Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
ISABEL
Kieran isn’t there yet when I find my way to the studio several days later. He’s adding the finishing touches to my portrait, but he won’t let me look at it yet. Turns the easel against the wall each time we end for the night and makes me swear not to peek when he takes bathroom breaks.
I try the door handle and find it unlocked. Huh. I guess he must’ve forgotten to lock it last night.
I let myself in and sit on the couch while waiting for him.
This room has become something of a safe haven to me the past few weeks.
No matter what happens during the day, there is always, always a long night at the studio waiting for me.
There is always Kieran, armed with a paint brush, waiting for me.
In a way, it reminds me of God. How I am never without Him. How there is always His love, His grace, and His light to count on and look forward to.
I can’t help but smile. My group leader at Youth has always said that wherever you find peace, that’s God at work.
God is here, in this room, with us. Between us. He guides me, so that my muscles never ache holding my position. Guides Kieran, so that each brushstroke is the right one.
God, I’m acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.
I stand to distract myself, pacing around the room and inspecting this nook and that cranny.
I reach the desk, layered with paint-splattered newspapers and several brushes.
I reach for the drawer and pull it open.
Wires, bits, and bobs are strewn about, plus a couple orange ping-pong balls.
Buried deep within it is a thick book. It’s beat up, its edges dulled by wear and tear.
Its leather cover has developed a pretty patina.
I flip the cover open. Kieran’s sketchbook.
I smile, flipping through his sketches. Figure drawings, still life, a dozing beagle, each one dated from a year before.
I turn the page and there I see it. A girl looking into a mirror. She has her back turned, one arm lifted as she brushes her hair. She has a gentle smile on her face, and she looks directly at the viewer through her reflection, the only sketch to have broken the fourth wall.
I stare at her, and she stares back at me. It should be impossible, and yet there I am, on the page, brushing my hair, smiling back at myself.
She has my eyes, shaded with charcoal. My hair, straight and dark. She has my full lips, my nose—which is really my mother’s, and then my mother’s mother.
I blink, half-expecting the sketch to change faces. It’s the night; I’m seeing things. But on the page, I continue to smile back at myself. I continue to brush my hair. On the bottom right corner, I read the date. Approximately a year and three months ago.
The door opens. I drop the book as if it’s on fire.
Kieran’s mouth hangs open. It feels like an eternity before he speaks.
“I can explain.”
“Please do,” I say.
He gestures toward the couch. I oblige and hear the latch click as he shuts the door.
My heart races. I don’t know what to expect.
Has he been stalking me? Am I in danger?
That’s not possible. Kieran’s been nothing but a gentleman to me.
Then again, he’s friends with Natalia, so maybe this is part of a larger ploy to bully me.
Make me think I’m safe with a guy only to pull the rug out from under me.
Kieran blows out a breath. He leans forward and rests his forearms against his thighs, his fingers steepled between his knees. He sits that way for what feels like forever.
“Say something,” I prompt. There is a part of me that feels guilty, knowing that if the roles were reversed, I’d be mortified if he saw half the things I wrote about him—and the others—in my journal.
He sits up again. Angles his head toward me but keeps his gaze distant, staring at something behind me.
“A year ago, I started having dreams. About a girl. Brushing her hair. I didn’t think anything of it, but I dreamed of her again and again and again and again.
I haven’t stopped dreaming about her since, except maybe a handful of times I hadn’t dreamed at all.
” He draws in a deep breath. “I didn’t think she even existed.
I—I was sure she was just a figment of my imagination, an amalgamation of random faces I see on the street, my subconscious giving me ideas, or a muse, to get me through my art block.
“For a while, I resisted. It felt wrong to draw someone without their permission. And you know, my dilemma was that I wasn’t sure she existed, so how could I even ask?
“That worsened things for me a bit. I couldn’t draw anything.
I couldn’t think of anything. So, one day, I just…
went for it. I took the image out of my head and left it on the page.
I thought maybe that would exorcise her.
Set me free.” He chuckles and shakes his head.
“But the dreams kept coming. Always the same one. Recently, she started turning and holding out her hand to me. She speaks—I mean her mouth moves, but I don’t hear anything.
“I wake up in a cold sweat.”
“Is that why you have trouble sleeping at night?”
“Partly,” he says. “But—” His cheeks flush.
“I started looking forward to it.” His eyes glisten with tears.
“Listen, Isabel, I never wanted you to see it. I had no way of knowing you existed. The minute we met, I felt so ashamed of myself. I tried to get rid of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to.
Maybe I was too attached. Fuck. That’s gross.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just—I thought if I just—if I just kept it hidden—”
“But why?”
“Because. You must think I’m a total creep. It wasn’t just that sketch. I—” He stands and fetches the sketchbook, dropping it on my lap. I flip through it, and true enough, there are multiple illustrations of me in different angles. My stomach churns. My heartbeat rings in my ears.
I’ve never seen Kieran so distressed. “I can throw out the painting,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I don’t want you to think—Isabel, I’m sorry.” His tears are falling now. This means something to him. No, it means the world to him.
I set a hand over his. His is soft, warm.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t do that. I—” I drop my gaze to the sketchbook.
“I mean, this is a lot. You were dreaming about me? How is that even possible?” I can’t help but laugh.
The world is full of surprises. Maybe this is why I’m here.
Not for Natalia, not even for myself, but for Kieran.
He chokes out a sob and squeezes my hand.
“Don’t cry,” I coo, touching his cheek. “I’m not mad. I’m really not mad. I—I’m just—I’m overwhelmed.”
“I’m so embarrassed,” he cries.
Something comes over me. I don’t know what. But I lift his hand to my lips and press kisses onto his knuckles. I’m full of fondness and affection for him. I trust him. I know he didn’t mean anything wrong by it. I know he’s nothing like Jaime.
I pull him into a hug and squeeze him tightly. It fills me with a new kind of warmth, a comfort I’ve never felt before. And what’s more: it’s a perfect fit, as if we were molded together and then flung apart, only now finding our way back to each other. “It’s okay, Kieran. Really. It’s okay.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m a creep,” he sobs into my shoulder.
“I don’t. God, really, I don’t.”
“I swear I didn’t draw anything salacious—”
That elicits laughter from me.
“Don’t laugh,” he says, pulling back. “I’m serious. I would never cross that line. Never, ever.”
“Even if I asked?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He gapes at me. “What—what do you mean?”
I don’t know what I mean. It feels like I crossed a line I can’t uncross. The air between us is taut. Like rubber stretched thin, whoever lets go dooms the other to get stung.
I brace myself for an inevitable rejection.
“You know. Like, in Titanic.”
“Titanic?” he echoes.
“‘Draw me like one of your French girls,’” I quote.
He chuckles nervously. “You mean nude?”
God, this is even more awkward than I thought it would be.
What am I doing? “Not exactly? I mean. Maybe with a blanket. You’ve drawn nude people before, right?
” My mind pictures Natalia lounging naked on a chaise, Kieran’s eyes tracing the lines of her perfect body and rendering it on the page.
My stomach flips. Jealousy strikes me in the gut.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I mean—for school and stuff. Practice.”
“Do you want to now?” I ask. “Practice, I mean.”
“I’ve never painted anything like it.”
I regret this already. “You don’t have to. I was just—”
“No, no, I do. I just—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
I laugh nervously. I already am uncomfortable. There’s no turning back from here.
“Do you know that sculpture,” he starts, “Undine Rising from the Waters by Chauncey Ives?” When I stare blankly at him, he pulls up an image from his phone.
It’s insane how the sculptor carved the marble to make it look as though it was made of fabric, soaked through and clinging to the woman’s figure.
“Do you want to paint something like that?” I ask. I know what I offered, but I can’t quite imagine soaking a blanket in water and letting it stick to my skin. Somehow that feels even more exposing than going full nude.
“The question isn’t if I want to,” Kieran says. “The question is if you’d let me.”
I gulp. I’ve managed to not lose my mind over the nights Kieran’s gaze scanned over my body, but I was fully clothed. I imagine I would melt into a puddle if I undressed before him.
But why not? Step out of your comfort zone, Isabel. Feel his gentle gaze caress your skin.
Why not, why not, why not?
“Okay,” I say after some time. “Okay, yeah. Why not?”
“You pick the pose,” he says. “And you don’t have to show your face if you don’t want to. It’s more—it can be more about the fabric, how the light hits it, fills its folds in shadow, you know?”
I shake my head. “It can be like the sketch. My back to you. My shoulder exposed, and I’m looking over it. I think that’s less objectifying than if it was just my body. I get to be myself, you know, not just some nude girl in a blanket.”
Kieran nods. He looks into the cabinets but finds no blankets. We settle for the backdrop hanging from the rafters. We push the desk so he can stand on it, and I hold it still while he pulls the fabric down.
He offers to wait outside while I undress.
I tell him it isn’t necessary; to just close his eyes or turn around.
I shiver as I strip—just my top and my bra, because the rest of me will be covered by the fabric.
I cup my breasts with one hand and reach for the cloth.
I drape it around myself, scrunching it round so that it creases and folds and he can make the most of it.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I say.
Kieran blinks when he faces me.
“Kieran?” I prompt. “Are we doing this or not?”
“Oh. Y-Yeah,” he stammers. “Let’s go.”