by Nora Flite
Behind me, there came a sound. I didn't turn, my gut warned me that whoever was behind me was dangerous. Whoever it was, they were chasing me. Hard, solid, a number of bangs echoed through my head. Again and again, until I finally looked behind me...
The knock at the door startled me, making me tumble from the couch in a tangle of limbs trapped in blankets. “Ah!” I shouted, stunned, my brain a muddled mess. The sound came again, pulling me further from my weird, overhanging dream funk. What, someone is knocking? Who is that, actually, what time is it?
Rubbing the bridge of my eyes, my skull tight, crammed with throbbing pain, I stood in my wrinkled dress I'd slept in. Opening the door a crack, I peeked out, almost slamming it shut on impulse.
Deacon Day was on my step.
“Hey there,” he grinned, politely not commenting on the fact I was wearing the outfit he'd last seen me in. “Uh, sorry, I was trying to see if you and Vanessa wanted to get some lunch, but her phone kept going to voice mail, so... can I come in?”
“Oh,” I said, then, much more intelligently, “oh! Uh, yes, right. Of course.” Stumbling over myself, knowing I was a giant mess of smeared black makeup and frazzled hair, I stepped out of the way, letting him inside. What the hell do I do? Vanessa isn't even here. Thinking on it, my belly tensed with the recollection of our argument.
He folded his arms behind his back, his outfit a comfortable looking grey jacket with some simple jeans. Compared to me, though, he looked as put together as a man before a public speech. “So, you're staying on her couch?”
“Um, yeah,” I said, laughing nervously, fighting the urge to run and hide. “There's only one bedroom.”
“Right, got it. Is she still sleeping, then? It's already noon, I figured she'd be awake.”
Licking my lips, my eyes wandered to Vanessa's door, then back to his calm smile. “Actually, she sort of...” I trailed off, waving a hand in a small circle, “...isn't here.”
“What?”
“She isn't here. We maybe got into a fight last night.”
“Maybe? Or did?” He asked, arching a brow.
I opened my mouth, only to close it slowly. Turning, I dropped onto the couch, attempted to smooth my wrinkled dress, a challenge that was impossible. “Did, we did. We fought, then she ran off to Greg's.”
Deacon scrubbed at the back of his short hair, grabbing a chair from the nearby kitchen table, pulling it across from me. Settling on it, he propped his chin in his hands, watching me with rapt concern. “Alright, tell me what happened.”
Does he want to know what happened just because he's curious? Who would he side with, me, or the person he went to college with, the girl he's known far longer? I remembered Vanessa's words, 'he just isn't into you,' and cringed inside.
“It's kind of hard to explain,” I began hesitantly, “she's been kind of on edge lately, I guess. She was mad at me for staying out late last night.”
“What?” He said, clearly baffled, “why would she care about that?”
“I really don't know,” I grumbled, my body aching from lack of sleep, from being filled with too many tequila sunrises. “She started yelling at me about how I couldn't be out with her friends without her, stuff like that.”
“That's weird, that's all she said?”
Looking up, I met his inquisitive eyes, sank into the honey color, lied through my teeth. “Yeah. That's all she said.” There's no way I can tell Deacon she accused me of wanting more than just friendship with him. “Then she stormed out.”
Deacon closed his eyes, the look of a man deep in thought. “Well, there's nothing to be done about it now. How about this,” he said, peering at me with a little half-smile. “Want to get lunch with me, give her time to cool off? I'm sure she'll come around and be fine later.”
I don't know if he knows Vanessa as well as he thinks he does. Neither do I, it seems, for that matter. “Alright, I could eat. Let me get cleaned up first, though.” Standing, I grabbed a skirt and a tank top from the arm of the couch, blushing at the fact my things were sprawled everywhere. Covertly, I kicked one of my bras behind the couch. “You uh, you'll be okay, hanging out here while I get ready?”
He nodded. “Of course, take your time.”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I hurried into the bathroom with one more quick glance at him.
It felt strange, far too strange, to be showering with the man I was becoming more interested in by the day on the other side of the door. Still, the hot water was glorious, scouring away my old makeup, soothing my taut muscles.
I wish I didn't have to lie to him. But how could I tell him about how she accused me of wanting more from him... or that I had ended the fight by refusing to be emotionally abused all over again...
Lying didn't sit well with me, yet what option did I have? It was the right thing to do. Even so, scrubbing my hair under the hot jets of water, the shame sat heavy in my empty stomach.
Thinking about Deacon sitting so nearby, close enough that if I yelled, he'd hear me, made my thoughts roam down a different road. I wonder how he'd react if I tried to call him in here? The idea was far too forward, my cheeks dark as beets as I explored the possibility. He didn't even want to kiss me last night, how could I expect him to do anything but be embarrassed for me if I attempted to coax him in here randomly?
Turning off the shower, I dried my hair quickly. I had a difficult time looking at myself in the steam smeared mirror. What's wrong with me, do I want to back off from this guy, or what?
Frowning, I placed my forehead on the damp reflective surface, groaning. I clearly had no clue what I wanted anymore. It doesn't matter what I want, if he wants the opposite. Remember, he didn't kiss you, Vanessa is probably right about everything.
Not feeling any better, though I was at least cleaner, I changed into my clothes and tied my wet hair into a messy ponytail. Deacon was still sitting on the chair when I stepped out, tapping on his phone. He raised his eyes when he heard the door creak.
“Ready?” He asked, standing, adjusting his jacket. Watching him move, graceful, controlled, I idly wondered if he had ever been a dancer. More pressing, though, was how I wished I could read his mind.
“Yeah,” I responded, my smile blooming warily. “Let's go.”
****
The drive was short, for which I was grateful. Feeling dizzy, tired, the car was only making it worse, even with the windows down, the fresh air.
We ended up stopping down the street, a distance we probably could have walked, but I didn't complain. The diner was small, greasy, exactly what I was more comfortable with. After yesterday, eating with Greg and Vanessa, being exposed to the concept of waiting in line for scrambled eggs, this was a nice change.
Despite the less than classy décor and mood, Deacon still pulled out my chair for me when we got to our table. “Oh, uh, thanks,” I said, tripping on my words. I couldn't recall when I had ever had someone do such a thing for me, in fact, I was sure I had only ever seen it in movies. Part of me wanted to rebel against the weird novelty of it, yet, even so, my heart pumped erratically.
“How did you find a place like this?” I asked, listening to the door's bell jingle as more people entered, staring around at the old framed photos of famous people on the walls.
“I live up the street, I found it one day just wandering around.”
“You what?” I gaped, snapping my head back to see him looking amused. “You mean you live right near Vanessa?”
“Correct,” he laughed, placing his hands on the table, squinting at me. “Why do I feel like you're about to attack me or something?”
Noticing how tense I was, I made myself sit back, my shoulders lowering from their hunched position. “No, sorry, I'm just surprised. I didn't realize.”
Deacon tilted his head, an owl's movement. “I wonder why Vanessa didn't tell you. It's why taking you home last night was no big deal, you know?”
My neck felt warm, but I blamed my hangover. So, it wasn't inconvenient for him
to give me a ride. Fine. That's fine, why should that bother me? Refusing to dwell on it, I instead slid the menu to one side, looking around for the waitress.
“You're not eating?” He asked.
“Hmn? Oh, no, I am, I just don't need to look at the menu. I'll just get some eggs, places like this always have eggs.”
His laugh surprised me, making me stare at him to figure out what was funny. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I've just never seen anyone do that. You're right, they have eggs, you're fine. Is that all you're getting?”
“No,” I said, smiling, studying the room to attempt to catch the eye of a server. “I need coffee, too.”
“Need?”
“Need,” I repeated, waving the woman down. “Hi there! Can I get a cup of coffee, please? And some scrambled eggs, too.”
The woman, who was pretty enough to be a movie star, like everyone else in this town, nodded her head at me. “Of course, and for you?”
Deacon scooped up my menu, handing it with his own to the waitress. “Waffles, please, and a water.” The woman took the items, flashed us a beaming smile, then scurried away. As soon as she was out of ear shot, I stared at my companion.
“Water?”
“I don't drink coffee,” he said.
“You don't drink coffee?” I gasped, covering my mouth like he had admitted to some grand sin.
“What? Is that so terrible?”
“Horrible,” I stated, setting my mouth into a mocking straight line. “The worse, in fact.”
Chuckling, he leaned across the table, lifting an eyebrow at me. “So does this mean we can't be friends, then?”
The way he phrased that, even jokingly, it made me flinch. If he noticed how my guise had slipped, he didn't say, he just kept grinning in my direction. “I guess I can forgive you.”
“Great! I was worried there for a moment,” he said, placing a hand to his chest. Our drinks arrived, saving me from having to keep playing along.
Slurping my coffee, inhaling the sharp scent of it, I closed my eyes. Was that his way of saying he really does just want to be friends? Shouldn't I be... relieved, maybe?
I wasn't, I couldn't even pretend.
“So, Leah, about last night.”
Almost jumping in my chair, I lifted my eyebrows, hiding behind my mug. “Uh, what about it?” Is he going to bring up my amazingly obvious pass at him?
Tapping the edge of his water glass, Deacon set his gaze on me, relaxed and calm as far as I could see. “You said you almost went to college out here, to become a painter, right?”
Oh, this conversation, I thought idly, I guess that's sort of less awkward, anyway. “Yeah, that's what I said.”
“Alright, so this has been on my mind.” He was staring at me, fixated, making it impossible to look away. I couldn't help but be happy to hear I had been on his mind in some capacity. “You didn't tell me why you didn't go.”
“Oh,” I winced, trying quickly to figure out how to answer this inquiry without revealing too much. Ugh, he caught me by surprise, he makes it hard to think sometimes. What do I say, though? Hurry, hurry! “Um, my family just couldn't...” Dammit. “Afford it,” I finished in defeat, the truth stale in my mouth. I took a deep drink of the coffee to try and wash it away, but it stuck with me. Well, good job, you fail at not delving into your past.
Deacon frowned, yet he didn't cringe away or give me a painful look of pity, things I had expected. “Yeah, that sucks, honestly. It's tough for a lot of people to go to school outside of their home state.”
“Was it tough for your family to pay for you?” I asked, trying not to sound passive aggressive. I hated conversations about money, but couldn't bite my tongue to hold my comment back.
“Well,” he said with a small, uneasy laugh, “not exactly tough, no. It was a different kind of hassle.”
He'd piqued my curiosity, I set the coffee cup down heavily, leaning forward. “What do you mean?”
“My dad is... sort of a doctor,” he mumbled, for the first time looking embarrassed to be telling me something. That bit of information didn't make me feel much sorrow for him, though, admittedly.
What a terrible problem, having a dad who's a rich doctor.
“He could have easily paid for everything for me,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “but he refused. My mom ended up taking out a lot of loans to help me come here.”
“Wait, why would he refuse if he had the money?” None of this was adding up for me.
Deacon scratched at his forearm, looking away, the act of a man gathering his thoughts. It reminded me of myself, when I was trying to slip out of a conversation I didn't like, except... “My dad didn't approve of me being a painter. He wanted me to go to medical school, like he did.”
Except, he tells me the facts, he doesn't hide them.
His eyes had moved away, but now they flicked back to me. He must have seen the empathy on my face, it made him sit up straight, his grin returning, his shoulders shrugging off the somber mood. “Anyway! What can you do? It worked out fine, I managed, and I'm pretty sure he's over it these days.”
“Right.” I struggled to smile, agreeing politely. I don't think he actually believes those words. Our food arrived, so we cut the conversation off with silent, mutual understanding.
During the meal, I checked my phone a few times, starting to wonder if Vanessa would ever message me. It's already after one in the afternoon, is she still with Greg?
Deacon had been watching me, he swallowed the last bit of his waffles, motioning in my direction. “Still no word from her?”
Blushing, feeling caught doing something wrong, I slid my phone into my purse. “No, nothing. She's really mad at me, I can tell.”
“Well, how about this,” he said, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Let's kill a little more time. I have something I want to show you, actually.” With his sly comment, I expected him to wink at me, and was surprised when he didn't. He tossed a handful of cash on the table, ignoring my arguments against him paying for my meal.
Everyone is always helping me out here. Why does it make me feel so bad? Am I scared I'll feel like I owe them? Don't I, though, in a way?
“What do you want to show me?” I finally asked, hoisting my purse, following him out to the car.
“You'll see,” he grinned, shooting one brief, proud look at me. “And hopefully, you'll like it.”
****
We pulled up alongside a small building downtown, parking on the street. Deacon amazing me with his ability to squeeze the car into the smallest of spots. I was jittery, but I blamed it on the coffee, even if I'd only had one cup.
What is he going to show me?
Together, we strolled a short distance down the cracked sidewalk, until he reached out, touching my elbow, halting me in my anxious pace. “Here, it's here.”
“Oh,” I said, stopping on a dime, looking upwards. Small, cramped, the building reminded me of his car, stuffed between the others on the street. It didn't seem like it should fit among the grand storefronts of a candy shop and a place selling old books. I almost asked him where we were, except that my eyes locked onto the sign pasted on the door, the words there answering my budding confusion.
'Endless Color, the Art of Deacon Day.'
“This is your galley,” I stated, not needing him to confirm. My damp palms touched the door, a look tossed excitedly his way. “Can we go inside?”
“I'd hope so, it'd be unfortunate if they didn't allow people inside to see the actual work,” he laughed, reaching past me to open the entrance for us, leading me into the most unexpected of surprises.
The gallery was a cool dark grey, lamps hanging down above to light the windowless interior. It was bigger inside than had been hinted at, empty, hollow as a cavern. There were no tables, chairs, nothing of the sort. The only thing to draw the eye were the walls, and what hung on them.
Wide stretches of color, dimension forged from dark paint, expert blending. The images were confusing, they drew the
eye, pulled me deep, a wave that became a swirl of wind and light. I forgot they were canvases, instead, the large squares became windows into the mind and heart of Deacon Day.
“What do you think?” He asked, so close to my shoulder that I twitched.
“This is beautiful,” I said softly. Looking at him, I was positive his face showed satisfaction. The idea that my joy had given him pleasure of any kind was addicting. “I had no idea you were so good.”
“Well, that's a matter of opinion,” he said, eyes darting away from mine. He hadn't given me the impression of someone unsure of themselves before, yet just then, turning away as quickly as he had, it made me wonder. “I'm glad you like it. I wasn't sure if it would seem sort of pompous to bring you here.”
Shaking my head, I let go of the ends of my hair, not realizing I had been playing with it. “What? Of course not, this is great! I really wanted to see your art, I just didn't expect you to have a whole gallery to yourself!”
“It's not that hard to do,” he shrugged, turning, strolling along the wall. “There are a lot of places to rent out space to display any sort of work, it's a little expensive, though.”
Expensive, like everything else here, I thought with a wry smile.
“Sometimes, you'll get offered a space at no cost,” he went on, staring up at a canvas that reminded me of musical notes that slowly morphed into leaves. “If someone likes your work enough, I mean.”
“Which are you?”
“Hmn?” He asked, glancing at me with a wrinkled eyebrow.
“Did you pay to rent, or was this offered to you?”
Deacon's mouth fell partially open, my question too blunt to hide his reaction in time. He recovered with a sharp grin, teeth glinting while he squinted at me. “Isn't that a little forward?”
I laughed, tilting my head with my hands gripping my hips. “Do you not like forward girls?”
He was quiet, my blood racing from his lack of reaction, wondering if I'd pushed him too far. This is a useless game, I'm more likely to offend him than succeed in flirting. I shouldn't even be trying to flirt.
