Drawn To You

by Lily Summers

  Once the grinder’s quiet again, she arches an eyebrow at me and I comply.

  “Okay, fine. It was… good.”

  She pours the ground coffee into the filter, starts up her fancy $300 Crate&Barrel coffee contraption, and goes to take the first waffle out. “Good. That’s all you’re going to give me? Good?”

  “Great, actually,” I admit.

  “Now we’re talking,” she says, leaning over the counter. “Explain.”

  My neck gets warm. “He’s really good with his hands.”

  “Nice. Go on.”

  I close my eyes and remember. “It was like art, like we were working together to make something beautiful. Everywhere he kissed me felt white-hot. There was a point where I thought I would burn up.”

  When I look at Audrey again, she’s unimpressed. “That’s all very poetic,” she says, “But did he rock your world?”

  I blink at her. “Excuse me?”

  “Did he hit the bull’s-eye?” she says. “Send you a-quiver? Cause a womb furie?”

  “Oh my god,” I blurt. “Who even are you? Yes, I had an orgasm. Oh my god.”

  “Most excellent,” she says, grinning ear to ear and clapping. “I’m so proud. Also, way to find a dude who knows what he’s doing.”

  “Could we eat our waffles now and pretend this conversation never took place?” I say. My entire face feels like I could fry an egg on it.

  She pulls the other waffle out of the machine, tops it with towering layer of Reddi-Whip, and hands it to me, along with our glass bottle of real maple syrup. Then she pours me a cup of coffee and slides that over, too.

  “By all means, enjoy,” she says. “You’ve earned it.”

  I groan again and she laughs at me like an evil-but-somehow-still-loveable harpy.

  “Seriously, though,” she says as she digs in. “I’m really glad you two found each other. I think he’s really good for you.”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask, trying to hide the schoolgirl grin on my face by pretending to concentrate deeply on the whipped cream masterpiece in front of me. Eyes on the prize, right?

  Audrey is thoughtful, taking time to swallow before she answers. “When we first met, you were so locked up that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to crack you. I took it as a personal challenge, and I think I got under your shell a little, but never enough to open you up. I don’t even know where you’re from. You always seemed so distant, so sad, like something was stolen from you. Then you met Ezra, and you’re actually smiling and going out. You’re laughing.”

  Her plate clinks as she sets it down on the counter and looks me in the face.

  “You’re happy, Mia. And that makes me happy for you.”

  An unexpected wave of affection washes over me and I abandon my pretence and my waffle, as I pull Audrey into a tight hug. I had no idea how badly I needed a friend. She’s surprised at first, but quickly recovers and returns my hug with enthusiasm.

  “Maple Valley,” I say.

  “What?” she says, backing out of our hug to look at me.

  “That’s where I’m from,” I say. “Maple Valley, Washington. My parents live there. It’s… complicated.”

  She squeezes my hand. “My mom still tries to convince me to go back to school and find a doctor to marry because she thinks career women are a passing fad. I understand complicated.”

  I squeeze her back and say, “Thanks for being you. I’m going to go get ready for work. Don’t think I won’t be asking about Duke later.”

  Her grin is wicked. “I look forward to telling the tale.”

  Even Sampson notices there’s something different about me today.

  “You’re chipper,” he says, eyes narrowed. “You’re never chipper.”

  I shrug. “The sunshine brings out the pigtailed cheerleader I keep locked away inside, I guess.”

  His eyes are still narrow. “You were a cheerleader?”

  I laugh as I clock in, leaving him contemplating my mysterious good mood. Darling man.

  It’s a pretty typical day – several regulars stop in to grab their tried-and-true favorites and a dozen people stop by before noon to pick up the latest buzzed-about action thriller. Those books all sort of look the same to me, but what do I know. Don’t judge a book by its cover, and all that.

  Man, maybe the sunshine over the last few days really is giving me giddy-brain.

  Right as I’m about to take my lunch break, the director of the MAG stops in and I’m so pleased to see her. Angela’s wearing her typical floral printed dress (blue and yellow today) and she’s carrying a bunch of flyers under her arm. When she spots me, she waves and comes straight over.

  “Mia, I’m so glad you’re working today. I know you’ll give this a prime spot in the window for me,” she says, holding out the flyer. I take it from her and read it over.

  The MAG is hosting its annual local artists’ showcase, featuring all the big names across a variety of mediums from throughout Portland. I can’t wait to go see the display, but then something else printed in big block letters catches my attention.

  “You’re holding a contest?” I ask, looking up at her.

  “That’s right,” she says. “We’re always on the lookout for fresh talent, you know that. I hope you’ll enter.” She reaches out to take my hand and squeezes.

  That’s so like her, trying to get me to admit that I’m an artist. She seems to think I’m this great well of untapped talent. I’d hate for her to see my drawings and realize how generic I really am.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “But I think I know someone who might be interested.”

  She clucks her tongue at me. “One day, I’ll show your work in the gallery. Still waters run deep, you can’t fool me.”

  I pay her a polite smile and chat for a few minutes more before she has to leave. Once she’s gone, I look over the flyer again. It lists the featured artists, then gives information about the contest. All mediums are welcome, and the only requirement is that the winner be local to Portland. There’s a cash prize and the winning piece will be featured alongside the other, more established artists. It’s an incredible opportunity for exposure.

  There’s no way my art is anywhere close to MAG-worthy, but when I think of the raw, cracked-open feeling I get every time I look at Ezra’s work, I can’t help but think the rest of the world needs to feel it, too. He deserves to see how powerful his art is.

  It’s 3:30, which means Ezra should be off work.

  “Sampson?” I call as I hang the flyer. He makes an affirmative noise from somewhere in the back. “I’m taking my break.”

  I go outside to soak up some of the remaining sunshine while I make my call. I probably shouldn’t be this nervous, but I can’t help it. It’s our first postsex contact, and the darkness in my brain is expecting him to be long gone, even though logically I know he’s not the type. Hard to ignore the nasty voice in your head telling you you’re not worth it.

  The phone barely makes it to the third ring before Ezra answers, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

  “Shame on you, making a guy wait a whole thirty minutes,” he says. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” I say, and I really mean it. Hearing his voice lifts a weight off my chest that I didn’t even know was there. “How’d the brunch experiment go?”

  “We were booked solid. My arms are killing me from carrying platters. Serves me right for mocking duck eggs earlier. Apparently people go nuts for them.”

  “People do love their weird eggs,” I say. “Listen, I have some really good news.”

  “Yeah?” he says, and he sounds genuinely interested. “Are we finally going to open that painting school for abandoned kittens so they can rediscover their self-esteem?”

  I laugh. “Not yet. I’m still waiting for the bank to get back to me about that loan. You remember the director of the MAG?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “She stopped by today with a flyer for the local artist’s showca
se. They have it every year.”

  I can practically hear his smile as he says, “Are you asking me to be your escort?”

  “Not exactly. This year, they’re holding a contest to discover a new local artist, and anyone can enter. Your paintings would be perfect. They’re so powerful, I know they’d speak to people. I think you should enter.”

  Ezra doesn’t answer. In fact, I can’t make out any sound on the other end at all. I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure it didn’t disconnect.

  Nope, still there.

  “Ezra?” I say. “Can you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” he says.

  “Oh good,” I say. “The flyer said the sign-ups are through next week, so we could go tomorrow —”

  “Pass,” he says. There’s something off-putting in his tone.

  “Sorry?” I must’ve misunderstood.

  “I said, I’ll pass.” This time, there’s definitely something like annoyance in his voice.

  “This is an incredible opportunity. Why would you pass?”

  “Why are you pushing this? Drop it,” he says sharply.

  I’m thrown by his reaction that I physically take a step back. I collect myself and say, “You display your paintings in public already. I thought you might want some credit for them, is all.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t,” he says, still cold.

  “That’s all you’re going to give me?” I say. “Seriously? I don’t know where this is coming from, but you do important work. It should be seen.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be seen. Maybe I like the anonymity.”

  Now it’s my turn to be annoyed. “You were doing paintings at the Catacombs party. That’s not very anonymous.”

  “Those are different. That’s just generic street performer bullshit. You’re the only person who knows the graffiti art is mine, and I want to keep it that way.”

  I’m so confused. I lean against the side of our building, running my hand along the wall and remembering that first night I saw him, the painting of the woman that introduced me to a whole new world of art, that introduced me to him. “Ezra, your work is beautiful. It can move people, and you deserve to be recognized for that.”

  “I said no, Mia. Let it go.”

  His reaction is so atypical that I don’t know how to respond. I’m hurt that he’s being so dismissive and bewildered that he doesn’t want credit for his work. For all his showmanship, I thought he’d leap at the chance.

  “Fine,” I say.

  I hear him mutter under his breath and say, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Then he hangs up.

  It takes me a minute to recover and take the phone away from my ear. Tears begin to sting at the corners of my eyes and I blink them away, furious at myself. I can’t believe I thought anything this good could happen to me. I’m such a fool. That’s what I get for letting someone in.

  Maybe I should have listened to the darkness.

  18

  Three hours later, my foul mood still hasn’t lifted. I must be scowling at the kids in the graphic novel section, because they keep looking at me nervously and then whispering to each other.

  “Get out of here,” Sampson says, stepping behind the counter and shooing me away. “You’re scaring the children. You’re scaring me, for that matter.”

  “I’m fine,” I growl.

  “My left ass cheek you’re fine,” he says. “Go away. There are returns to do in the back. Get.”

  He practically kicks me away from the register. I contemplate hissing at him, but settle for a curled lip that would make Severus Snape jealous and I make my way to the back rooms, where I stomp toward the returns box.

  As I mark off the books that are going back to whence they came, I let myself fume about Ezra’s attitude. What is his deal? What’s so wrong about suggesting his art is good enough to be in a gallery alongside other respected artists, and that he deserves to make some money from it? He joked about liking Banksy once, but maybe it wasn’t really a joke. Maybe he’s got some notion in his head about being the next big anonymous street artist. I wonder if he knows anonymous stealth art doesn’t pay.

  I’m sorting these books like they’re the one’s who wronged me.

  Two self-help books. Four mystery novels. A complete history of twentieth century biopics. Three romance novels.

  All cast off the shelves, all likely never seeing the light of day again. Is that what Ezra really wants for his work? To exist in the public eye until some building owner decides to whitewash it into nothing, like it was never there at all?

  My dark thoughts are running away with me when there’s a knock on the doorframe.

  “Sampson, I’m not going to freaking bite you, you don’t have to announce your presence,” I say.

  “I don’t know, I feel like I do,” someone says, but it isn’t Sampson.

  I twist around in my chair to find Ezra leaning against the wall. My heart skips a beat and my traitorous mouth tries to smile before I remember that I’m pissed at him.

  “You shouldn’t be back here,” is the first thing I can think to say.

  He gestures over his shoulder. “Your, uh, boss? Manager? He sent me back. Said something about me needing to clean up whatever mess I made.”

  Ugh, Sampson’s sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’m going to have to rearrange the magazines later to put all the trashy tabloids front and center. He hates that.

  I scowl. “He should really mind his own business.”

  Ezra clears his throat and shifts against the wall. “Yeah, well, I did make a mess.”

  I glance at him out of the side of my eye, not sure what he means.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” Ezra says. “I shouldn’t have. You were being incredibly thoughtful and I was a dick. I apologize. Let me make it up to you.”

  “How?” I ask, still wary.

  He nods his head back toward the exit. “Come out with me tonight. Your shift ends soon, right?”

  I sigh. “Yes it does, but I’m really not in the mood to be around a bunch of people tonight.”

  He crosses his arms, an eyebrow quirking in this self-congratulatory way that would be annoying if it weren’t so adorable. “I thought you might say that. It’ll be just you and me.”

  “Really?” I say. My interest is piqued, despite my misgivings. “What do you have in mind?”

  “That,” he says, “is a surprise. Are you in?”

  I lower my eyes to the paperwork I was working on and fiddle with it while I roll his proposal over in my head. I’m feeling pretty raw from his brusqueness earlier, but he did apologize, and it seemed genuine. Plus, he didn’t make me stew for more than a few hours.

  I’d also be lying if I pretended I didn’t want to spend more time with him. If he were the moon, I’d be the tide, unable to resist his pull.

  “Okay,” I say. “But seriously, no crowds and no bars.”

  “Cross my heart.” And he does.

  My shift ends at eight o’clock, so he doesn’t have long to wait while I wrap up. I bid goodnight to Sampson, who gives me a warm nod and Ezra the evil eye. I make a mental note to tell him to lay off later. He really is such a dad.

  I expect us to head to the bus stop, but Ezra only walks half a block before pulling out a set of keys and hitting the power lock on a shiny red Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  “You have a car?” I ask. It’s a genuine surprise – hardly anyone I know in Portland drives. There are cars on the road, so people must own them, but my admittedly limited circle is all about bikes and public transportation.

  “It’s Leon’s,” Ezra says as he opens my door for me. “All I had to say was that I was taking you out and he practically threw the keys at me.”

  That makes me laugh as I climb in. “He likes me that much, huh?”

  Ezra walks around to the driver’s side, slips in, and turns the key in the ignition. “Honestly,” he says. “I think he’s planning on asking you to be the godmo
ther of his firstborn.”

  “So, where are you taking me?” I ask as he pulls out into the road.

  “I told you, it’s a surprise.”

  As we leave the city, I finally give up prying and turn up the music, letting it wash over me. It’s experimental stuff, uplifting with good energy. There’s something familiar about it.

  “Is this Duke?” I say.

  Ezra smiles. “Good ear. Yeah, it’s some new material he’s been tinkering with. What do you think?”

  I close my eyes and let the pulse of the music in. There’s emotion in the rhythm. I can sense hard-won euphoria, an undercurrent of struggle, a sense of loss that bleeds into acceptance and love. There’s a female vocalist on this track, and her singing makes my chest ache.

  It’s fantastic work. Duke can paint a scene with music, there’s no question. If this is the rough cut, I can’t wait to hear the finished version.

  Ezra’s waiting for an answer, so I say, “It’s amazing. Like listening to the thoughts inside someone’s head.”

  “I like that,” Ezra says. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  “Who’s the singer?” I say.

  “Ah.” Ezra tugs on his ear. “It’s Skylar. They collaborate sometimes.”

  “Oh, that’s just not fair,” I say. “She gets to look like that, dress like that, and sing like that? If only I could be so lucky.”

  Ezra looks at me sidelong. “Oh, I don’t know, I think you’re pretty lucky in the looks and talent department.”

  “Flatterer,” I say, but his words make my skin warm.

  By now, we’re pulling onto a dirt road alongside a park. There’s a parking lot across the way, but even from here I can tell it’s empty.

  “Where are we?” I ask as the car comes to a stop.

  “Somewhere with great hiking trails,” he says with a grin. “Come on.”

  I hesitantly get out of the car, looking around for any signs of life. Ezra’s pulling a small cooler out of the back of the car. He’s completely at ease.

  “It looks like it’s after hours,” I say.

  He closes the rear door with a thud and says, “That’s half the fun. I promise there will be no lions, tigers, or bears. Even if there were, I’d protect you.”