Chapter 34 Nearly There
NEARLY THERE
ALICE
Idab the final highlights onto the canvas. I’m getting down to the wire here, still missing a few pieces to make the collection whole. But even if the gallery was tomorrow, I’d have something to show for myself, and that fact straightens my back with pride.
The quick, piercing ding of the doorbell cuts through the music drifting from my speaker. I jerk at the sound, and I’m glad my instinct is to pull into myself, otherwise I’d be spending the night carefully scraping a giant slash of off-white from this canvas.
I blow out a relieved sigh and set my brush onto my palette. The doorbell dings again, and I rush from the room, letting my music run on loop in the background.
My feet stomp down the old stairs, punching the air with noise. A small smile curls my lips, because I used to tiptoe around this house. Now, I make a scene when I move from room to room.
I slam my cabinets shut with purpose, rather than leaving them ajar.
I sing in the shower. I raise the music on my speaker to fourteen or sometimes sixteen volume—not capping it at ten.
And I don’t shy away from the creaking floorboards unless there’s a special someone dozed off in the corner of my studio.
Making noise is my new way of taking up space.
What a difference a few months can make.
I pull open the front door, revealing Jessa, who leans against the porch railing. She pushes off it with a smirk, immediately closing in to curl a hand over my waist and drop a chaste peck on my cheek.
“Hey, Trouble,” she murmurs, and happy shocks skitter down my skin. “Harley’s working late. Hope it’s okay that I help you tonight instead.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, slightly bummed. It’s kind of become our thing—me working and him watching. “Do you think he’ll stop by after?”
One of Jessa’s hands rises to her chest, rubbing over her heart. “Ouch, way to knock me down a peg,” she feigns offense, but there’s humor in her lilt. “Am I not good enough for you all by my lonesome?”
“What? No, that’s not what I meant,” I panic. “I just—"
“I’m pulling your leg, Alice,” she says. Then, she winks. “I already know I’m your favorite.”
I mash my lips together, slightly embarrassed by my initial reaction, but I play into the bit anyway. “I see. I won’t tell Harley about this upset in the partner rankings.”
“Please don’t,” she teases. “He sounded sad enough when he asked me to come in his stead.” She nods to the dark house beyond my shoulder. “You going to let me in?”
“Oh,” I squeak, stepping back. “Yeah, here.”
Jessa brushes past in that graceful way of hers—her steps never make a sound unless she wants them to—and finds her way into my kitchen. She shucks a tote from her shoulder and pulls out two bottles of wine.
“Where are your glasses?” she asks, beginning to rummage through my cabinets.
“That one,” I say, pointing at the farthest cabinet. “And the bottle opener is in the drawer below.”
“Thank you,” Jessa drawls.
With practiced hands, she gathers the supplies and pops the cork on one bottle. Dark red wine pours into twin crystal glasses.
“Tonight is girl’s night, and pizza should be here in ten,” she continues. “I felt like we were due for some much-needed alone time.”
Jessa pushes one glass towards me, her fingers split around the stem. I take it, relishing the spark that passes through me when our hands brush, and sip. Dry cabernet rolls over my taste buds, making my mouth tingle. My tongue darts out, cautiously, to chase the flavor on my lips.
“Are we… doing too much all together?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“No,” Jessa says. “I love when it’s the three of us. But between Ori stealing you away to Arcadia, and Harley and you holing up here to paint, you don’t make it to the café as much. Outside of training, I don’t ever get you to myself.”
I glance at the ceiling, where my studio sits above us. My music filters through the non-existent insulation. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. You’re stretched thin. I’m not mad,” Jessa reassures me, taking a large sip of her wine. “However, I do think it’s time that I get to participate in the full artistic experience of the famous painter, Alice Raine.”
“You know I don’t actually paint Harley naked, right?” I say, laughing.
Her thumb swipes a runaway drop of maroon from the corner of her mouth. “A girl can fantasize, can’t she?”
Four glasses of wine, one fresh underpainting, and a half-eaten grandma pie later, Jessa pulls me onto the daybed in the sunroom.
I only ever come out here at night; it gets too hot during the day.
With the glass walls and ceiling, the direct sunlight my backyard gets is magnified, causing it to swelter.
Whoever designed it should have made it screened in, so we could open the windows and let a breeze flow through.
But night has descended, so it’s not terribly hot, even if the staleness of the sunbaked air lingers.
We lay on top of a thin and scratchy throw blanket, one that I should have thrown out when I moved in but never got around to, and I curl into Jessa’s side.
She gladly accepts me as my head nestles in the crook of her shoulder.
Her leg hooks over my hip and one of mine slots between hers, weaving us together.
I’ve got an alcohol buzz—our drained glasses sit on the side table—and my skin tingles in all the places we’re pressed together.
It’s calming, and I lean into it, trailing a finger over her tan, muscled thigh.
Under the hem of her shorts her sun-kissed skin lightens, the highest point of her thigh whiter than the rest from how much time we’ve spent training outside.
Crickets chirp, and katydids buzz, droning out the distant squeals of my neighbors’ summer parties.
“How are you doing?” Jessa whispers.
I hum, a high pitch of tentative pondering. “That’s a vague question.”
Her chest shakes, and I snuggle closer.
“How are you feeling right now?” she clarifies. I can hear the smirk in her words.
“I missed cuddling,” I murmur. “As much as it makes me overheat in the middle of the night, it’s so much better than being alone. Will you stay over?”
Jessa shifts, lifting one hand to graze along my cheek. Her amber irises glow in the moonlight, as does the white patch of hair in her bangs. The darker, loose tresses embrace the shadows of night, curling around her neck and flowing onto the pillow we rest on.
“You want to sleep with me, Trouble?” she teases.
“I haven’t wanted to fuck anyone in years and now I want to fuck you both constantly. I’m incredibly horny and it’s incredibly frustrating.” I’ve loosened my filter considerably over the last few weeks, and the wine we’ve consumed only bolsters my lack of inhibition. “Please?”
Jessa’s thumb slides back and forth, before pushing a curl back from my face.
She shifts again, curling closer to me and bracing her weight on her elbow. It gives her better access to me, and her fingers pinch my chin lifting it up.
“Hm…” Her eyes flick between mine, as if they’re gauging how many of my words are truth and how many are drunken ramblings. Jokes on her—they’re both.
Her thumb catches on my bottom lip. It tugs, dragging it down. If I had any lip-gloss on it would smear down my chin with the action.
Is that what she’s imagining, as her gaze follows her nail? As it releases my lip and my tongue chases the taste of her as it did the tang of wine earlier?
“You know you mean more to me than sex, right?” she asks. “You feel good in my arms right now, as is. I don’t want to ruin that peace.”
Emotion swells within me, surging like a rising tide. It all gets caught in my throat, as it always does. I choke on it because—I suddenly realize—I feel at peace here too.
With her. With Harley. Even with Ori. As much as we bicker, his grouchy ass can be fun to play with, like at Harley’s birthday.
They don’t only distract my mind but soothe it.
When was my last truly bad day? The kind where I can’t get out of bed. When I can only manage to nibble on crumbs from my cabinet. Where I’m lost to the catatonia, and stare out at nothing, but feel everything.
My anniversary, weeks ago, back in June.
They haven’t been fully devoid of bad moments, but I can’t recall whole days being swept away by the riptide of my mind.
Maybe I’ve become a stronger swimmer; maybe I’ve been training with Jessa and Ori in ways I didn’t realize.
Can I now outlast the undercurrent of my emotion when it tries to pull me under?
Hope. True hope. That’s what this is.
Fruity and dry, like the wine in my belly.
Decadent, like the swipe of Jessa’s fingers over my skin and the praise she murmurs into my crown. Like the tentative grip I take on her strong calf, keeping her leg wrapped around my hip.
I let go and fall into it, consciously now. Though I think I’ve been swimming in these new waters for a while.
I’m going to have to paint this.
“You’re not ruining it,” I say, turning my head to kiss her palm. “And you mean more to me than sex too,” I add, detangling myself from her hold. Jessa tries to sit up, following me in her confusion, but I push her back down onto the daybed. “Don’t move.”
“Okay…” Jessa drawls with suspicion, settling back on the pillow as I pat at the scratchy blanket.
“Fuck, where is it?” I grumble. “I need to get a reference so I don’t forget.”
“If you’re looking for your phone, it’s still on the speaker dock upstairs.”
“Damn it,” I groan, crawling over Jessa and hopping off the mattress. “Fine, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” I point a finger at Jessa. “Do. Not. Move.”
Her brows disappear under her bangs. “Heard, Trouble. But if you don’t start asking for things nicely you’re going to regret it later.”
Well, that doesn’t exactly sound terrible.