Chapter 5 #2
“Would you mind telling me some of the stories? Like the meaning of your sleeve?” He pushes up his shirtsleeve to his shoulder, giving me the best view ever of his bicep.
I might be mistaken, but I swear he flexes it when he sees me watching.
It has the intended effect if he did, because the way it ripples and bunches underneath the colorful ink is extremely distracting.
He is truly too gorgeous for words, and I feel my cheeks heat.
“The sleeve is really about my roots, and where I came from. That’s the Salvadoran flag, where both of my parents are from.
Then I wanted to capture all of the vivid colors of El Salvador, so the flowers are a combination of native flowers, and the favorites of my mom and each of my sisters.
Their initials are incorporated into the flowers they love.
” He points to each element as he talks about them, and I’m completely transfixed.
The love he so clearly has for his family makes my heart squeeze painfully, both in awe and frankly, in envy.
Celeste and I are sisters of the heart, but even we don’t have that level of love and devotion.
I don’t have anyone I’ve known since birth, that’s been through every single moment of my life with me.
The first 8 years of my life were pretty lonely without a sibling until I got placed with Celeste.
“I’d love to go to your tattoo parlor, I could be your guinea pig. I know you probably need people to practice on,” he blurts, pulling me from my thoughts. I shake my head vehemently.
“I’d be too afraid of messing it up, I’d need a lot more practice to feel comfortable enough to tattoo you, my friend. I need to be on the level with the other ones you have.”
“Maybe down the road, then.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I echo with a noncommittal shrug, even though I’m burning up a little inside at the idea of tattooing him.
“Have you always been good at art? Did you doodle a lot as a kid?” I smile a little, thinking about what a mess I made out of all of my school notebooks with my constant doodling.
“Drawing has always been something almost compulsive with me. I had all of this energy in me as a kid, and it needed to go somewhere. My hands needed something to do, and drawing was it. There’s an old picture I have that my parents took.
I had made a huge, childish mural of their living room wall when I was 4, so they labeled it, ‘Tania, crayon on wall, 2003’ on the back.
It was a bunch of trees and flowers. My grandma liked to tell me the story a lot.
Apparently my dad had turned away from coloring with me to see who was at the door.
By the time he looked back, I had used a bigger canvas.
They got me an enormous sketchbook the next day, repainted the living room, and that was it.
I took as many art classes as I could, but I don’t have a degree or anything. ”
His grin is now ear to ear, and he’s leaning forward like he can’t get enough of my stories. “Hang on a second, I want to show you something,” he tells me before getting up and striding to his bedroom. When he comes back, he shows me an enormous sketchbook, presenting it like a goofy Vanna White.
“Something like this? Go on, take a look. I was the same when I was a kid. All restless energy and needing to use my hands. I love sketching, it’s soothing.
” He hands me the book and I start leafing through it.
My breath catches as I take in his work.
It’s mostly landscapes that include lush waterfalls, tropical beaches with palm trees, vistas from high up, and dense forests.
There are some animals, too. Stunning images of a mama deer with her fawn, birds, outdoor cats, rabbits, and even a raccoon fill the pages.
They have no color, but the sketches are so detailed and well done.
“These are wonderful, Carlo,” I almost whisper.
“Thank you. I like to sketch wherever I’m traveling or hiking.” His reply is low and appreciative.
“I’m being so serious right now. You have such an eye.
You should go to art school or pursue it somehow.
” I can’t help but gush at his obvious talent.
Finding out we have a love for art in common isn’t helping in the least with trying to not like him beyond being roommates.
Now it’s his turn to shrug, but I can tell my words have hit a mark. He’s almost acting shy about it.
“I don’t know about that, it’s just me messing around.”
“I think you know that’s how some of the best art comes to be. I’m just saying, you’re really talented.” Now he’s outright shifting from foot to foot. Has no one told him this before? Does his family know how good he is?
“Thank you,” he says again simply, his hand rubbing the back of his neck with a small smile on his face.
I’m so used to his effervescence, his lopsided grin that speaks of mischief.
Seeing him getting shy is damn adorable.
“We could watch some TV if you want, or I know you might want to get more settled,” he goes on.
“Winding down with a little TV before bed sounds good. What do you like to watch?”
“I like goofy sitcoms the most, especially animated ones, but I’m open to anything.
” Then he narrows his eyes playfully. “Are you someone who finds true crime documentaries about serial killers soothing? My sisters are all about that and it’s disturbing.
” I burst out laughing, and maybe this is me reading too much into his expressions, but it looks like his eyes light up at the sound. I can’t help teasing him.
“Awww, do they give you nightmares, buddy?”
“No,” he shoots back a little too defensively. “I just don’t know how anyone can find them soothing. I’m all for adrenaline rushes but I don’t like hearing about gruesome murders.” I huff a laugh, because I get it.
“I don’t find them soothing, but they’re fascinating. I get so engrossed and addicted. Some comedy would be fun right now, though. It’s been an interesting couple of days. Let me get showered and ready for bed quickly.” He nods. “I’ll go after you.”
I play with the cats while he’s in the shower, trying so hard to not imagine him naked with water sluicing down his muscular body.
It’s not going well. When he joins me in the living room, we flop onto the couch and he grabs the remote.
We watch a little Rick and Morty while having some potato chips, with both of the cats joining us on the couch.
I’m hyper aware of him on the other end, Gomez curled up on his lap.
We keep stealing glances at each other while we watch, our hands occasionally brushing when we reach for the chips.
Every time it’s that same jolt of electricity I felt when I touched his arm earlier.
When we decide to call it a night, he lets me use the bathroom first again to brush my teeth, and then I’m telling him goodnight before I crawl into bed after an exhausting day.
Sleep doesn’t come, in spite of how tired I am.
I stare at the ceiling, tossing and turning, all too aware of the wonderful man in the next bedroom. I’m in so much trouble.