“I wasn’t thinking anything at all.” She chuckles to herself as she heads to the bar for the next drink order.
Chapter Eighteen
“Whatcha sketching over there?” Jodie asks from her seat on the sofa, her feet tucked underneath her. I’m on the recliner, rocking my sweatpants and my favorite hoodie.
“Sketching some new tattoo ideas.”
“Can I see?”
I shrug, passing the book over.
“Oh my God, Avery, these are so good. Jesse really snatched you up at the right time. Holy hell, girl, you are an artist.”
“I’m not really that good.”
“Not what I heard. I had some customers last night talking about the mural you’re painting at J & J’s.”
“No, you didn’t.” I shake my head. It’s just a mural.
“Right hand up to God. I had a table of cute guys talking about the hot blonde who was painting a totally awesome mural, in their words.”
“It’s seriously not that good.”
“Will you give yourself some credit? You’re good. Own it.”
I smile. If only it were that easy.
I’ve been working hard on the mural painting at Jesse’s tattoo shop. Every day I get off from Midsummer Nights or sometimes even before I go in, I drop by with my painting clothes and get to work. At first, I was nervous as hell, but now I’ve fallen into a groove. And although I don’t think I’m quite the rave-worthy artist Jodie seems to think I am, I have to admit it is looking pretty good.
Pretty good, though. Not truly praiseworthy level.
Still, with every stroke of the brush or of my pencil in the sketchbook, I get closer to the truth: I love this. I love the feeling of the creativity flowing through my veins and out for the world to see. I love the satisfaction I get when my work makes someone smile or say, “I’ll take that tattoo.” I love the feeling of not being constrained by a box or by a spreadsheet of figures.
I love the freedom of my mind. I wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d been pursuing this all along.
I remind myself not to get so far ahead of myself. This is just a hobby right now. There’s a big difference between being a hobby artist and being a “real” artist. The self-doubt creeps in at the mere thought.
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing something you enjoy.”
“Me too,” I admit. “Now get back to work. You’re on a deadline, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I keep telling my agent you can’t rush the creative mind, but apparently he needs to eat or something. The artist’s life isn’t easy, I’ll tell you that.”
I smile, taking my sketchbook back to continue working on the bird I’m sketching.
***
The mural takes me ten days. Once I start working on it, I literally can’t stop. I become a bit obsessed. Jesse often has to bring in takeout just to remind me to eat.
When it’s finished, though, I’m damn proud of it. It’s better than I imagined, and I’m sort of in shock that I did it. I painted it by myself.
Maybe this whole art thing could work out, at least on the side. Staring at the realistic ocean painting, I take the brush and sign my initials in the bottom corner.
“How’s it feel to be a famous artist?” Jesse says, sneaking up behind me and planting a kiss on my cheek.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, you’re going to soon. This is awesome. Really. You’re amazing.”
I turn in his arms, the paintbrush still in one hand. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He takes my lips in his, and all the thoughts, doubts, and even successes melt away. I’m just the woman in Jesse Pearce’s arms—and I’m okay with that.
Because I know in his arms, I’m really not just a woman. I’m Avery Johannas, the woman who eats fried pickles and goes parasailing. I’m the woman who is finding her way through waitressing and painting. I’m the woman who draws tattoos and is damn proud of it. I’m the woman who goes out on Fridays to the club and who no longer gets her nails done regularly, because the ocean water just erodes them anyway.
In Jesse’s arms, I’m the woman I never knew I wanted to be. Even though it took me a while to see it, loving Jesse was exactly what I needed to truly be free.
“So, let’s celebrate tonight. Go home. There’s a surprise for you there. Meet me back here in about two hours.”
“You know I don’t like surprises.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, they’re growing on me a bit.”
“That’s my girl. Now get moving. I have work to do.”
I steal one more kiss before putting the paintbrush down on the drop cloth, taking one last look at my masterpiece, and scurrying home to find whatever Jesse has waiting for me.
***
I can’t help but wonder if the pink dress is supposed to be a reminder of the pink underwear incident. Nonetheless, the strapless dress Jesse’s left for me fits like a glove. I feel damn good in it, which isn’t something I would usually say.
I toss on some ballet flats with it and put on the pink Sabika necklace Jesse has also left for me. No man, not even Chris, has ever given me this romantic movie moment.
Jodie’s at work, so I don’t get to hear her wolf whistle or innuendos on my way out the door. I’ll admit, her lewd comments are growing on me. I actually feel a little lost without them.
Still, this is just a thank-you for the mural. This isn’t going to lead to sex—necessarily.
But on the way to Jesse’s place, my palms are a little sweaty and I feel a little fluttery in my chest. I feel like a sixteen-year-old going over to her boyfriend’s house because his parents are out of town. I feel like a woman whose life is about to change.
***
There’s some soft rock music playing when I open the door to Jesse’s apartment. The distinct smell of teriyaki sauce permeates the room, dancing in my nose as soon as I walk through the door.
“Hey. That looks amazing on you,” he says. He’s wearing black jeans and a button-up shirt. He’s gelled his hair, and hints of his cologne permeate the room.
“Thanks. I love this. You didn’t have to do it.”
“I like to treat my artists well.”
“So you do this for all of them?” I ask, setting down my bag on the counter.
“Only the good ones.”
He leans in to kiss me, and I realize how natural this has become. It hasn’t taken long for us to settle into couple status. In retrospect, it seems now like it was always coming. It seems unnatural for us not to be like this—comfortable, kissing, and together.
I’m so glad that for once in my life, I broke my own rules.
Jesse leads me to his kitchen table, which is adorned with a dozen pink roses. I smile, gently touching the petals of one.
“This is beautiful. Thank you.”
“Have a seat. Dinner is ready.” Jesse brings out a few casserole dishes with rice, teriyaki chicken and vegetables, and even some egg rolls.
“Did you make all this?” I ask coyly, pretending to be impressed.
“Yeah, it was sort of rough because I’m not that great at cooking.”
He stares for a moment as he sets the dishes down. I can tell he’s trying to see if I believe him.
I look directly from him to the top of the refrigerator, at a large take-out bag with a familiar Chinese restaurant’s name. I raise an eyebrow.
“That’s an old bag,” Jesse says, waving a hand but smirking.
“Yeah, okay. I just have a feeling this is going to taste just like it.”
“Only because I worked so hard to get the secret recipe.”
I dig into the dishes, serving myself, laughing at the trouble he went through. “You know, you didn’t have to dirty dishes on my account. I would’ve been fine with takeout. I’m not a food snob.”
“That’s a good thing, because I’m not much of a cook.”
“Oh, and I am,” I say, referring to the pasta debacle.
“What a pair, huh?”
>
I shrug. “Could be worse.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, holding up his bottle of beer. We clink bottles as we finish eating. To an outsider, I’m sure it looks ridiculous. My fancy dress and necklace, sitting at a table eating take-out Chinese food.
To me, though, it’s perfect. The man I’ve fallen for sitting beside me, Chinese food, and a comfort I haven’t had with anyone else.
As much of a mystery as Jesse Pearce was a few months ago, he’s become as familiar as my new self.
I like this new Avery. I like Jesse’s Avery. I like the Jesse and Avery we are together.
So when we finish eating and he gives me the look I’ve come to recognize, I lean forward, kissing him with a fervor I’ve reserved for this moment, telling him wordlessly that I’m all his.
As he leads me back to the bedroom and hastily unzips the dress he painstakingly picked out for me, I smile.
For a long time, I didn’t think I wanted to belong to any man. For a long time, I thought this part of myself was shut down.
But as Jesse’s hands travel down to the familiar hot-pink underwear I’m wearing, I feel myself let go of all those ideas I had before.
I’ve come to realize it’s okay to be his, because Jesse doesn’t hold me back. He makes me who I want to be. He makes me the best version of myself.
Loving him might be a risk, and losing myself completely to him tonight might be my undoing. Letting him go, though, is not an option, not when he tosses me back on the bed, and I feel every part of my being succumb to the tattooed hunk moving perfectly on top of me.
And so, after a night of learning what adult sleepovers are actually all about and mastering the sex-hair look, I let go of my rule.
I’m all in. I’m all his.
Chapter Nineteen
When my eyes open in the morning, I stretch gloriously as I stare at the bare, white walls of the now familiar room. I wipe the sleep and remnants of last night’s mascara from my eyes.
There’s no doubt I’m rocking sex hair this morning, I realize, as I attempt to run my fingers through my knotted, frizzy locks.
“Morning,” a groggy voice whispers as lips find my neck and start kissing me. A smile comes to my face.
“Hey,” I say, turning to see Jesse right next to me, his head actually on my pillow, his bare skin against mine.
Normally, I’d worry about morning breath. I’d feel like I should leap out of bed and start tackling a million to-do lists. Ordinarily, mornings lounging in bed with naked men aren’t my thing.
But looking at his body as he rolls to his side and props his head up with a hand, I think maybe I could get used to this.
We look at each other for a long moment.
“Breakfast?” he finally asks, and I nod quietly.
“Shower first?” I ask. A grin spreads on his face.
“I think that’s a great idea.”
I follow Jesse unabashedly into his shower, stepping over a snoring Jake on the way. The shower takes a little longer than normal, and our breakfast is delayed. I try not to analyze it like I tend to do. I try not to worry about the what-ifs and the hows and the logistics.
Instead, I try to let my heart lead the way, my now patched-up heart, and think about how even though love can hurt, sometimes it can just feel so damn good.
***
Wet hair dripping down my back, I walk hand in hand with Jesse to a nearby diner for breakfast. Our conversation is as languid as our pace—we’re both basking in an easiness that has opened up from giving in. Love isn’t about sex, that’s for sure. But sex with Jesse has made me realize just how much I wanted this and just how much I want to be with him.
As we order two humungous omelets and rounds of coffee, I check my phone for the first time.
There’s a text from Jodie full of emoticons that, when paired together, seem suggestive. I smile and shake my head.
There are also two voice mails from numbers I don’t recognize. A little worried something is wrong, I put the phone to my ear.
When I hear the words of the message, I look across the table at Jesse, confused and stunned.
The second voice mail is somewhat similar to the first but from a different number. I slowly, quietly exit out of my voice mail and put my phone on the table.
“What’s wrong?” Jesse asks.
“I think you might have some explaining to do.”
A grin spreads on Jesse’s face. “Did you get some calls for painting?” His eyes light up devilishly.
“Yes. The strangest thing happened. Two random people called and said they’d got my number from my business card and want to know if they could hire me for some work. You wouldn’t know anything about this business card, would you? Because last I checked, I don’t have a business card.”
Jesse smirks and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He pulls a bright teal card from the front of it and slides it across the table.
I see my business card for the first time.
Avery Johannas, Artist
Specializes in murals, landscapes, and canvas painting
Call for a price quote
In the corner of the card is a lily, the same one gracing my shoulder. I am speechless and confused. I’m amazed that Jesse went through all this work for me. I’m a little embarrassed to see the word “artist” by my name, and overwhelmed at the thought people actually want to book me.
I’m also quite impressed by how good the card looks.
“Are you mad?” Jesse asks, seeming to consider the prospect for the first time.
I hesitate, looking up at him. “No. I’m just… amazed. People actually want to hire me.”
“Of course they do. You’re awesome. I don’t know why you’re so shocked. I’ve been having people rave about your mural all week, and it wasn’t even finished. I know I may have overstepped with the business card thing, but Avery, I see how you light up when you’re working. I can feel your passion for it from across the room. I also know you’re not confident in your abilities. I felt like you just needed a little shove in the right direction.”
I flip the card over and over between my fingers, considering his words. I think about how much I loved painting that mural, about how good it’s felt to explore something that never felt like a possibility. I think about how amazing it would be to follow this dream.
But a tiny voice in my head also tells me this is ludicrous. I hear my parents’ words telling me that art isn’t a real career. I hear Chris’s laughter when I once told him I thought it would be fun to be a painter. I hear all the “I can’ts” and all the reasons this is nuts.
Looking across the table, however, at those green eyes looking back at me with such a resounding faith, I shove the second set of thoughts aside. Across the table is a man who believes in me enough to make me a business card, who trusted me with his tattoo parlor walls.
There’s a man who, despite past hurts, has trusted me with his heart.
I decide that if he believes I can do it, I can trust in his faith.
So instead of answering him, I pick my phone back up, call the bakery and the doctor’s office that left messages, and book my first two jobs as an artist. Who knows where it will all go, but like my relationship with Jesse, it’s time I find out.
Chapter Twenty
I’ve never been the woman from the movies—the one who walks seductively in her dress that clings in all the right places, her eyes screaming confidence and sexual energy. I’m usually the girl who walks like a clomping goat in high heels and who has no sense of fashion. I’m the kind of girl who can’t pull off the serious photo face, and usually ends up looking constipated. I’m not glamorous, and I’m not usually sexy. I’m usually just a hot mess.
Tonight, though, things are different. In my red dress with a more scandalous slit than usual, I feel like one of the women from the movies. I walk with my head held high and what I imagine to be a sensual glimmer in my eye. As we walk into the four-star restaurant we’ve ha
d reservations at for over a month, I feel like a movie star.
It’s him. He does this for me. Being the woman on his arm makes me feel like I’m better than I truly am. The way his blue eyes drank in the sight of me when I emerged from our bedroom this evening wearing my new outfit made me feel like a woman worthy of his love.
“It’s stunning,” I whisper to him as we’re led to our private table.
“So are you,” he says, leaning in, his cologne drifting around me. I get butterflies at the scent of it. It’s the same cologne he was wearing the night we met. It’s the same cologne he wore on our wedding day. It’s the scent that just stirs me.
Once at our table, Chris pulls out my chair. Always the gentleman, he radiates class as he marches to his own seat, cracking open the menu. I feel a little flutter in my chest when I open my own menu and start to notice some of the prices.
“This place is expensive,” I whisper. Chris just grins.
“You’re worth it. We’re worth it. It’s not every day you celebrate your fifth anniversary.”
Champagne arrives soon after and we place our orders. The whole time, I feel like I’m in a dream. The whimsical lighting, the elegant music in the background, and the classy diners around us make me feel like royalty.
All of that, nonetheless, is just backdrop to him. Sitting in the restaurant, I can’t take my eyes off him. His perfect jawline, the eyes that scream at me from across the room. I can’t believe how lucky I am.
I can’t believe that this man, the man who stole my heart at a tiny café in the middle of the city over a messed-up bagel order, is mine. I can’t believe this man who is sexy and sophisticated, intelligent and brave, is looking at me the same way.
We spend the night enjoying our dinner and talking about memories. When we get home, we spend the entire evening wrapped up in each other, the sheets tangled around our sweaty bodies.
When I finally drift off in his arms, I think about how blessed I am. So many marriages fall apart, but not mine. Five years in and we’re still going strong. We’re still madly in love. We’re still the couple who goes to fine restaurants and talks for hours. We’ve got the chemistry and the connection.
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