite call it charm, but our apartment definitely had something. Character maybe, because all of those fractures in the brick walls reminded me of the wrinkles on a well-worn, aged face—memories told through each deep crease, each fold of skin. Ian and I would often stay up nights drinking wine on our futon making up stories and tales of our apartment’s past inhabitants. A lot of life was lived within those walls, and now it was our turn to continue that tradition. So far, we’d done a pretty good job.

  The elevator doors spread open and I trailed Ian out into the musty hall. There weren’t any windows, and the metal staircase that spiraled to our left was in overdue need of a thorough cleaning to remove the years worth of dirt that accumulated on its railings and steps. Grit and grime coated every inch of the corridor. Though our loft was obviously just as old as the rest of the building, Ian and I did a decent job making it feel more welcoming. Not necessarily more clean, but more inhabitabl
e, for sure. The floor-to-ceiling, iron paned windows also helped greatly with that. It was amazing how a little light could completely transform things.

  With his right hand, Ian dug into the front of his low-slung jeans to retrieve our key and he shoved it into the bolt. Metal gripped onto metal as the grooves hugged one another and the lock turned over. The door clicked open.

  “Home sweet home,” I said, dropping my bag onto the counter and myself onto the barstool. A twinge of cinnamon mixed with the wafting bite of curry sifted through the ceiling vents and into the air.

  “What’ll it be?” Ian followed me into our small kitchen. We had quite a collection of mix-matched martini and wine glasses in our cupboard and he reached up to pull out two that we bought at the Murano glass factory during our last Italian excursion.

  “Oooh, the fancy glasses.”

  “Figured we should celebrate.” He tugged on the refrigerator door handle and got out a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay and began filling our glasses nearly to the brim. Yellow liquid caught glints of light from the halogen bulbs over us and turned the wine into gold, Midas from a bottle.

  I swirled it. I was such a lightweight and hardly had much in my stomach, so this would definitely be enough to get me more than a bit tipsy. Tipsy was okay because it was still in the I-think-I-can-dance-well-enough-to-audition-for-So-You-Think-You-Can-Dance realm. Hammered was encroaching on the I-just-won-the-mirrorball-on-Dancing-With-the-Stars-and-I’m-dancing-the-Cha-Cha-with-Maksim-Chmerkovskiy-to-celebrate-my-victory territory.

  Ian doesn’t let me get hammered anymore.

  “We’re celebrating me landing my first big gig, and you hiring me as your agent.”

  “But you know I can’t pay you, Ian. We can’t really call it hiring.” I took a slow sip. The wine was cool sliding down my throat, yet I instantly felt the heat of alcohol webbing out warmly through my veins. “Hardly seems fair.”

  “You can pay me in the form of delicious portraits like the one you did of me today.”

  “Isn’t someone vain?” I choked, taking another refreshing swig from my glass. That hot/cold dichotomy presented itself again in my mouth and bloodstream.

  “Only because you made me look that good, Jules.”

  “I had a great subject to work with. Seriously, Ian. Your back is amazing.”

  Refilling his glass with wine, he chuckled, “So’s my front.”

  “I didn’t really focus on that part. Sorry,” I smiled, twisting the stem of my glass back and forth. The late afternoon rays streamed through our tall windows and coupled with the lighting, catching the etchings in the crystal at the perfect geometric angle. Prisms of blue and yellow and red danced across the wall, a kaleidoscope of color. “When’s your shoot?”

  Ian downed the remainder of the bottle, which would be enough to get most people drunk, but he usually could hold his liquor, all while avoiding dancing, unlike myself. In the four years I’d known him, I’d only seen Ian wasted two times. The first was when his dad told him he was pulling all of the money for tuition until his “gay son straightened his life out.” The second was when Ian was offered full financial assistance just two weeks later after applying for a scholarship with the Hartwell Foundation. Once to drown his sorrows, the other to celebrate his victory. If there were ever appropriate reasons for getting drunk, I supposed those two were pretty damn good.

  “They asked me to stop by his office tomorrow morning to check out the layout and lighting. The shoot is scheduled for Friday. Wanna tag along as my assistant? You’re more than welcome.”

  “You know I would, but I’ve got a morning shift at the coffeehouse,” I groaned.

  A frown pulled down Ian’s mouth in disappointment. “See, another reason why you need to free up your schedule by quitting that minimum-wage job.”

  “How about this: you find me that high-paying internship, and I’ll consider retiring my apron and coffee grinder.”

  “Deal.” Lifting my barely-touched glass to his lips, Ian stole a long swallow and said, “So long lattes. Hello Benjamins.”

  “I think you have your work cut out for you, Ian.”

  “I think I have your work cut out for me, Jules.”

  I yanked my glass out of his hand and drank from it slowly, allowing the liquid to trickle into my mouth and throat as a steady stream.

  I wasn’t sure I liked the thought of leaving my family at the coffeehouse, but the idea of starting something new did fill me with an excitement and anticipation I hadn’t experienced in quite a while. I was in need of an adventure, and since I didn’t have any upcoming travels planned, my adventure would just have to take place close to home.

  Plus, the coffee cup was beginning to feel like a pretty small canvas. Maybe it was time for something more. I supposed I would just wait to see if Ian could find me that bigger canvas I craved. Knowing him and his affinity for coming to my rescue on all occasions, I had a feeling he would.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “One small, decaf, nonfat, white mocha.”

  I set the drink on the bar without looking up and began working on the next order in the line of cups that crowded my counter. For a fleeting moment, I almost thought about scooping them up to perform my own rendition of Anna Kendrick’s cups song, but I’d attempted that 27 consecutive times one night when left alone in the stock room to sort lids. Consequently, I’d been banned not only from singing, but from holding more than three cups at once in the coffeehouse. It seemed like a very silly, but necessary rule.

  “Miss Thornton,” Eva smiled, curling her fingers around the foam and standing up on tiptoe to spy me over the partition. She grabbed a cardboard sleeve from the tray next to her and slipped it onto her drink, a parchment sweater hugging her cup.

  “Eva! I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see you!” Wiping my hands on my apron, I slid out from behind the barista station and wrapped her into my chest. “What are you doing out of school so early?” I glanced to the clock on the wall. 11:00 am.

  “I have independent study right now. Thought I’d come down to visit my favorite teacher.”

  “Aww.” I squeezed her tighter and her waves of blonde hair tickled my nose. She smelled good, like sugar or cotton candy—some sweet mix of the warm smells found at the carnival’s midway. A pang of jealously briefly shot through me until I remembered how lucky I was that I got my mocha-scented perfume for free. “I wish I was one that could give you actual grades, because you’d earn an A+ for that,” I laughed. “Do you have some time? I can take my break as soon as I finish up the orders on the counter. I’d love to chat for a bit if you’re free.”

  “Yeah, of course.” When her eyes darted back and forth, a typical act of avoidance, I knew there was more. “There’s something I kinda wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Sure thing.” I held her at arm’s length. There was a troubling fog in her typically bright blue gaze and when she smiled, it didn’t reach her eyes but stayed frozen on the lower half of her face. Something was definitely up. “Just gimme five, okay?”

  “Mm-kay.” Eva pulled out a chair tucked under a nearby table and slipped off her canvas backpack, which was decorated in patches from at least eight different countries. She looked thin, with her collarbones showing much more prominently than usual, her skin made sheer by the pressure. The sharp bone of her elbows protruded to a point and dark circles hung under her tired eyes. It worried me, and I was grateful for the chance to catch up with her because it was evident that something was going on.

  I was hurrying to finish up my last coffee when Cara, my shift manager, scooted another cup my way. I groaned under my breath as I rotated the clear plastic cup to read the order she’d penned in a permanent marker. The lines were still fresh, tacky black ink that smudged against my thumb.

  Quad shot, iced Americano.

  Someone must not have gotten enough sleep last night, because that was enough caffeine to wake the dead. A city full of zombies didn’t stand a chance against that order. They’d rattle
to life with one whiff of the awakening aroma alone.

  Waiting for the espresso to brew, I tapped my fingers on the machine as I willed it to work a little faster. Eva definitely came here to tell me something, and I was eager to sit down with her to find out what that was.

  Half of my mind was present, going through the methodic motions of a routine workday, the other half floating just outside myself, entering the sleepy realm that doing something day-in and day-out created. So I was only partway present when a low growling rumbled from within the chambers of the espresso maker. Sure, I heard it, but I didn’t register it, and those were two vastly different things because my reflexes were no longer tied to my arms and hands or any part of my body, truthfully.

  Before I could identify the mechanic groaning as a real, tangible sound, steam shot out from all angles, drenching me with boiling hot water as it fanned out across my station like a possessed lawn sprinkler. From my hair to my shoes, I was dripping with water. Gathering what I could find, I balled up every spare towel within reach and shoved them onto the machine, which was now rattling back and forth like a dryer set on a fast tumble.

  “A little help!” I called out over my shoulder, keeping the rags pressed to the fire hydrant spray that quickly burned through the fabric to sear my fingers. Instinctively (because I’d been snapped back into the here and now and my instincts were working again), I dropped the cloth from my hands. Water barreled out with a burst of pressure that hit hard against my clothes, hair and skin, a firing squad of water guns, their only goal to assassinate me with a deluge of water.

  “Here.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice and couldn’t see through the droplets blurring my vision, but I was briskly elbowed out of the way as a patron slipped out of his suit jacket and twisted it over the machine to shield the onslaught of water. With his back to me, he tinkered with some plumbing line behind the bar with one dexterous hand, holding his soaked jacket in place with the other. After just a breath of a moment of fiddling, the machine choked out one last exasperated gasp of steam and air and then everything stopped. Everything except my heart, which had started its very own Olympic-worthy sprint within my ribcage. It just won gold. I almost started humming the national anthem to celebrate.