Drawn to You

by Natalie Vivien

  “But how do you know that?” I ask Ash, frowning, still unable to meet her stare. “How can you be sure? How is anyone ever sure? It’s been…a long time since I’ve been sure of anything. If I ever was.” My hand fidgets nervously with my fork, spearing grains of rice on the tines. “I thought I was sure about Juliette, so sure, and then—” I stop myself, nearly biting my tongue, and lift my eyes to look at Ash.

  “Then what?” she prompts me softly, sliding one of her hands across the table to claim mine. I let go of the fork, all of my attention drawn to the sight and sensation of our hands clasped together. “If you want to talk about it, about Juliette,” Ash says, then, squeezing my fingers lightly, “I’m here.” Her mouth moves into an effortless, sexy smile. “Or if you don’t want to talk about it, want to talk about anything but it, then I’m down with that, too. Your call.”

  In a lightning-bolt moment of clarity, the thought comes: I don’t want to talk at all; I want to kiss you…

  A lot.

  But I have fortitude enough to swallow those words—or, let’s be honest, cowardice enough to totally chicken out—and say, instead, “How about we talk about the gala? Have you decided whether or not you’d like to participate yet?”

  Ash leans back against her chair, hand slipping away from mine. I gaze down at her fingers and feel the ache of their loss, but I’m not ready to talk about Juliette yet, not on an emotional level, with anyone.

  Crumpling her paper napkin in her hand, Ash turns on a bright smile, but her eyes are shaded, distant. Almost sad. “You think my work’s good enough for the exhibit? Honestly?”

  I breathe out, drawing both of my hands onto my lap. “Honestly.”

  She regards me with skepticism, though she’s still smiling. Her gaze thoughtfully skips away. “Thing is, I’ve never done a museum show before. I had some openings in Texas and California, but at small art houses. Little dives, really. This seems like…” Her shoulders rise and fall in a subtle shrug. “Seems like a big deal. Fancy. Black tie.” She leans over to tug my own tie, grey eyes flashing. “I wouldn’t want to let you—or your museum—down.”

  “God, Ash. Let us down? You’d be our featured artist.” In curator mode now, I feel a little more stable, a little more certain of myself and my script—though Ash’s fingers have fallen from my tie to my arm, where they’re tap-tap-tapping at my wrinkled sleeve. I take in a deep breath and go on. “Your work is incredible. Innovative, yeah. Aesthetically daring. But it’s also just…really beautiful.”

  “Beautiful.” She has that intense look on again, the look that melts me faster than snowflakes caught on the tip of a tongue, but I don’t glance away this time. I stare back—because I want to. Because I love looking at her…

  And because, when I’m talking about art that I believe in with my whole heart, I feel like a different Molly altogether: a brave Molly, who always knows what to say.

  “You have the spark, Ash,” I tell her, pushing my plate away so that I can lean against the table, positioning myself nearer to her. “I’ll put down my own artistic ability until the end of time, but I’m actually pretty prideful about my curating skills. I know genius when I see it.”

  “Hold on.” Ash laughs, and she leans toward me, too, her face open, more relaxed. “You’re calling me a genius now?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh… Wow.” She rakes one hand back through her hair, and when she looks to me again, her eyes are full of light, gleaming. “You know, I warned you about flattering me, Molly.”

  “I know. Guess I’m feeling dangerous tonight.” No sooner have the words left my tongue than I’m twenty degrees warmer and inwardly astounded at myself, but also kind of—no, scratch that—epically impressed.

  I think I just flirted.

  And…I think Ash liked it.

  She’s staring at me with her lips parted, and her fingers have stopped tapping; instead, they’re drawing circles on my sleeve. Circles and spirals all along my forearm. Feather light. Teasing. We both stare at her hand, and then we look up at the same time, eyes meeting, delving deep.

  “I might need some help choosing which pieces to exhibit,” Ash whispers, her gaze roaming over my face, lingering on my mouth. “Would you be willing to—”

  “Very.” I bite my lip, smiling softly, aware of Ash’s eyes following the curves of my face. She meets my eyes again. “Yeah,” I breathe. “I’d be very willing.”

  She holds my gaze for a long moment, minutes, before she draws back her hand and swallows, sitting upright in her chair—effectively breaking the tension. We both breathe out and laugh a little, gazing shyly into one another’s eyes.

  “Good to know,” Ash says finally. “I’ll feel better about the whole thing if I’ve got a professional looking out for me.”

  I grin at her hopefully. “So…is that a yes? You’ll do the gala? Definitely?”

  “Definitely.” Ash picks up an unbroken fortune cookie from the table and gives me a soft, shy look. “I’ll do the gala. For you.”

  For you.

  I try my best not to leap to conclusions, but those words paired with the way Ash is looking at me right now… My heart forgets its function and stops beating, but my mouth manages to squeak out a few polite words: “Thank you, Ash.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Me?” I shake my head, incredulous. “What have I done?”

  “You’re pushing me out of my comfort zone. And you’ve put faith in my paintings. And in me.” She glances away, smiling, though her expression is pensive.

  “Well…thank you for pushing me out of my comfort zone. I’m not sure I would’ve ever picked up a paintbrush again if you hadn’t put one in my hand.”

  “Let’s make a habit of it, shall we?” Her brows lift. “Another lesson tomorrow? I mean, if you’re available.”

  My teeth worry at my lower lip, and my eyes, of their own accord, flick in the direction of the house, where Juliette waits for me. A sudden pang of guilt slows my blood as I think of Juliette pacing the floors, agitated. Probably angry over being stood up. I turned off my cell before I left work because… Because maybe I already knew I would end up here, with Ash, and didn’t want to be interrupted again.

  But now my conscience is urging me to leave. And despite my reluctance to give up the safety and warmth I feel in Ash’s company, I have to sort things out with Juliette. I have to close that chapter before I begin a new one, for everyone’s sakes. Tonight, if possible.

  All I want is to move forward. Put the past behind me and live—be alive—in the moment. Being with Ash makes me acutely aware of that desire.

  And other desires…

  One of which involves a guided tour of Ash’s inked body, tattoo by tattoo. I wonder if I would be able to taste the different colors on her skin…

  “I’m available,” I say in a quiet voice, blushing furiously. “Tomorrow, I mean. But could we start later, after dinner, maybe? It’s just that… I have to—”

  “I’ll be here whenever you knock on my door, Molly.”

  I sink into the chair, flustered. “Thank you for being so understanding. And so…awesome.”

  “Hey, it takes awesome to know awesome.” She winks, offering me the fortune cookie. “Want to share?”

  I smile and tilt my head toward her, laughing a little. “Like a wishbone?”

  “Yeah. Close your eyes one more time, all right?”

  “Um…” I blink questioningly.

  “To make your wish.”

  I draw in a shallow breath as I bite my lip again. “Okay. But you wish, too.”

  “I already am.” Her mouth curves teasingly, eyes sparkling, focused on me. “Now grab hold of your half.”

  I reach for the cookie and lightly grasp it, fingers brushing against hers.

  “On the count of three,” Ash says then, gaze tripping from my hand to my mouth, “we both close our eyes and make a wish.”

  I nod, secretly thrilled by the whimsy of the moment. When I was a little g
irl, I used to dress up as the Fairy Godmother from the Cinderella fairy tale every year for Halloween. I’d wave my plastic wand over my friends’ heads and ask them to make a wish. And then, with a whirl of my dress and some quickly executed, ridiculous-looking “magical” gestures, I would pretend to grant their wishes.

  Some of them even came true. Ginger Hollingsworth wished for a baby sister, and she got one nine months later. And Rachel Pettigrew wished for a Barbie with black hair, like hers, and she found one under the tree that Christmas Eve.

  Realistically, I knew that my pretend wishcasting had nothing to do with these little coincidences, but it made me feel exhilarated to even imagine that I could change the course of fate with the wave of a wand. That’s why the Fairy Godmother fascinated me: she was strong, mysterious, unrestrained by the laws—of physics and of society—that limited human women.

  The Fairy Godmother didn’t sit around like Cinderella waiting for someone to change her circumstances.

  The Fairy Godmother could make things happen. And did. Effortlessly. With lots and lots of sparkles.

  Funny, though, that while I loved “granting wishes” for my friends, I had never made many wishes for myself. With a sudden shock, I realize the cold, hard truth: I had pretended to be the Fairy Godmother year after year, but I’ve been a woe-is-me Cinderella all along.

  Well—I square my shoulders and narrow my eyes—no longer.

  I make a vow to stop staring at cinders, waiting for magic to fall out of the sky.

  I’m going to make things happen by myself.

  “Ready?” Ash asks, grey eyes flashing, as if she’s daring me to do something wild, something dangerous, something totally un-Molly.

  And I smile, feeling happy—actually happy—and sure of myself for the first time in a very long time. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  “Here we go, then. One.” Ash stares at me, mouth curving up. “Two.” Her right brow rises as her gaze, again, lingers upon my mouth—lingers like an artist, as if she’s memorizing the shape, the color… “Three.”

  I close my eyes.

  I wish for my heart’s desire—whatever that might, at last, prove to be.

  A moment later, the fortune cookie breaks as we both tug on our halves, crumbs plinking down to the tabletop. I look at Ash and find her looking at me, her eyes as soft as dove feathers, her smile serenity itself, so content.

  The paper message is stuck to my half of the cookie; I pull it out and hold it up, so that Ash can see it, too.

  “’A stroke once painted cannot be washed away,’” she reads aloud, then chuckles. “Ooh, shivers.” She turns her gaze to me wonderingly, mouth slanted. “That’s eerie. My fortunes usually run along the lines of, ‘Wear orange for successful business ventures.’”

  I smile, curling the fortune into the palm of my hand and then tucking it in my pants pocket. “I got one once that said, ‘You are not a cow; don’t eat the grass.’”

  Ash’s husky laugh vibrates through me, electrifying my nerve endings and setting my heart racing. “Got to admit, it’s good advice.”

  I duck my head and scoot back in the chair, rising self-consciously to my feet. “I should—”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Licking her lips, Ash stands up beside me, and I am deeply aware of the proximity of her hips, angled in my direction, and her shoulders, bare save for the intricate inked designs… “You have to go,” she says, staring at me intensely. “I know. It’s okay. She’s waiting for you.”

  Cinderella Molly would apologize now, make some sorry excuses, and probably trip over the hem of her gown—or wrinkled pants—upon exiting the cottage in a frantic, awkward display.

  But Fairy Godmother Molly…

  I step toward Ash, heart pounding like a typewriter in my chest, repeatedly asking me in bleeding black ink: WHAT ARE YOU DOING WHAT ARE YOU DOING WHAT ARE YOU DOING. Still, I glide my hands along both of her smooth legs, cherishing the warmth of her, and brazenly claim her hands. Then I weave my fingers with her fingers, so soft and compliant, and lift my eyes to meet her startled grey gaze.

  “Yeah, I have to go now. She’s waiting for me,” I say then, holding my voice steady and vaguely nodding my head. “But, Ash…”

  “Molly?” Her mouth isn’t quite smiling; it looks bemused, surprised, and her eyes twinkle at me encouragingly.

  I draw in a breath, mentally performing my ridiculous wishcasting dance in my head, and ask her, as I gaze into her warm, smoky gaze, “Will you wait for me?”

  The words are weighty. I know when her eyes darken, when she tilts her head and presses her forehead against mine, sighing out, that she understands my meaning.

  “I will,” she breathes, her mouth so near to my mouth that we’re exchanging the same heated air. “Do what you have to do, Molly.” She draws back, loosing one hand to lay it gently against my cheek. “I’ll be here. Painting and waiting.”

  I want to kiss her more in this moment than I ever have before—and I almost do. But that isn’t how fairy tales go: you don’t win the princess until you conquer the foe.

  Juliette isn’t the foe… I know that now.

  My attachment to her, and the life we might have had together—might still have together, if Juliette gets her way—is.

  And I can’t begin anything new until I end what should have never begun in the first place.

  One of Ash’s hands is still clasped in mine, and, smiling, I bring it to eye level and turn it over. There’s a blue star tattooed on her wrist, its shape outlined in thick strokes of black. It reminds me of magic, of the Fairy Godmother’s wand, of all of the stars I could have wished upon and just…never did.

  I kiss the star, a long and lingering kiss, and Ash moans softly.

  “Molly…” She begins to reach for me but then draws back, sighing hard, laughing a little. She arches a brow as she places both of her hands on her hips. “This is going to be rough,” she whispers gruffly, her lips curved into a sexy half-grin. Then she winks slyly at me. “It’s okay. I like it rough.”

  I smile, feeling shaky and disoriented but also kind of blissful. Invisible spirals of bliss arc over my skin, making me feel more aware and excited than I have in months, years—or possibly ever. “But it’s nice to have something to look forward to.”

  “It is,” Ash agrees, eying my mouth with hooded hunger. “It’s very nice.”

  “Well…” And my inner Fairy Godmother suddenly splits, leaving only awkward, Oh-my-God-is-this-really-happening Molly behind. I stumble backward, knocking the chair with my hip and nearly toppling it over. But Ash leans forward and catches it—positioning her body in such perfect kissing distance that I groan and have to force myself to turn around, pacing through the living room and toward the door.

  My hands cling to my tie nervously as I whirl to tell Ash goodbye—only to find that she’s standing right before me wearing a Cheshire Cat grin. She leans one arm against the door at my back, her face inches above mine.

  “Until tomorrow, Molly,” she says in a low voice.

  I swallow. “Um, 8:00?”

  “8:00. Sure. Or anytime.” Her eyes flick along my length, pausing meaningfully on my mouth, and her smile grows wider still. Then she reaches behind me, her hand pressing into the small of my back, and turns the doorknob, gently easing the door open by wrapping her free arm around my waist to guide me out of the way. A draft of August heat wafts into the room, but it makes no difference: I was already feeling very hot.

  We’re pressed together, hip to hip, and it’s too much; I can’t help it; I can’t help myself; I’m going to kiss her—

  But then Ash presses harder against me, wrapping her arms around my body in a tight, full-contact hug. Her chin rests upon my shoulder lightly as I curve my own head against her chest, breathing in her cool mint and spring flowers.

  It’s the closest we’ve ever been. We fit together—every curve.

  God, I’ve missed this.

  But Ash feels nothing like Juliette. She’s leaner, warmer, somehow
softer.

  Funny how you can miss something you never really had.

  “If you need any help, or just someone to listen, I’m only a—”

  “Jaunt away,” I whisper, smiling into the fabric of Ash’s tank top. “Thanks.”

  “Hey.” She draws back a little so that she can peer down at my face, and her hand moves the hair back from my eyes, lingering at the place where my neck and shoulder meet. “That’s what neighbors do, right? Look out for each other?”

  “Neighbors?” I laugh, lifting my head from her chest and blinking up at her lovely, smiling face. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  She laughs, too. “Reckon it’s as good a word as any.” Her eyes darken and deepen, plumbing my depths; I tremble all over as Ash squeezes my hand. “For now.”

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling weakly. “I…reckon you’re right.”

  Her lips part.

  If I thought my legs were jelly before, they’re pure liquid now. I narrow my eyes with frustration as both legs wobble precariously beneath me.

  But I have to go.

  If I don’t, I’m afraid my heart might leap out of my chest… And I’m afraid it’ll take my fragile inhibitions right along with it.

  “See you, Molly.” Ash touches a hand to her lips and, eyes shadowed and intense, blows me a kiss.

  I back onto the walkway outside, shivering despite the ninety-degree weather. “Tomorrow night,” I say, instead of good-bye.

  She arches an eyebrow, giving me a teasing, slanted smile, and says, “It’s a date.” Then she softly closes the door.

  I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  And, shaky but exhilarated, I walk back toward the house to face the music—or the actress, really. Hands drawn into fists at my sides, I summon the Fairy Godmother again—only this time, my wand is red, not blue. Red for action. Red for confidence.