by Lisa Sorbe
“Oh, I definitely think you’re familiar with her work.” Miles stands, holds out a hand, and cocks his head toward the back. “C’mon. There’s something I want to show you.”
I grab his hand and let him pull me up, then release it just as quick because my nerves are still tingling and his touch makes them jump all the more. We pass through the front and into the shop, Miles leading me to a corner in the back. It’s an alcove, actually – a fairly large one cut into the brick with big windows to filter in the early morning light. I had no idea it was here because, until today, this spot had been filled with an engine on a hoist and case after case of oil and antifreeze and transmission fluid. I drew the line at cleaning up the shop on day one, telling Miles in no uncertain terms that this was his domain and if he felt like working in squalor that was his prerogative.
But now all the auto parts and boxes of oil are gone. It’s clean, and in their place is something that takes my breath away.
“I didn’t realize there were so many different canvas sizes or types of paint and brushes out there. So I just bought a few of each.” He waves his hand at the studio he set up for me: a large adjustable easel with a small round stool sit on the floor and at least a dozen canvases of all sizes rest against the wall. A small white bookcase has been set up along the side of the space, and it’s filled with brushes and primer and pallets and pallet knives and tubes of paint.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
I’m actually having trouble sucking air into my body, like someone punched me in the stomach and now my muscles are contracting all wrong and my diaphragm is spasming.
“Jen?”
I whip my head around. In the three months we’ve known each other, this is the first time he hasn’t called me Jenny. Or Princess.
“You okay?” His brow is drawn in concern. He chuckles, though there’s a nervous edge to it. I’ve never seen him nervous. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
I scowl. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” It’s an immature response, firing his words back at him. But I can’t help it. I point at the easel, the canvases, and all the other wonderful thing he set up for me.
For me.
It’s too much. All of it. And it’s definitely not the type of thing an employer does for his employee.
“What is this?” I ask, my tone sharp.
“You said you missed painting. So…” He shoves his hands into his pockets. Shrugs.
I blink. “So?” That’s not an excuse. “That doesn’t mean I have any desire to actually do it.” My voice is rising, getting high-pitched and squeaky. I clear my throat, refusing to get riled up.
Miles squints down at me. “Really? Because I’ve seen your face when you talk about it. I saw the way you lit up when you were doing those doodles.” He crosses his arms. “Are you really going to stand there and tell me you have no desire whatsoever to paint?”
I look over at the studio – my studio – and take a deep breath. It’s not that people don’t give me things – boys and men have been giving me gifts for as long as I can remember. Candy and stuffed animals when I was younger, jewelry and lingerie and vacations when I got older. But those things, without fail, always seemed to require some sort of reciprocation. It was never spoken of – not directly, anyway – but the weight of obligation was there. Most of the time, I didn’t mind. A few times, I did. But I was always a willing participant, either way.
I knew my role.
And I’ve always been fine with it. Because that’s just the way life works. The way humans are made. We don’t do something – give something – for nothing.
But Miles. Here with this amazing, wonderful, thoughtful gift.
My ex-husband wouldn’t even consider sharing his studio with me in our own home. Yet Miles sacrificed his own work space to give me one.
He’s not someone I want to owe. In fact, this relationship that we have – this purely platonic thing we have going on between us – has given me a sort of self-accomplished pride I haven’t felt in years. Maybe my whole life.
This seemingly insignificant job pulled me out of rock bottom when I wasn’t even aware that I’d hit it.
I am beautiful, but I am nothing.
Fuck that.
I lift my chin, all business. “How much did all of this cost? I can write you a check. Or you can take it out of my next paycheck.” I shrug, like it doesn’t matter either way.
Miles frowns. “I don’t want a check. This is a gift. Something I thought you’d like.”
I glance at the easel, the blank canvas propped against it calling me the way a siren calls a wayward sailor. “I do,” I whisper. Clear my throat again. “But,” I say, turning back to him, “I… I haven’t painted in years.” My expression hardens. “And I don’t want to owe you.”
His face softens. “You don’t owe me for this, Jenny. I was only joking about the commissioning part.”
He looks guilty, and I realize it’s because he thinks I’m angry. Angry because he made a comment about me painting something for the shop when I may not want to.
“I mean, you can still paint something for the shop if you want. Anything you want, actually. I didn’t mean you had to paint cars or something like that.” He attempts a smile, though it’s a shadow of his usual smartass smirk. “I wasn’t trying to box you in creatively or anything.”
I nod. I should say thank you, but the words are sticking to my tongue.
“Oh, and before I forget.” He roots around in his pocket a bit before pulling out a key and tossing it to me. Dangling from it is a round keychain with a photograph of Bob Ross’s face and the words We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents. “Use that any time. Day or night.”
I look up at Miles, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Maybe I’ll do both, because my emotions are a tsunami right now and of all the gifts I’ve ever gotten, this is the one I want to carry with me wherever I go. Forever.
Because I love it. I love it, I love it, I love it.
I slide the key in my pocket of my jeans and finally find my voice.
“Thank you.”
Why are those two words always the toughest to say?
I had Emilia alone.
A nurse held my hand in the delivery room, urging my breaths and stroking my hair back from my damp forehead as I pushed.
I didn’t tell anyone I was in labor. Just called the driver I hired after I got too big to walk everywhere or comfortably ride the L. Marco, a quiet man in his late fifties, traversed the roads that night with care and had the polite decency not to ask the whereabouts of the baby’s father. While I’d never made any attempt to converse with him during our few short trips before Emilia was born, he nevertheless sensed I was on my own in this. He helped me into the hospital and waited right by my side, holding my hand through a rough contraction and murmuring something – I assume a prayer – under his breath in Italian.
When the nurse came to whisk me away to my room, he assisted me into the wheelchair and said the kindest words anyone had spoken to me in months: “God bless, bella.”
I remember feeling almost frantic as we approached the big swinging doors leading from the waiting room to the maternity ward, an overwhelming urge to jump out of the chair and sprint back to the safety of the car, forgoing this whole baby thing altogether. Because what the hell was I thinking? I couldn’t do this, there was no way I could do this…
I twisted around in my seat, throwing a desperate look back at Marco – a man who, at the time, was the only man around who could possibly save me. I was only able to catch a brief glimpse, and the last I saw of him he was twisting his driver’s cap around in his hands, eyes big and round and sad. He lifted his hand in a wave as the doors swung shut behind me.
I never told him thank you.
“So, you get a job and now I never see you?”
Victoria never calls, which is fine with me; our relationship isn’t very deep. Sure, she’s my best friend
– or, at the very least, the friend I’ve known the longest– and our quick texts are usually enough for us to get our points across.
But now her voice reeks of accusation, and her words are cutting through the phone short and clipped.
I fight the urge to groan, considering my words carefully before I answer. I haven’t seen Victoria all summer, what with her anger over Trevor and me starting work for Miles. Now, two weeks into September, it’s the longest we’ve gone without hanging out since I returned to Cedar Hills five years ago. I think it’s fairly safe to say we’re drifting apart. “The restructuring took some time. There was a pretty big renovation involved. But things are coming along now,” I say, staying as vague as I can.
But it’s the truth. Things are coming along now. And quite well actually. Aside from Bane – Miles still refuses to let me order a new computer system – the front room not only looks amazing, but it’s one hundred percent more functional. I’ve even managed to keep the gummy, burnt smell of the shop out by keeping the back door shut and plugging in one of those candle wax warmers. With fall just a few days away, I’ve got the entire room smelling like cinnamon and cloves.
Miles pretended to hate it when it first arrived. Now he has one in his loft. It smells like spiced cedar.
Am I going overboard for a place that just fixes cars? Maybe. But in the two weeks since we finished, I can’t even keep track of the number of clients who have noticed and complimented us on the improvements.
And I’m pretty damn proud of it.
“So it’s Friday. You can’t possibly be working tonight. Let’s do something. I need someone to hang out with besides Amber and Steph and their boring-ass husbands.”
Ah, yes. For better or for worse, most of our friends are either married or coupled off, leaving me and Victoria and Raina (Victoria’s younger cousin who’s annoying as hell and mirrors my every move when we’re out) the only single bitches in our clique.
Meaning she wants to go out and hunt men tonight.
“Tonight?” I slide my eyes down the counter, where I’ve set Emilia up with crayons and coloring books for the afternoon. With my mom and dad out of town for the weekend on some mysterious trip they refused to say much about and Mary Jo back in classes at the local community college, the only option I had was to bring Emilia here after her morning kindergarten got out. Thankfully Miles doesn’t mind. But all of this leads to me to think – what if I had a job that did?
I’ve never had to worry about care for Emilia. But now with my parents taking more and more time for themselves, and Fox and his fiancé living it up in Scotland, my options for childcare are dwindling.
The door to the shop opens and George steps through, forgetting to close it behind her. She sees me on the phone, gives me a wide smile, and mouths good-bye as she breezes out the front door. She stopped by to bring Miles a coffee (which is ridiculous because we have coffee here, for crying out loud) and, almost twenty minutes later, is finally leaving.
I drum my nails on the counter before breaking down and peeking through the door. A sudden irritation snaps at my nerves, making me twitchy.
Victoria’s speaking, going on about some new outfit she bought on a recent shopping trip to Omaha that I just have to see, and I’m trying to focus on her words but there’s a roar in my head that’s making it hard to concentrate on anything she’s saying. “Shit,” I say, interrupting her. “Something’s come up and I’m going to have to call you back.” She’s still talking when I slide my thumb across the screen and end the call.
I glance over at Emilia. She’s bent over her coloring book, legs swinging against the stool and tongue pressed between her lips in concentration. “Emilia?”
She doesn’t look up. Just furrows her brow as she glides the crayon over the page. I see her father in her profile, and it makes me squirm. “I’m just going in the other room for a sec, okay? Holler if you need anything, all right?”
“’Kay.” She tears her eyes away from the page long enough to give me a quick smile.
I force a wobbly one back before stepping into the shop.
I find Miles bent under the hood of an SUV.
“Yo, Casanova.”
He looks up, dirty as usual. “Yes, your Highness?’
I toss my thumb over my shoulder, indicating the Pennzoil clock. “It’s almost three. Are you going to have the Andersons’ vehicle ready by four?”
“The Andersons’ car is already done. And you might want to give Mr. Lowry a call because this,” he pats the side of the SUV, “is gonna be done here in about an hour. And he’s not expecting it ‘til tomorrow, so…” He smiles, proud of himself.
I just glare at him.
“And this,” he says, raising his brows, “is where you say, ‘Nice work, boss.’”
I huff. “I’m surprised you’re ahead of schedule, considering you had your girlfriend back here doing god knows what.” I’m not able to keep the snark out of my voice. “We have a schedule to keep, you know.”
He frowns, looking at me like I’m crazy. “Which I’m keeping.” He speaks slowly, like I’m a small child who can’t comprehend big words.
And it just pisses me off.
“Isn’t it rather unprofessional to have the woman you’re banging back here while you’re working on your clients’ cars?” I motion toward the SUV. “I’m sure Mr. Lowry won’t appreciate the ass print on the driver’s side door when he gets his vehicle back.”
Miles’s eyes darken. “Whoa. What the fuck? You’re starting to sound like the boss. Or, no. Wait. That’s me.” He rounds the SUV and plants himself in front of me, crossing his arms. I don’t budge, however, throwing my head back and meeting his gaze.
Because I’m right about this. I know I am.
I know,
I know,
I know.
Why do I even care?
“First of all, I’m not banging George. And second, she’s not my girlfriend.”
I roll my eyes.
“And third.” He pauses, steps closer, so close that the heat from his body latches on to mine. His voice is a husky whisper, making me hot in an entirely different way. “When I do get a girlfriend, I won’t be fucking her up against a random SUV while some little girl colors pictures on the other side of that door.” He leans into me further, his next words kissing my temple and making me lightheaded. “I like to take my time when I’m inside a woman.”
My chest is heaving, filling up with so many conflicting emotions I feel like I might burst. I haven’t felt so much anger and heat and passion since… Not since…
Julian.
The thought alone scares the shit out of me.
I take a step back. And then another.
Because what I want right now, more than anything else, is to be the one pressed up against that SUV – that one right there – with… with…
The door behind us creaks open, and I look over my shoulder to see Emilia bounding into the shop, pages from her coloring book clutched in her little hand. They’re bright and colorful and she’s waving her fist around like she’s carrying a winning lottery ticket and she’s the sole winner. “Look!” she yells. Her voice rings out like bells, dispersing the tension in the room. “Miles! I made this for you!”
I close my eyes, press the pads of my thumb and middle finger against my eyebrows and push. Hard. “Inside voice, Emilia,” I say automatically.
Miles takes a few steps back, and I can feel his absence before I even open my eyes; the heat is gone. Only a heavy cold remains, made more noticeable by our brief argument. Not to mention my betraying thoughts.
My mind strays…
“Mom!” Emilia tugs on my hand before thrusting one of the pages into it. “This one’s for you.”
I hold it up limply, studying her depiction of the Little Mermaid. Emilia chose black for her locks instead of her trademark red, and underneath the picture she wrote Mom in stick-like child script. I peer over the top to see Miles studying his own page, a smile ligh
ting up his face.
Despite my irritation at – fuck, I don’t even really know what – I feel… Something. A sort of fluttering in my center, just beneath my rib cage. It takes me awhile to recognize it, to put a finger on the feeling. And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hits.
Miles meets my gaze, shakes his head, and laughs. He holds up his own picture, which already has small smear in the corner from his greasy fingers. It’s a colored in drawing of Prince Eric, whose hair has been shaded a light brown instead of black and is carrying a crude looking tool that Emilia drew freestyle into his hand. His name is spelled underneath, as well: MYLS.
And Miles is looking at it like it’s a fucking Rembrandt.
The hollow in my chest pumps with the rhythm of a phantom heart.
“You’re a horrible influence.”
But my lips twitch into a smile, contradicting my words.
Miles brushes the water off his face with both hands and grins that nerdy ass grin of his. “Whatever. I totally got you. Which means, per our bet, that breakfast is on you tomorrow. And as far as a bad influence? I think Milly over here was already a pretty cutthroat Marco Polo player before tonight. Right, Milly?”
Emilia swims over to us, her little arms dog paddling through the water. “Uh, huh!” She sounds out of breath but can’t stop giggling so I’m not sure if it’s due to constant laughter or over exertion. She reaches the side of the pool, grabs the edge, and purses her heart-shaped lips. “What’s cutthroat mean?”
“Competitive,” I say. “Driven. Aggressive. What Miles is saying is that you’re a fiercely competitive Marco Polo player.”
“Oh.”
I can tell she still doesn’t get it. But that’s okay. Because she’s five. She’s five going on six, and how the hell did that happen?
And she has her first crush.
Emilia invited Miles over to swim with us tonight, and before I could revoke the invitation, Miles snapped it up.
So now we’re back home, Miles’s old pickup sitting out-of-place in my parent’s grand driveway, enjoying the warmth of the heated pool and one of the last nights of summer: playing games and eating pizza and drinking sugary pop under the cloak of a trillion stars. The underwater lights give the pool an ethereal glow, and between those and the frosted bulbs Fox affixed and wired to the fence years ago, the entire backyard looks magical.
