Roommates (Soulmates #1) (21 page)

Chapter 41: Jenny

I was bursting to tell Ethan the good news.

Hopefully, his obvious weirdness had passed.

Not that he didn't have a right to freak out. I mean, our
behavior was questionable, and I did lie by omission. Still, now was the worst
time for him to push me away.  

I unlocked his apartment door and was about to call his name
when I noticed that the mystery door was ajar.

My heart pounded in my chest as I approached it, bracing myself
for what I might find.

When I peeked inside, my mouth fell open.    

Ethan was hunched over a wide table with headphones on. A worn blue
t-shirt moved loosely over the muscles in his back as he used a hand tool to
carve chunks out of a piece of grey material laid out in front of him.

After going over it a few times, he swept his hand across the
table, causing a pile of curled grey shavings to fall to the floor.

It wasn't until I took my eyes off him, though, that I realized
he was making prints. Tons of them by the looks of it. They covered every wall
in the small, paint scented room.

I stepped inside to take them all in. There were cityscapes,
abstract portraits of famous musicians, and multicolored animals that looked
almost aboriginal with their bright colors and focused expressions. Others were
obvious tributes to Van Gogh, Picasso, and Matisse.

It was such a wondrous surprise, and knowing the space was a
secret made it even more overwhelming to behold.

After a while, I realized he must’ve been in some kind of trance
or he would’ve noticed me in the doorway. "Ahem," I coughed, not
wanting to startle him. "Ahem."

His head turned in my direction and he righted himself, yanking
his earphones out at the same time.

I lifted my palms. "So this is what you've been hiding
behind mystery door number one."

He looked as mortified as he did surprised, saying nothing as
the blasting EDM poured from his headphones.

"Your dad mentioned once that you used to draw, but-"

He furrowed his brow. "He did?"

"Yeah." I walked over to him, unclipped the iPod from
his sleeve, and turned it off. "But he said you stopped making art after
your mom died."

He laid his iPod and headphones on the paint splattered wooden
workbench behind him. "That's one version of events."

"What's the other?" I asked, mesmerized by the strange
expression on his face.

"I'd say it's more accurate that my dad asked me to stop drawing
after my mom died. So I started hiding it."

"And you're still hiding it?"

He swept some more linoleum shavings onto the floor. "No. I
just don't advertise it."

"Well you should." I spun around, letting the medley
of colors stream through my field of vision. "These are fabulous."

"Thanks."

"Why do you lock this room?" I asked, walking over to
one of the walls.

He shrugged. "Cause this is my private thing, and I don't
want other people ruining it with their criticism and-"

I looked over my shoulder. "I suppose I should've
knocked."

"It's always a mess in here, too, and locking the door is a
lot easier than trying to keep it clean."

I laughed. "Like that closet my mom has with all the laundry
baskets that are filled with whatever crap was on the kitchen table before the
last dozen times she was expecting company."

"Andy Warhol used to do that," he said.

"Yeah, well, the contents of Andy's kitchen table were
probably a lot more interesting than the shit my mom accumulates." I
started looking through a rack of zebra prints. Each one was different colors
and had a little number in the bottom corner. "Is this okay?" I
asked. "I realize I'm being nosy but-"

"You might as well have a look around. You'll never shut up
about it otherwise."

"True," I said, coming to a stack of prints that reflected
the image of a little boy holding a toy boat. "And I don't mean to be
bossy-"

He laughed.

"But I wouldn't shut up about it if I were you either."
I glanced over my shoulder.

He was leaning against the table, watching me snoop.

"You have real talent."

"You think?"

"Absolutely," I said. But something struck me as odd.
None of the prints were once offs. I mean, I knew that was the whole point of
making prints- that the artist could make countless editions of one design. But
why make multiples if you never wanted to show them to anybody. "I think
people would pay for these."

"I don't know about that."

"You're underselling yourself, Ethan. This stuff is
great." I moved to the next wooden rack and started flicking through the
prints. First I came to a few that looked like Sophia Loren, followed by
Bridget Bardot on the beach in Planet of the Apes.

And then I froze.

The next image looked so familiar.

It seemed naive to think it was me, but it reminded me of a
picture I saw of myself a long time ago, a picture where I was wishing on a
dandelion. I kept turning page after page and- just like all the others- there
were tens of them in all different colors.

"Is this me?" I turned to look at him.

He clenched his jaw.

I slid one of the numbered pictures out and watched his face as
I lifted it. "Well?"

"Yeah," he said. "It is."

My stomach dropped. The photo must've been taken ten years ago.
I remember because it was from the same roll of film that had Brandi's
fourteenth birthday party in it. "Where did you find this picture?"

He folded his arms. "I took it from a shoe box in the linen
closet-"

I turned an ear towards him. "When?"

"The day before I left for boarding school."

I looked back at the image he'd made. He'd carved out my
cheekbones and every corner of my face. Even my eyelashes were defined, along
with the little white seeds on the flower.

"But you hated me then." I laid the print across the
top of the stack I'd been looking through and let my arms fall to my sides.
"You couldn't stand me."

He pursed his lips.

I shook my head. "You thought I was-"

"Beautiful," he said. "I thought you were
beautiful."

I swallowed. "But you ignored me." I crossed my arms
and hugged myself. "You barely even said two words to me the year before
you left."

He shrugged. "What was there to say?"

"I don't know- something nice- anything to let me know you
didn't hate me."

"I couldn’t do that, Jenny."

My voice was shaky. "But all this time I thought- and
you-"

"Come here."

Chapter 42: Ethan

She looked so small in my studio, especially compared to how big
my feelings for her were.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, stepping up to
me.

I cocked my head. "Tell you what? That I loved you? I
couldn't."

Her open eyes swept across my face. "Why not?"

"Cause I didn't know that was what it was."

She pursed her lips.

"I thought I was sick. I thought that the ways I wanted you
were wrong, that the best thing I could do was leave you alone."

She raised her eyebrows. "Just like you tried to leave art
alone? Cause it seems to me you're not as good at running from your problems as
you pretend to be."

Half my mouth curled up into a smile. "No shit."

Her eyes formed little crescents.

"Neither of you will leave me alone."

She raised a hand to my cheek. "I won't anyway."

I grabbed her hand and moved it against my chest.

"And I think the only way you're ever going to make peace
with your art is to show it to someone," she said. "Cause this is too
big a talent for anyone to hide away."

"I'd like to," I said, stepping back to sit down on
one side of the workbench.

She sat on the other.

"But it’s not to everyone’s taste." My dad's anger at
my doodling was still so fresh in my mind. How the hell would he feel if he
knew I'd graduated to paints, that I had the audacity to number my prints?
"And it’s all so personal. I can’t bear the thought of it being rejected."

She shook her head. "You don't get it. That's how you know
you're making something worthwhile. Cause not everyone gets it. That's the
whole point of art- to force people to have an opinion, to force them to think,
to feel."

I found her conviction refreshing.

"I had a drama teacher once who said you haven't made it
until you have critics."

I nodded. "I suppose that makes sense."

"But getting critics isn't the point. It's all about that
One Fan. That one person who finds your work soothing or entertaining or
amusing or meaningful-"

I narrowed my eyes at her.

"And that's who you do it for. That's why you take the risk
of letting people see it. Because one person might like it, and that’s how you
know you did the right thing not keeping it to yourself."

"I appreciate your optimism," I said. "But what
if that one person never comes along."

She smiled. "You don't have to worry about that."

I raised my eyebrows.

"She already has."

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

"I mean it, Ethan. This stuff is incredible. I feel so
grateful that I've seen it, and I know others would feel the same."

I ran a hand over my head.

"Besides-" She laid a hand on my knee. "Isn’t it
what your mom would've wanted?"

I took a deep breath and looked around. Was she right? Was it
pointless to keep my creations to myself if someone else would benefit? After
all, isn't that what I always wanted? For someone to say, “Hey- your stuff
isn’t crap.”

It certainly felt good to hear Jenny say it now, especially
since she was the person whose validation meant the most.

"It's only a suggestion,” she said. “You don’t have to
decide today."

"That's a relief," I said. "Cause, to be honest,
I have enough to worry about right now."

She squinted at me. "Like what?"

"Like the fact that I want you so bad I feel sick. Just
like I did when I was seventeen."

She stood up, reached for my linoleum cutter, and handed it to
me. Then she picked up the sheet I’d been working on and slid it onto my drying
rack. "May I?" she asked, pointing to a stack of untouched lino in
the corner.

I nodded.

She laid a fresh sheet down and walked to the end of my
workbench. Then she pulled her shirt off over her head.

I gripped the smooth handle of the cutter in my hand as she
unhooked her bra.

She dropped it on the floor with her shirt.

I felt my pulse bounce in my throat.

Next, she unzipped her jeans and pulled them down, taking her
underwear with them.

I wanted to ask what the hell she was doing, but I didn't dare
interrupt.

She sat down on the edge of my workbench with her back towards
me.

My eyes traveled along the curve of her hip to her waist and up
her spine. Her skin was so smooth, so perfect. If it weren't for a cluster of
freckles on one shoulder, I might’ve thought she was made of marble.

"Okay," she said, looking over her shoulder.
"Let's see how you do when you have permission to use me as a muse."

I scooted towards her on the bench and took a deep breath.

She ran her hand through her hair and shook it out behind her.  

I laid a hand on her hip and slid it towards her waist, studying
the angle of the perfect slope.

"Art first," she said. “Nookie later.”

"I'm just trying to get a grip on your dimensions," I
whispered, sneaking a hand around to cup one of her breasts.

She slapped it away. "They're not going to be in the
picture."

"Oops. My bad." I smiled and slid my hand down her
stomach, hoping to reach between her legs.

She crossed them. "What did I just say, you rascal?"

"I don't know if I can make art when I'm-"

She looked over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows. "When
you're what?"

"About to tear through my pants."

"Try," she said, her eyes pleading. "For
me."

I sighed. Then I stood and stepped up to the table, angling the grey
sheet towards her. For a moment, I just admired the way the summer sunshine
peaked through the blinds and highlighted the subtle curves of her back.

But as my dick strained in my pants, it was easy to understand
why doing this never occurred to me before. And yet I didn't want to let her
down, especially since she was right.

I had used her as a muse without her permission- more times than
she would ever know. The least I could do was restrain myself long enough to
get the shape of her back right along with the flicks at the ends of her hair.

And as she materialized on the page, my desire for her only
grew.

"How's it going?" she asked after a few minutes of
silence.

“Honestly?” I wove the cutter through the linoleum, keeping my
eyes on her. "I think this might be my masterpiece."