Chapter 24 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
Every thought left my head when Gwen stepped out of her bedroom. Why would she ever think I’d mock her costume? She looked beautiful.
Always, she looked beautiful. Not a moment passed where I found her any less than perfect. Especially tonight.
Her makeup was nothing out of the ordinary. The usual dark wings that rimmed her eyes, accentuated with a bold red lip. The cherry red locks that dangled around her face were curlier than normal, half of it held up with a pretty flower-shaped clip.
The outfit was new, though. I had only seen Gwen in sweatpants and jeans.
This was the first time I’d seen her in a dress.
The black sleeves were long, the neckline low, hugging and flowing in all the right places.
The skirt rested in just the right spot between her thighs and knees.
Classy, elegant, with the perfect edge of sex appeal.
On the car ride to the bar, I talked more about my day, and Gwen about hers.
I told her about the Cardigan Corgi puppy who’d come in for her twelve-week vaccinations.
That had Gwen grinning ear to ear, talking about how, even though she preferred the Pembroke’s demeanor from what she’d read, she had always wanted to meet a Cardigan.
A tangent started there about my desire to get a puppy. My office was running well now, and Lizzie was old enough that I didn’t have to worry so much about her safety. Gwen suggested a corgi, and I howled with laughter. As much as I adored Honey, I wanted no part in the feisty breed.
The rest of the car ride, we bickered and laughed about which breeds were the best, which were the worst, and concluded that a golden retriever would be the perfect pick for me.
As we drove the winding back roads, teasing one another, laughing at each other, my chest was warm with fantasies.
The two of us sitting on a porch somewhere, watching the dogs frolic through knee high grass.
A couple glasses of wine, laughter filling the air, and infectious smiles we passed back and forth.
A future. A life together. Something I’d never let myself imagine before.
Over the last decade, people would ask why I didn’t date. I’d always said it was because my niece needed stability. It was bad enough she didn’t have parents. I didn’t want her to struggle with getting to know someone who may not have stuck around.
That hadn’t been a lie. It hadn’t been the truth either.
I just couldn’t see it.
The only positive influence I’d had growing up was Rhiannon. She did everything on her own, and she did it all right.
I didn’t know what a healthy couple looked like.
How could I want something I’d only ever seen on TV?
That wasn’t real. Real relationships sucked.
People lied. They hurt each other. Married couples gripped so tightly to what they wanted to be that they lost any semblance of the love they’d once had.
But maybe our relationship was different. Maybe me and Gwen, with all our baggage and scars, could be different. Not a fairytale with a happily ever after, but something positive. Something simple and safe.
When we arrived at a pub on the edge of town, one I had never once entered, we found two seats at the bar.
It was a Friday night, meaning all the small tables and booths were already taken.
The place reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor.
In the low light, we could hardly see one another.
The stage in the corner took up half of the square footage.
Still, there was something sensual about this place. Specifically, about Gwen inside it. Not because Gwen belonged in shady dive bars. She was anything but comparable to the hillbillies chugging and spilling beer all over the place.
It was like her presence atop the tearing, worn-in leather barstool dressed the place up. Simply her existence here livened the atmosphere. When I’d walked in, it was only a bar. With Gwen seated inside it, it was a cabaret.
There was something about Gwen’s aura that I couldn’t quite put into words. If I painted her, I doubted I could capture it. As we sat there, Gwen sipping her vodka cranberry and me nursing my Pepsi, I tried to put my finger on it.
She listened so closely, admiring the country singer on stage, then made comments to me about how beautiful her inflection was, or how skilled she was with the fiddle to pull off the song that vibrated through the speakers.
A heartbeat later, when a drunk man shoulder-checked her, she not-so-subtly snapped an, “Excuse you.”
Such a fascinating dichotomy of a woman.
When 10:30 hit, and the bartender told her to go ahead up, I leaned back in my chair and studied every move she made. What made her so different? What was it in her demeanor that made me see a future together?
Just before she walked on stage, she fastened something around her head. It wasn’t until she sat at the piano that I got a good look at it.
Across her eyes, obscuring the top half of her face, she wore a masquerade mask. The base was black, trimmed with red lace, topped with a few black feathers on the right side that wrapped into her hair.
Not so much as sparing me a glance, she started on the keys.
On many occasions now, I had witnessed her perform. Mostly at the ranch. Gwen always played the piano while the kids on stage sang holiday songs or silly musicals. Then, she had smiled and watched with pride at all the little ones who had worked so hard for their big show.
But this? This was different.
That grand piano was to Gwen what sand was to ocean waves. I didn’t recognize the songs she played. But I didn’t need to. This wasn’t about singing along.
Watching her lips move, knowing she was singing despite the muted mic, had thoughts connecting in my mind for the first time.
Nearly a year, we had known each other. Nearly a year, we had been friends. But it wasn’t until this moment that I understood her.
The way she played brought all attention to the stage, every hair on every arm to its end, and every buried tear to the corner of each eye.
Like each tap of the keys was a laced lasso cast out into the crowd.
It twirled around my body, around the frame of everyone else, and held us captive.
What she created, what she breathed into the world, silently took hold and demanded you feel it as deeply as she did.
It wasn’t a plea or a request, but an insistence.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t look away.
I couldn’t ignore the heat that rose in my chest or the burn in my eyes.
Gwen Kane was an artist, sure. But this went deeper. She didn’t just create art. She was art.
Art captivated. It caught the eye, and it held you in place.
A beautiful, tortured being filled to the brim with sensibilities and suffering who could only ever relay such things this way because no words in any language could capture the broad scope of who she was.
She’d wrapped me up in ribbons long ago, ready at any moment to be what she wanted, what she needed. But now, I could see the threads. I saw who she was beneath the masked, guarded exterior. I saw all the vulnerability inside her that had roped me in, and I loved her even more for it.
I was her captive, and I wanted to stay in her chains for the rest of my days.
After complimenting Gwen’s performance, my stomach rumbled, and I asked if she was hungry. Her eyes lit up at the mention of food. The only place open at this time was a diner off a nearby highway. Half an hour later, just before midnight, that’s where we were.
While we sipped our drinks, waiting on our meals, I got the conversation going with, “It was amazing. You’re amazing.”
Rather than brushing me off with a passive wave of her hand, Gwen propped both hands beneath her chin and gave a big smile. “Why thank you.”
Returning the smile, a quiet laugh escaped me. “But I gotta ask.”
“About?”
“The mask.”
Confusion pinched her brows. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“It may be, but I had a seven-hour surgery today, so.” I sipped my coffee. “My head’s not all here at the moment.”
“Anonymity.” A casual shrug. “It’s the same reason I sing with my mic off.
Before I came to the ranch, I performed at a couple bars.
Even opened for some D-list musicians. If someone were to record me singing here and put it online, someone could put together who I am.
That would blow my cover and endanger the ranch. ”
Her answer only led to more questions. Who would find her? Her ex? Someone else? Who was she before? What did her voice sound like? Was it as magical as her piano?
But it was only curiosity. She found safety and comfort in her anonymity. What did the past matter anyway? Wasn’t it a future we were after?
“See,” I said, “you could’ve told me that it was just a part of the stage persona. That you were going for a classy meets goth vibe, and I would’ve believed you.”
She laughed. “Guess it’s a good disguise then.”
“A damn good one.” Leaning back in the red leather booth, I squinted her over. “So you were a singer, too?”
“I still sing,” she said. “Just not on a stage.”
“Are you any good?”
Narrowing her eyes, she gave a half smile. “I’m about as good at singing as you are at painting frogs smoking cigarettes.”
“Whew.” I clicked my tongue. “That’s a shame.”
She laughed. “Stop it. You’re an amazing artist.”
Was I skilled at duplicating an object’s likeness in paint on a canvas? Sure. Was that why I did it? No.
“I told you before, I’m a painter. Not an artist.”
“What’s the difference to you?” She propped her elbows on the table and came closer, squinting me over. “What makes someone an artist versus a painter or a musician?”