by Lisa Sorbe
Miles nods at the TV. “You ever seen John Wick?”
I shake my head. I can’t even remember the last time I sat down and watched an entire movie. (Aside from last night, and I fell asleep.) Julian was always too wired to sit still long enough to pay attention to television; we didn’t even own one. And none of the guys I’ve dated since have been interested in watching a movie with me. Their minds were, to say the least, on other things.
“Here,” he says, picking up the remote and punching a button with his thumb. “I’ll start it over.” The movie rolls back to the beginning and pauses on a black screen. Miles looks at me and lifts the blanket next to him. “Give it a try. I think you’ll like it.”
I kick off my heels and pad barefoot to the couch, sliding under the blanket and sitting stiffly by his side. It’s a weird feeling, one I’m not used to. An intimate setting like this, being with a man without alcohol to lubricate our actions and lift our inhibitions. I didn’t even have this back in high school, where most if not all of my dates were based solely on heavy make out sessions during drunken parties or quickies in the back of a car on some lonely dirt road, a six pack of beer or a bottle of Boone’s Strawberry Hill between us.
But even without the alcohol induced haze, when Miles grabs my hand under the blanket, it feels natural. And again, familiar. He pulls me closer, and I let him, my body – not to mention, my will – completely limp to his.
I lean my head on his shoulder, breath in his scent.
He hits play, and the opening scene starts. “I know it doesn’t seem like it,” he whispers, his warm breath fluttering my hair as he rests his cheek against my head, “but this is actually a love story. Just give it a chance.”
I will.
It’s been almost a week since that night, and nothing more has transpired between us.
We both fell asleep during the movie, only waking up to the shrill cries of a frightened Emilia calling out for her grandmother at five in the morning after having a bad dream.
And let me just say, waking up in each other’s arms wasn’t at all romantic.
Miles grunted awake, his elbow narrowly missing my eye and instead smacking me in the temple.
I drooled on his shirt and left a smeared lipstick stain on his sleeve.
Obviously I’m the epitome of class these days.
But now it’s Friday, and I have to admit I’m looking forward to the weekend. And not because I’m excited to sleep in or lounge around doing absolutely nothing after a long week of running Emilia back and forth to school and dance class and managing a growing business. Nor is it the possibility that Miles might be on the brink of asking me out on an actual date, of which I’m inclined to believe he is because he’s been hovering around me all day and, just as he opens his mouth, the phone will ring or a customer will walk in, ruining the moment.
I’m just happy tomorrow is Saturday because that means I get to paint.
Of course, I’m in the studio for a few hours every night after work. But on weekends, I get to paint all. day. long.
Since Miles gifted me the amazing space, I can’t seem to stay away from it.
I study the painting I hung on the wall in the front room this morning and press my lips together to keep from smiling too wide. I know it sounds vain, but I can’t keep my eyes off it. Granted, it will be a few months before I can varnish it, so it’s not entirely finished yet. But it’s the first real piece of artwork I’ve finished in years, and the satisfaction of creating something from nothing is even sweeter than I remember. It’s just a simple mix of oil over acrylic on an eighteen by twenty-four-inch canvas, an amorphous landscape represented by color and emotions rather than static lines and shapes. This particular piece is a prairie scene from my grandfather’s land; the golds and greens and blues and browns blended together to reflect the rolling hills and endless stretch of grass resting beneath a wispy eggshell blue sky.
There’s depth in this work. More shadows, more contrast between the darks and the lights. I mixed in deep hues of green gold and indanthrone blue and manganese violet and then built the lighter layers gradually. Layer atop layer atop layer – more layers than I’ve ever painted on one canvas before.
And I’m not sure that’s a coincidence. Because I think this painting came from the deepest part of me. The part that’s been hidden – forced under and shoved down beneath layer after layer after layer of superficial bullshit.
With this piece, I didn’t think. I just… got out of the way. Just stepped aside entirely and let that deepest layer float to the top, moving my hand and driving my brush.
And to be in that zone? That alpha brainwave state where they say magic happens and all of life’s creativity stems from? It’s the highest of the highs. Better than any addiction I’ve ever had. One of my professors in college would go on and on about this level of mind, encouraging us to reach it so we could tap into our greatest potential. But I never could. Ever. My mind was always buzzing with too many things. Like my image. And, of course, Julian.
Being with him was an emotional roller coaster. And all those trapped feelings I’ve been chewing over and feeding on for years? They’ve held me captive, a prisoner to the past. Even after Julian left me, I never really left him. Subconsciously, by holding on to those emotions, I was holding on to him. I didn’t realize it at the time – shit, it’s taken me five years to realize it now – but it was my way of staying connected. If I put those emotions to rest, put those feelings to bed and gotten on with my life, with my art, with my daughter, it would be like admitting that part of my life with Julian was over. Really and truly over. And that he was never coming back.
All these years, I’ve just been hanging in limbo. Waiting. Waiting for him to come to his senses, waiting for him to realize he misses me, waiting for him to want to get to know his daughter… Waiting for him to change, so we could go back to how we were. But that makes no sense. Because if he had to change to go back to how we were, then we wouldn’t be how we were.
I hung on to the anger and bitterness because he was the reason for the feelings. And by directing those feelings at him – even if it was only subconsciously – I was able to keep him in my life.
Day after day, month after month, year after year. But now, I think I’ve found a way to release him.
Or, more importantly, release myself.
“You staying late tonight?”
I tear my eyes away from the painting to see Miles leaning against the counter, watching me. I didn’t even hear him come in. His coveralls, which started out clean this morning, are splattered with grease and grime. There’s a dirt smudge on his cheek, and for some reason seeing it makes my heart swell. “Thinking about it,” I say, unable to keep my smile from breaking through.
He cocks his head, studies me. “You’re awfully smiley.” He moves closer, rests his elbows on the counter next to mine so we’re shoulder to shoulder, almost touching. “Should I be worried? Is tonight a full moon or something?”
I nudge my shoulder into his and then hold it there. ““Wow. A mechanic and a comedian? Aren’t you multi-talented?”
“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”
I laugh, remembering the first night I saw him at Bert’s. All those months ago.
So much time has passed. Yet it doesn’t feel like much at all. It’s so weird.
Life is weird.
I move my gaze around the shop; it doesn’t look like the same place I walked into back in June. Then again, I don’t look like the same person I was back in June.
And neither does Miles. Although, when it comes to him, I think it’s only my perspective that’s changed. Not him.
To prove my point, he tugs on a loose strand of hair that’s come out of my bun. The only thing I had time for this morning was a light coating of mascara and lip gloss. Since I’ve been the one getting up with Emilia and taking her to school, I’m learning she moves about as slow as molasses, and I practically have to pull her from bed in the mornings. With as
tired as my mom’s been lately, I’ve been letting her sleep in while taking on more responsibility with Emilia. And no, I’m not looking for praise. I’m well aware of the fact that she’s my daughter and I should have been doing things like this all along.
It’s not an excuse, but I was asleep. I was asleep, and now I’m not anymore.
And I have a lot to make up for.
“Would you possibly be up for putting painting off tonight and doing something else?”
His shoulder is warm against mine, and suddenly there’s a suggestive tension in the air that fills my lower half with the sort of heat that makes me want to lock the doors right now and get started on his something else right away.
But I play it cool. Of course I do.
I shrug, mostly so I can press my shoulder further into his. “Maybe.” Yes. “Like what?”
“Dinner and a show?”
I smirk. “Like Applebee’s and a movie?” I joke. And then I feel bad, because this is Miles and more than likely that’s exactly what he has planned.
He turns to face me, lifting a hand to tuck that stray piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger under my lobe, trailing the length of my jaw before he drops them. His voice is rough when he answers. “Not even close.”
I lock the doors at five minutes to five so I can prep as best as I can for our “date”.
Miles was adamant that I didn’t have to dress up for it but, me being me, there’s no way I’m going out with a man I plan to seduce without at least freshening up. And with the show starting at six, there’s not enough time to trek all the way home, shower and change, and be back in time. So I use the shop bathroom as best as I can, washing my face with an old facial cleansing cloth I found in my purse and reapplying a fresh coat of mascara and pink lipstick. Without anything else available, I also smudge some of the lipstick on my cheekbones and rub it in for a fresh, dewy glow. I peel off my long-sleeve crewneck, tuck in the straps of my bra, and throw on an emerald green sweater I pulled out of the backseat of my Rover that I was planning to drop off at the dry cleaners after work but, after passing the sniff test, decide I can get one more wear out of. It’s cashmere soft and has a neckline that sits just off my shoulders – soft and sexy without trying too hard. Fortunately, I had the hindsight to wash my hair last night, and when I brush it out it, I’m happy to see the locks still hold a shine.
When I’ve done the most I can with what I’ve got, I head up to the loft and find Miles in his kitchen, freshly showered and looking laidback as always in a blue and green flannel. He whistles when he sees me, and I try not to swoon too much. “Holy butterflies. You look amazing.”
I cross my arms and smirk. “And you look clean.”
He grins, then tosses me an individually wrapped Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cup, the thick kind with extra peanut butter in the middle. “You might want to eat that. We won’t be having dinner until closer to eight, and I don’t want your bitch to come out before I get a chance to feed you.”
I tear into the wrapper, happy he remembered it was my favorite. In the few short months we’ve known each other, he’s already alert to my idiosyncrasies; one being that I turn into a raging bitch (more so than usual) when I’m hungry.
I hop up onto one of the bar stools, lean my elbows on the island, and peel the inside wrapper from the chocolate. “So, what kind of show is this, anyway?”
Miles’s back is to me, and I watch him move from one end of the counter to the other, stuffing paper towels, plastic cutlery, and – what the fuck? – a giant bag of marshmallows into a wrinkled paper grocery bag while I nibble around the edge of the chocolate disc. Like I always do, I save the peanut butter for last.
He squats down, disappearing for a moment. I hear a cupboard thump shut and then the crinkle of the paper bag as he drops whatever he retrieved into it. He hops up and sets the bag on the counter before heading to the fridge. “Music.”
I swallow down the lump of peanut butter and move to one of the cupboards, pulling out a coffee mug (the man doesn’t own a drinking glass, I swear) and fill it with water. “I know it’s music,” I say, filling the mug with water from the tap. “But what kind of music?”
He pulls a twelve pack of beer from the fridge and shakes his head. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
I groan, feigning annoyance. But it still doesn’t stop the smile that’s been breaking through all day to break through again. I gulp the water, and move to rinse the mug in the sink. This one says has a colorful drawing of a cactus on it and the words Don’t be a prick – Phoenix, Arizona underneath it. “Well,” I muse, depositing the mug into the plastic dishrack. “If you won’t tell me that, maybe you can fill me in on why you have so many corny coffee mugs.” I point to the mug sitting next to the one I just washed that has a cartoon image of a UFO and says Best Western Space Lodge, Nevada.
Miles chuckles. He breaks up the case of beer, pulling cans from the cardboard and depositing them into a small green cooler. Each can hits the bottom with a dull thunk before clanking into the one next to it. “Yes, those.” He reaches over and opens the freezer, grabbing the ice bucket and dumping it over the cans. “My dad was a truck driver,” he says, closing the lid and snapping it shut. “Traveled all over. He’d bring my mom and I a mug home from each state. It sorta of became a game, finding the most tasteless, vulgar, tacky mug he could on his trips. Shit, I think at some point we had over a hundred and fifty.” He laughs. “I don’t think I ever used a real glass as a kid.”
“Holy butterflies,” I say. “That’s a lot.”
He nods, fiddles with the handle on the cooler. “Yep.”
“So, is he retired?”
“No. He…” Miles takes a deep breath, releases it. “He never got the chance to retire. He died when I was ten.” His features soften, but other than that, he’s stoic. Not indifferent, really. Just matter of fact.
But me on the other hand… My eyes burn and my damn phantom heart thumps as my mind conjures up an image of a ten-year old Miles sitting at a kitchen table and drinking pop from a coffee mug that says I Love NY and suffering the sort of loss no kid should have to suffer. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He hands me the paper bag, and I take it. But before he can pull away, I reach out my other hand out and lay it atop of his and squeeze.
There’s something about this guy that pulls at my heartstrings.
With Julian it was all about competition, games, never letting him know he had the upper hand. I would act like I cared. And then, knowing he had me, he’d pull away. And vice versa.
We were two domineering personalities that wanted to pull the other person’s strings. Our relationship was a constant battle of wills. And at first, it was thrilling. The chase. The drama. The sex, the makeup sex, the hot and passionate and fiery I-hate-you-but-I-want-you sex.
Our relationship was like a theatrical performance. We were addicted to the drama.
In the short time I’ve known Miles – and so far, we’ve only known each other as friends – I can tell that any type of romantic relationship with him would be different. And that sort of romance appeals to me now.
Because I’ve changed.
It’s like that frenzied need for drama has fizzled, burned away completely, and I no longer crave the spectacle of narcissistic competition.
For the first time in my life, I want to give. Wholly and without expectation.
And so I slide the paper bag from his hand, set it on the island, and slide my hands around his torso, and pull him close. He smells familiar, that sweet minty pine scent, and I breathe him in as I press my cheek into his chest. The flannel is soft against my skin and a smile spills across my face when I hear the beat of his heart quicken.
“Jenny,” he starts, “I’m fine, really. It was a long time ago…”
But I just squeeze harder, burrow myself in deeper.
And suddenly I feel his arms around me. Stiff at first, and then limp. But just when I’m a
bout to pull away, certain I’ve misread every signal between us, his embrace tightens. One arm encircles my waist while his other hand slides up my back, over my neck, and entwines with my hair. The fierceness of his hold makes me gasp, and we stay like this, clinging to one another for seconds or eternity; I don’t know which.
Because neither of us seems to want to let go.
But then I open my mouth. “Hugs, huh?” I say, giving a nervous little chuckle and pulling away slightly so I can look up at him. “Totally underrated, right?”
He just grins, pulling me back in and resting his chin against the top of my head. “Totally.”
When Miles pulls the Charger into the parking lot of the soup kitchen, I think he’s joking. Because bringing me here as a fake out, as a funny reminder of the day we met would be just like him. But when he gets out of the car, rounds it and opens my door, I can’t help but look up at him and laugh. “Um,” I say, taking his hand and allowing him to help me from the car, “what exactly are we doing here?”
He smiles, winks at me. “You’ll see. C’mon.”
He doesn’t release my hand, just holds it gently as we walk around to the font of the building and pass through a large set of double doors. It’s not quite six o’clock yet, but the front hall is bustling as we step inside. Miles stops at a table manned by a skinny brunette who looks like she’s still in high school. Large red-framed glasses overwhelm her heart-shaped face and a bulky out-of-date sweater hands loosely on her small frame. She smiles up at Miles like she knows him before shooting a curious glance my way. “Hey.”
Miles lets go of my hand to grab his wallet. He pulls some bills from the sleeve and slides them into the gallon glass jug near the girl’s elbow. In front of the jug is a sign that says All donations go to support The Rothchester House. “Hey, Shauna. Busy night, I take it?”
