Maggie - Knock next time
The bedside clock read 5am when I woke up, and I knew I’d never be able to get back to sleep. My body was still sore, and my arm was still throbbing, but overall, I didn’t feel as bad as I thought I would. I should’ve known– things always felt a little lighter, a little less daunting, in the morning.
I threw on a hoodie and slipped on my raggedy old UGG slippers before gingerly walking out to explore the apartment.
I was met with bright sunlight streaming in from huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and I realized this place was anything but an oppressive prison.
The kitchen to the left was very modern and sleek with dark wood cabinets, hardwood floors, all new stainless-steel appliances, and a huge granite island. The living room to the right was furnished with a cream-colored sectional and recliner– both looking comfortable enough to sink into.
Walking closer to the windows, I appreciated the expansive bright blue sky. The view was incredible, while this location gave the city vibe with the mall and car’s streaming around it, you could still see the snow-capped mountains in the distance.
My fingers twitched with the urge to paint it, and I suddenly knew I needed to release all my pent up emotions onto the canvas.
I honestly should’ve tried to paint last night. Painting always helped bring me out of a depressive hole. I was able to pour myself out in color and push a mental reset button.
Heading back to my room, I located my painting chest that housed all my supplies. It was a gift from Liam last Christmas. He found the chest at Hobby Lobby and fashioned wheels at the bottom of it so I could drag it around with me.
I pulled the chest out to the living room, then covered the hardwood floors with my paint-covered paper grocery bags that I kept for emergency painting sessions. I always preferred painting on the floor because I had a steadier hand when I leaned my elbow on the ground. My painting instructors in college always gave me weird looks about my insistence to use the ground instead of an easel, but they accepted it. Artists were weird, it was pretty much fact at this point.
Before starting, I wandered to the kitchen and booted up the state-of-the-art coffee pot. I usually would’ve played music from a speaker, but it sounded like Ben was still sleeping, so I settled on blasting Lorde’s “Buzzcut Season” through my headphones.
After the first few brush strokes, I decided maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. The lighting in here was perfect for painting. And it really was a beautiful apartment, maybe I wouldn’t even want to leave.
Ha. No. I needed to leave. I still needed to work toward my real life book boyfriend goal. Ben flashed into my mind at that thought, which I knew was stupid. His kindness last night was unexpected, but it was probably just because he pitied me. He didn’t like me— his sighs told me as much. And what had he called me? A “difficult woman”? I snorted aloud at that.
But maybe the grocery bag and tray outside my door last night were his version of an olive branch. Maybe this whole thing just started off a bit rocky, but it’d get easier.
I’m not sure how long I worked on the 14x14 canvas, but the faded blue background and the mountains were finished by the time I needed a bathroom break. I always pushed off any and all needs ‘til I got to a good stopping point, but now I felt like I was going to pee my pants. I kept my headphones in and grabbed up my little paintbrush cup so I could fill it with fresh water in the bathroom sink.
As soon as I shoved the bathroom door open, a surprised scream ripped from my throat. I dropped the paint brush cup and slipped on the water while trying to flee, banging my casted wrist against the counter in the process. I thought I was going down, but then strong arms were suddenly holding me.
My eyes jumped all around, to the tan tatted arm around my waist, the droplets of water that clung to him from his shower, the silver chain around his neck with a St. Christopher medallion. His boxer briefs .
And he was… shaking?
He was laughing.
Oh my God. Mortification burned me from the inside out as I batted his hands away. I quickly pulled out my headphones and slapped them on the counter.
He backed a few steps away and held a hand over his jaw to cover his laughing. A twisted mix of embarrassment and attraction churned in my gut, and his laughing was making everything worse. I hated being the butt of the joke. Of any joke.
“Why didn’t you use the damn lock?” I demanded.
His head was dipped, but his brown eyes met mine and he was smiling. And damnit. I was right. He did have a dimple.
“You got a little…” He gestured to my pants.
I looked down to see my paint cup had spilled all over me, making it look like I peed myself.
I swallowed hard and tried not to stare at his impressive muscles. At the angry scars across his left shoulder and the little scars littering his chest and abs.
“Jesus, knock next time,” he said with an amused chuckle.
My jaw hardened. Damn him.
Nevermind everything I said this morning. This would not be easy.