by Mariah Dietz
“Are you excited?”
Her gaze remains fixed on the dress as I raise my eyebrows, her question sinking into my thoughts. “I guess. I don’t know.”
“You don’t talk about your family much.” Allie’s eyes dart to mine for just a fraction of a second, but I’m sure it’s long enough to notice mine working to evade contact.
“There’s not a whole lot to say.”
“What happened to your mom this week?” I feel her briefly glance up again before moving her hands to a new spot where she begins measuring the fabric for the next pin.
“Something came up. I’m sure I’ll see her after the holidays. You know how this time of year is.”
She places a white chalk pencil between her teeth and nods slowly as if debating that it’s the correct response. She frees it again, intently focusing on the fabric, and places a careful mark. “You aren’t mad?”
I shrug, earning a glare from her that I return with a frown. Her lips fall open into a laugh. “You just need to focus on someone and mentally draw them; otherwise, you’re never going to make it out of here tonight, at least not without a thousand pinholes.”
My neck twists as I look around the room again. There are so many people in here. So much beauty, anticipation, desire, and passion: things I seek for my own inspiration, yet when I close my eyes and start sketching lines across my imagination, they don’t make up anyone that’s in here. I think I’d be surprised at this point if they ever do again. There are times like yesterday when I genuinely wish I hated him. Hell, he’s been a jackass to me enough that I could justifiably say I do, and anyone would be able to understand where I’m coming from. Then again, that would also require having someone to discuss my feelings for and interactions with King.
I wish I hadn’t been exposed to the kinder sides of him.
I wish I didn’t see how he acts around Mercedes to witness his unconditional love for her.
I wish my memories of that night were fading rather than becoming clearer.
I wish I wasn’t falling for this asshole.
I wish he’d fall for me.
“LO!” MERCEDES’ smile is stretched wider than I think I’ve ever seen it, and knowing this reaction is because she’s happy to see me makes that maternal instinct inside of me burn like a flame. That light is such a welcoming feeling; to be missed and cared for is something I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced to this extent, and while it’s coming from a ten-year-old girl I nanny for, rather than a friend or boyfriend or even a family member, it makes me feel a slew of emotions that has my lips lifting into a smile and my eyes filling with tears that I wipe away as she hugs me.
“How was your Christmas?”
She pulls back from me, her eyes still bright. “It was so fun! We had four of them!”
Mercedes notices my gape and laughs. Braiding her arm with mine, she leads us into the living room where the tree is still standing. I was slightly concerned when I left ten days ago that they wouldn’t remember to get one, or would bypass the tradition. Two bachelors living in a house, I could definitely see that happening, especially when I had witnessed their living conditions BM: Before Me. If mounds of dirty laundry and unrecognizable objects weren’t of concern, I figured a tree wouldn’t either. I didn’t know how to broach the subject without sounding like I was meddling, so I attempted my discreet intervention by using Summer as my liaison. Since our conversation took place via text, I couldn’t see or hear her reaction, but she sent me a smiley face after assuring me one would be up and thanking me for pulling out the boxes of ornaments I had stored in the laundry room after realizing I was the only one who knew where they were. Sure, I told both King and Kash where I had moved everything, but neither one seemed overly interested, more just shocked at the transformation of their house.
The tree is tall and has wide gaps between branches, some spaced over a foot apart. The lights are multi-colored, and the ornaments, which don’t match, primarily consist of homemade ornaments that I can tell were done at the hands of Mercedes over the years.
She wraps her small hand around mine, turning my attention from one of the first sights I’ve wanted to draw that isn’t a person. “We did one here with Summer, and another one with my grandma, and one with my grandpa, and then one with Dad’s work.”
“That’s like Groundhog Day.”
“Like what?” She faces me with sincere curiosity.
“I just mean that’s a lot of Christmas!”
“It was. But it was amazing! And now you get to open your gifts because you weren’t here!”
“My gifts?”
Mercedes raises her eyebrows with a silent duh! and she heads to the tree, retrieving a single wrapped package from below the boughs. She sets the box on my lap, where I carefully inspect it with appreciation. The wrapping is covered with snowmen and is perfectly folded and taped—clearly Summer assisted. Mercedes slides it closer, her patience once again waning.
Inside is a pillow of tissue paper that Mercedes eagerly helps me remove. Below are several different pens, rubber erasers, charcoals, acrylic paints, oils, and brushes. They’re an expensive artist’s quality, too, not the cheaper student grade. I’m still eyeing the brushes when Mercedes pulls a smaller box free from the bottom and pushes it closer to me.
“There’s more?”
“We each got you something.”
My chin drops and I silently wait for her eyes to meet mine before asking her what that means.
“This is from King.”
King?
I haven’t seen him since snapping at him after he crossed too far over the asshole-line again that day in the bathroom. Curiosity is heating my entire body. It’s going to be a joke, a gag, something utterly useless.
“Open it!” Mercedes growls then reaches forward without waiting and lifts the lid. Inside is a golden bangle. A delicate feather creates half of the bracelet, tiny marks and details reminding me of the one I held.
“I told him you were going to love it.”
I am completely speechless because I do. It’s beautiful and elegant while being chic and modern. Not only that, but while this could be an inside joke, I feel quite confident it serves as an apology.
“You love it … right?”
My fingers are still wrapped tightly around the bracelet as they fall into my lap, and I look up at Mercedes, my smile climbing impossibly wide. “I love all of it! Thank you!” Her arms fling around my neck, jostling the bracelet with her aggressive hug.
“I have something for you, too.”
Her eyes are wide, gleaming with excitement for what those words promise when she pulls back, and I’m proud of her for not squealing like I can tell she wants to. I lean forward and lift the gift bag I had brought while still securely holding the bracelet.
I agonized over what I would get her. Champagne tastes on a beer budget became Cristal Champagne on a Pabst Beer budget when it came to shopping for her and the brands I know she adores.
With an easy pull of tissue paper, Mercedes pulls out a custom helmet I ordered with Summer’s assistance, covered in a shell that is comprised of sketches I had to send in that include ones of her riding and several of the images I drew while she wore the bandages on her chin that now only shows the slightest red seam.
“I love it,” she whispers, her eyes wide as her hands turn the helmet to see the other side again. “I love it.” This time when she says the words, her eyes meet mine, and a warmth passes through me that has my eyes once again filling with tears.
“WHAT DO you do on the weekends? Like party and shit?” I appreciate that Parker often begins conversations at a completely random point, skipping over customary greetings and diving right into whatever his question or intent is. Sometimes it makes my head spin as I mentally exchange the pleasantries out of habit before I’m able to respond, but I’m slowly adjusting.
“More like work and shit.” I drop the dishtowel I was using to dry the counters and lean against the stove to fa
ce him. I’ve been here for over an hour, waiting for Mercedes. Summer picked her up from school to go get fitted for a new bike, something I didn’t even know happened, leaving me to find something to do to occupy myself. I settled on deep cleaning the kitchen.
“But you’re young! You’re supposed to be having fun, making mistakes!”
“Yeah, that’s just never been me. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I was raised in a small town where it was really hard to get into much trouble because everyone knew who everyone was and what they were or were not supposed to be doing. Like my friend got grounded for two weeks our freshman year of high school and she tried to sneak out on her last night of house arrest to help our friend get ready for homecoming, and she didn’t even make it a mile before she was caught.” I notice Parker’s eyes widen with humor and nod, a trace of a smile on my lips. “It’s pretty hard to walk too far out of line when you live on large plots of land without public transit and over a thousand local guardians.”
“So you never did high school things? Like get drunk? Have sex?”
“I don’t think there’s necessarily an age tied to either of those events, but yes, I experienced those and other ‘normal high school activities.’” My fingers quote his term and then drop when I realize I’m acting far too much like one of the thousand local guardians I just told him about. “I mean, we all did stuff, just not the kind of stuff I see in movies and hear about now.”
Parker’s phone buzzes and his eyes, still laden with humor, meet mine briefly before he frees it from his pocket. I’m pretty sure by the way this conversation has been going, if his phone hadn’t rung he would be asking me more questions about my sexual experiences, but I’m hoping I’m wrong as I stand up and head over to where my notepad’s lying on the counter. I feel the familiar energy course through me, the desire to open the cover and seek out a blank page. My mind is already silencing Parker’s voice and selecting the illusion it wants to breathe life into.
“Sorry, Lo, I’ve got to run. Spencer and Kash are waiting for me to do a few retakes.”
My lips press into a tight smile as I try to hide my relief. “No problem. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, I’ll be by tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
He leaves, and I’m not sure if my sigh is physical or merely mental as I reach for my things and head to the table. I don’t like drawing on a flat surface because the light falls unevenly, but I only have an easel at home and school, so I have plenty of experience with poorly lit level planes. I don’t bother wasting the time to find the next empty page, simply flipping to one near the very back.
The need to draw has become a tightly wound ball of tension, and as charcoal lines are cast across the paper, the tangled web quickly relaxes, melting like a fine thread of sugar hitting the water until I feel nothing.
I turn my head as I work to see if the shading is correct. I’d lift the pad up to get a better angle, but that will only create a bigger mess from the charcoal dust that collects with shading. I use the side of my thumb to create a stroke of color and jolt when I realize I’m not alone.
“How did you do that so fast?”
I use the back of my hand to try and brush some hair out of my face. The same strands fall back across my cheek as I look to King. “It’s one of the reasons I prefer charcoal.” My mouth feels too dry as I swallow and turn my attention back to my drawing. “It’s very forgiving, versatile, and fast.”
“But that was like twenty minutes.”
“It’s not done. I haven’t finished shading and blending, or softening it. I don’t have an eraser with me.”
“Do you always work that fast?”
I shrug absently. “Some take longer, others less. It depends on what I’m working on, if I’ve done it before, my mood.”
King moves until he’s directly behind me, never asking if I mind as he looks over my drawing. “What does it mean when you draw something in twenty minutes?”
“Are you asking if I’ve drawn you before?”
King doesn’t reply, but I can feel him staring at me from over my shoulder, waiting for me to look at him. I’m reluctant to do so, but it’s pointless. I’m the one who threw tact out the window by asking the question I knew he was alluding to. His brown eyes aren’t teasing like I expect but intent, causing me to shift slightly in my chair before looking away. “I draw everyone I spend time with. It’s easier when I’m familiar with people because I know so many of their expressions.”
I expect him to make some sort of distasteful joke, but his eyes return to the drawing, and my fingers burn with the familiar itch to draw as I notice how much darker his lashes look when reflecting off his dark eyes from this angle.
“You should do this work for Kash. It could open doors for you. Who knows, you could get grabbed up by a huge company to design logos.”
“That sounds cool and all, but I don’t want to design logos. Logos are about being clever and creative. I never construct anything new. Everything that I draw already exists. I don’t know how to draw something if I can’t see it.”
“How do you know unless you try?”
It’s not necessarily fair that his question infuriates me, dredging up countless memories shared between my dad and me about art and the few doors it will ever be able to offer me, and the far longer hall of doors it never could. Still, I find the fact that he chose to give up his love and passion to ride to go into the business side of things a factor that will make it nearly impossible for him to understand why doing that seems like an impossibility. “You couldn’t ask me to give up my art any easier than you could ask me to stop breathing. The end result would be the same.”
He furrows his brow, catching me off guard. Then I watch his lips purse as the muscles in his jaw flex, like my thoughts were just delivered through osmosis or something, and he finds them offensive. “If you don’t want to do the drawing, you don’t have to. It’s not that big of a deal. We can find someone else.”
“No, I want to do this one. I just can’t picture myself being stuck in an office talking to people about what their brand means and trying to somehow capture that with such minimal space and details. It takes me at least an eight-by-ten sheet of paper and sometimes several hours to show a single expression. It would be like you guys going from doing what you do to joining the Tour de France. Sure, you’d still be on a bike, but what you love about the entire sport would be absent.”
King’s eyes relax as they slowly shift between mine, making the desire to look away grow alarmingly fast with each second that he continues. “What were you thinking when you were looking at the pictures we were editing for the ad campaign?”
Once again, King’s words tilt me off balance. While Parker skips right into the meat of a conversation, King never makes inconsequential conversation. Each question or statement seems to be purposeful, like there are a million intents behind each.
“What do you mean?” I try to recall seeing them, blocking out his presence and how he worked to avoid me while I was in there. The memory distracts me from the question at hand, making me shake my head slightly in an attempt to stop thinking about them.
“You didn’t like something about them.”
“No, no. They were great. Really.”
“But…”
“No buts. They were great.”
King’s eyes narrow again, brimming on accusation, but there’s too much confusion in his expression. “There was something. I saw the look on your face.”
“I’m sure it was just the shock of the stunts he was doing.”
“No, it wasn’t until the originals were up that your eyes focused like they do when you draw. But while you looked at them you had the expression you were making when you were shading here.” King’s finger hovers over his neck on my drawing, reawakening the frustration I felt while I was working on the simple structure. I kept picturing King’s face in several shades of light and never took the time to focus on any one, causing the shad
ing to all be slightly awry. I hadn’t minded it until I got to his neck, and then the shadows seemed to make it appear too narrow, and then too wide, and then highlighting the errors on his face, making it seem less abstract and creative and more novice.
I press my lips together and think back to the pictures I stared at while in a reverse position to what I am in now with King. “Sometimes I think society depicts too much about what is beautiful. We remove details that are real and natural because we think they’re unforgiving and repulsive. We remove and alter stretch marks, cellulite, blemishes, an errant hair, all to make someone look like no one truly does. Perfect isn’t real. Some of the things that made Kash beautiful in those pictures were erased in an attempt to make him perfect. It made me focus on those spots because all I saw was what was missing. She created imperfections.” King’s eyebrows rise and the corners of his mouth tilt up. I pray he’s not baiting me and plans to use this to make Summer hate me again. Regardless, I continue, “By trying to make Kash perfect, she erased the indentations along his spine, and the scar along his side, and the sweat and dirt that was there because he was working his ass off. You didn’t see the tendons in his hands, or the expanded veins because of the adrenaline and tight grasp he had on the handlebars, or the focus and bliss that was written on his face with the way his brow was drawn, and his eyes were focused on something that you know only few can see.”
“You need to stop questioning yourself.”
I pull my head back with surprise. He doesn’t clarify my obvious confusion, or elaborate further; he simply looks at my drawing of him again and then steps into the kitchen.
I can feel a growl of frustration climb higher in my throat. I am so irritated by his brush-off that I want to throw my piece of charcoal at the back of his head.
“Ready to learn how to make an alfredo sauce?”
“I think my days of cooking are over,” I mutter, closing my notepad without dropping the particles of dust left behind by the charcoal into the trash. I know it will smear the picture, but I don’t care. I want to rip it out and shred it into teeny, tiny strips and then burn them. Simply distorting it means I’m being civil, an adult, though his eyes are laced with humor and accusing me of being anything but.
