by Nora Flite
“I was offered it,” he suddenly responded, watching me curiously, though I noticed he hadn't answered my second question. “The people who own the space have worked with me before, back when I did pay to rent it. I guess I did it both ways, then.” Scratching his cheek, he looked like he was dissecting his own words.
“Sorry,” I blurted, taking a step closer to him, “that was rude. I shouldn't have been so nosy, I was just... curious, I guess. But I shouldn't have just assumed you'd be okay answering that sort of stuff.”
“It's fine,” he assured me, though I wasn't entirely convinced. “Actually, if you want to talk assumptions, I—here, just wait here a minute.” Deacon hurried to the other side of the wide room, where I noticed a door for the first time. Watching him, intrigued by what he was doing, I saw him slip inside, listened to things banging around.
What in the world is he doing in there? And what kind of assumptions is he making?
It became obvious when he stepped back my way, one arm clenching a canvas that was half my height, the other holding a small backpack. “What are those for?” I asked, my intuition buzzing with hope.
“They're for you,” he smiled, looking pleased at my shocked face. “After you told me about how you liked to paint, I remembered I had some extra materials laying around, and since I don't really need them... I mean, this is me assuming, like I said, that you didn't fly out here with your paints and things. If you don't need them--”
“No,” I almost shouted, lifting my hands to quiet him. “No, I mean, yes. Yes, I would love to have them! You're right, I don't... didn't, that is, bring my art supplies out here with me.” That is, I didn't have any to bring, and I don't exactly have the cash to purchase anything out here. I had no plans to tell him my internal thoughts. Instead, I looked from the canvas, to his warm gaze, in pure disbelief. “You're really going to give me all that?”
“Of course,” Deacon said, offering me the bag, then pulling it back as I reached for it. “But, you do have to do one thing for me in exchange.”
So used to people taking advantage of me, of playing the tit for tat game, I stared at him warily. What could he possibly want from me? And why did the fact he wanted anything make my heart pulse? “Go on, then.”
Pausing, those handsome features grew even more appealing with his slow, wicked smile. “You,” he murmured, offering the backpack to me properly, “need to promise you'll paint something wonderful with all of this.”
Paint something wonderful? My mouth was dry, so I nodded instead of listening to myself fail at speaking. He believes I'm capable of doing that? Me? I held the bag at my hip, noticing the heft. He'd given me many supplies, that was clear, but did he really, really think I could make something worth calling 'wonderful' with them?
Noticing I was blatantly staring into his face, his smile gentle, I cleared my throat, straining to talk. “Deacon, this... are you sure?”
“Why wouldn't I be sure?”
“Because you, I mean, you hardly know me. You can't know if I'm any good, what if this is a waste of paints and canvas?”
His chuckle reminded me of warm syrup, I remembered the waffles he had eaten that morning. “It won't be a waste. Trust me, I believe in you.”
The gallery felt very warm, stuffy, I hoped I wasn't openly sweating. Deacon was too much, he'd thrown me for a loop, I didn't even know what to do with it all. “Alright,” I whispered, “I'll do my best. You know,” I laughed, a hint of bitterness coating the edges, “I think you're the first person who's ever said that to me.”
His eyes were darker, warring with the black paint on the canvas near him. “What, to trust me?”
“No.” I looked at my shoes, then forced myself to peer into his astonished expression. “That you believe in me.”
Dammit, why did I say that, what's wrong with me? I'm supposed to be keeping a wall up, not... not this...
Deacon was silent, neither of us blinking. The back of my neck was simmering, the boil moving up to my cheeks, over my forehead. Red as an apple, I jerked backwards, raising a hand in defense. “Oh, god, I'm sorry! Haha, that was... that was just me being weird, I was joking, people have said that before, really, um...”
“Leah,” he said, ending my babbling quickly. The smiling Deacon was long gone, this was someone serious. His eyebrows were hooded low over melting green-gold orbs. “Leah, it's fine, really. I'm not, how do I put it, used to that kind of honesty?” Shrugging, he set the canvas down, leaning it on the wall beside us. “Listen, this is sort of sudden, but can I get your cell phone number?”
“Why do you need that?” I said without thought, regretting my knee-jerk reaction as the words tumbled free. Seriously, what is wrong with me, I'm falling apart here.
Deacon only inhaled, then bent over laughing at my bewildered face. “I'm sorry, that wasn't the response I expected!” Wiping his eyes, he straightened up, pulling his phone out, watching me with a sideways grin. “I need it so I can call you tomorrow night, when I come by to pick you up.”
“You're asking me on a date?”
“I'm trying to, you're making it far more of an obstacle course than I was prepared for.”
“I... I'm sorry, I just didn't expect that.” Do I say yes? Should I say yes? Have I really given up on my plan to avoid all of this mess? Rubbing my cheeks, I smoothed my hair behind my ears, noticing I was smiling. It must have been for some time, my face was aching from it. “Um, yeah, that sounds great, actually.”
He looked pleased, so when he motioned with his phone, I pulled mine out from my purse to share my number. Flicking open the device, I glanced at it, my smile fading. The missed calls blinked, some from Owen, and while those frightened me, it wasn't what really made my stomach convulse.
The rest were from Vanessa. Oh, dammit, how did I not hear those going off?
“Everything okay?” Deacon asked me, but I just nodded, tapping at my phone.
“Yes, everything's fine, give me your number so I can send you mine.”
Our cells beeped, making me thrill as I stared at the new contact. Typing in his name, my fingers shook.
“Great,” he said, tucking his phone away, lifting the canvas again. “Then, I'll pick you up around five tomorrow, sound good?”
“Sounds good,” I answered honestly.
“Then let's get you home, Vanessa might be there by now, don't need her to worry.”
Thinking about the missed calls from her, I bit my tongue and said nothing, following him out of the gallery. My heart was lighter, fluttering, but my stomach was weighed down with anxiety at what I would find when I finally met with Vanessa in the place Deacon was quick to call my home.
Nothing felt like home these days.
Chapter 9.
“Are you sure you want to go inside alone?”
I glanced back at Deacon as he spoke, my mind warring with the idea I had proposed. If Deacon comes in with me, Vanessa won't talk to me. I need to mend this whole mess with her right away. Smiling mildly, I grabbed the canvas from the backseat, hoisting the bag he had given me. Juggling everything, I leaned back into the car through the passenger side, my legs shaking on the sidewalk. I was glad he couldn't see enough to tell.
“It'll be fine,” I said, wondering if it really would be. “Her and I just need to talk. Don't worry, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed, sounding entirely like he didn't. “I'll see you tomorrow night, then.”
“Yeah,” my lips curled into a delighted shape at the reminder of our date. “Yeah, see you.” Shutting the car door, I stood back, watching him drive off. I can't believe he really lives as close as he does. More importantly, my chest was tight with the knowledge of our oncoming rendezvous tomorrow. How had that happened? How had I gone from deciding to back off, to getting so pulled in by Deacon, and now he wanted to take me out?
I was so sure he didn't think of me that way, I wonder if my intuition is just terrible.
Collecting my new art supplies, I moved towards the apartme
nt door. Testing the knob, I found it unlocked, taking a deep breath before letting myself in. “Vanessa? Are you here?”
The room was as I had left it, nothing seemed to have been touched at all. Did she not come back yet? Exploring the small apartment was a fast, disappointing process. She was definitely not there, it didn't look like she had come back at all the entire day.
Perturbed, I placed my purse and the art supplies on the floor, eyeing the mess in the living room. I should straighten this place out. With nothing else to keep me busy, I took my time collecting my clothes, folding clean ones, putting the dirty ones in a tidy pile. Far quicker than I liked, I had the place organized, my meager belongings out of the way.
Dusting off my palms, my attention slid to my laptop bag. I wonder if maybe she emailed me? The missed calls had been useless, Vanessa hadn't left any voice mails. It didn't seem likely she'd have sent me anything online, but the chance was enough to motivate me to set my computer up.
Settling lotus style on the couch, I balanced my laptop on my knees, browsing around. Checking my email wasn't much of a surprise. There were no messages from her, however...
There was one from Colby, and one from Owen.
My belly tensed, my neck aching from how low I bent towards my glowing screen. Subconsciously, I reached back, rubbing at the bruise he had given me. It had only been a few days, but I'd been trying to erase my ex-boyfriend from my mind since I'd gotten on that plane.
What could he want?
Forcing myself to resist, I opened the message from Colby instead. It was a short email, his concern clear in it. He wondered where I had gone, what had happened between Owen and I, and admitted he was glad it seemed I had left.
That made me smile, thinking I had managed to make someone proud, at least.
I wrote a quick response, telling him a basic gist of what had gone down. Avoiding explaining the part about Owen throwing me into a table, strangely ashamed by that detail, I instead just typed that I had realized things had gone too far.
Which, really, is pretty much the truth.
It took some guts to reveal I had run off to California, but I didn't want Colby worrying about where I was. He was Owen's friend, I knew that, but he obviously had good intentions for me.
Still, I made a small notation that he should not, under any circumstances, reveal where I was to Owen.
Owen, what does he think happened? Does he suspect I'm hiding out in the city, maybe?
Curiosity got the better of me, I opened the message. Scanning down the page, my heart pumping hard to work the blood through my veins, the message sank in as I read. It wasn't much, just an email asking 'how are you, where did you end up staying, did you really have to take the car? Get back to me right away, please!'
He doesn't know I sold it, he has no idea about anything.
The guilt rolled over me, heavy, powerfully defeating. The coldness of it made me hug myself tighter, fingers hovering over the keys. I noticed I was planning my response, so I stopped myself. What am I thinking? Why should I even respond to him? After everything he'd done to me, put me through without remorse, here I was prepping to answer his questions like I had no other choice. I have a choice, it doesn't matter if I don't respond. He can't punish me if I don't behave how he wants.
Trembling, I navigated over to the trash icon, planning to delete the email. Do it, you can do this! I thought I might throw up, my back was coated in moist sweat. Come on Leah, you're done with him. Delete it! Swallowing the sensation of sand in my throat, my hand hovered... and I clicked the button.
The sound of the trash can eating the email made me jump, my gasp audible enough that I was relieved I was alone. I didn't think I was ready to explain to anyone what I had just accomplished.
“I did it,” I said aloud, laughing. “I actually did it.” Sitting back, I shut my laptop, wanting to move around with my new surge of ecstasy.
That was when I saw the canvas Deacon had given me, and I knew exactly what to do with that energy.
****
Verdant greens, rich blues, bright yellows. He'd given me every color I could have needed. Deacon had handed me a collection of paints that had to be worth a hundred dollars, if not more. With the brushes he'd thrown in, the mediums to mix with everything, I didn't want to think about the cost.
So I didn't.
Instead, I let myself fall into the action, my limbs bending, curving, while I added color to my canvas. I wasn't like Deacon, I hadn't had any teachers to show me how to paint. My parents hadn't put me in college for art, I knew little about color theory, history, or perspective.
But I love this, I love it, and maybe that will show through. Maybe that would allow me to make something...
Wonderful.
Standing back, I looked over the make-shift easel I had set up. The kitchen chair was covered in newspaper, my goal to keep it from getting stained. I'd then carried it out onto the small outdoor patio, a place probably meant to host a tiny garden, not my artwork. Surrounded by a wooden fence taller than myself, the roof overhanging above the sliding glass doors of the apartment, I felt sure my project would be safe.
Looking up, the sun hiding itself from my view, I noticed the time. It's getting late, it must be after eight, I should take a break. Rubbing my forehead, I set the brush down, wandering inside, wanting badly to take a shower and find something to eat.
“What happened to you?” Vanessa asked me, her abrupt appearance in her living room scaring me enough that I gave a pathetic squeak.
“Ah! Vanessa! I didn't—when did you get back?”
“Just now,” she said flatly, setting her purse on the couch, squinting at me distrustfully. “Seriously though, you have paint all over your face, what were you doing?”
Blinking, I pressed my fingers to my skin, making the smudges worse. Turning, I looked out the open doors, and she followed my gaze. “I'm sort of... painting something, if that's alright?”
“What are you making?” She moved around me, leaning outside to look over my work in progress. Standing there, her head in the shadows of the evening, her body in the warm lights of the apartment, I couldn't read her expression. But, her voice, it sounded surprised. “That's coming along really nicely, Leah.”
“Thanks,” I laughed, scratching the side of my neck uneasily, spreading the smears of color again. “I'm doing my best, you know?”
“Where did you get everything to make it?” She shut the glass doors carefully, keeping the chill of the night from seeping inside. Her eyes fell on me, not at all threatening, yet still, I hesitated.
“Um, Deacon gave them to me.”
“Oh,” was her simple answer. As she looked away, emotionally shutting me out, I had to resist the urge to grab her shoulders. Moving to the kitchen sink, I hurried to scrub the paint from my hands, twisting to stare at her behind me.
“Vanessa,” I started, not positive how to even begin, “listen, about last night. Can we talk about that?”
She only shrugged, still finding her feet more interesting than me.
Drying my palms on a paper towel, I stood as near to her as I dared, almost able to make her look at me by virtue of our height difference. “Vanessa, I'm serious, please, I want to talk.”
“I know,” she huffed, the muscles on her neck visibly tensing. “I know, I know. I just... I don't know what to say, I don't know how to fix this.”
“What?” I wrinkled my forehead, hands smoothing my hair behind my ears. “What do you mean, fix what?”
“This!” Her shout sent wintery spikes up my spine, making me step back. “This, fix all of this!” She flailed around her, voice cracking. That was when I noticed the puffiness under her wild eyes, the pallid taint to her skin.
Has she been crying? She looks so drained!
“Vanessa,” I said, fighting to keep the fear out of my voice. Calm down, remember, she isn't Owen... and you deleted his email today, you're tougher than you think! “It's okay, everything is okay. Please relax,
okay? Okay?” I knew I was repeating myself, but I pressed on. If I waited, if I thought on this too hard, the sickness in my stomach would flow upwards, make me so afraid I'd start trembling, incapable of finishing. “Just talk to me, tell me what's really going on.”
She stared at me, shaking, reminding me of one of those tiny dogs when they would get cold. “I'm worried. I'm worried that you're going to stop being my friend, that you'll stop hanging out with me.”
“What?” The word exploded from me in surprise.
“I can already see it happening,” she said, eyes threatening to spill over with tears. “You want to hang out with my friends more than me, you're gone all day, then you don't answer my calls...”
“Wait, wait,” I cut her off, “it isn't like that! No, Vanessa, I just—I'm trying to start a new life out here!”
“Then why doesn't that include me?” She sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “First Tim, now you, and I can tell Greg is on the verge of leaving me, too!”
She's so scared, she's really, honestly scared that I'm going to stop wanting to be around her.
Circling her waist with my arms, I pulled her close, tried to calm her with soothing sounds. “Shh, no, Vanessa, please... that's not going to happen. I promise, so please, just take a breath! Shh...”
The situation was surreal, I didn't remember Vanessa being so fragile. What happened to her since we were kids? I knew I had changed, so perhaps it shouldn't have been so surprising. Still, my memories of my friend were fond things, perhaps some teenage angst, but nothing more.
In my embrace, Vanessa shivered, though the vibrations died out noticeably. Holding her upper arms, I leaned away, meeting her watery eyes. “Things have been really crazy these past few days. This is all new for me, too. But I promise, I'm not going to abandon you or something.”
She watched me, unblinking and stoic. “You really promise?”
“Yeah, I really do.” I gave her arms a squeeze, saw the first hint of a smile.
