Chapter 11
Eleven
This is absurd.
But it’s also exactly what we needed. After a week of serial killers and supernatural warnings and almost losing each other, we need ridiculous. Non-life-threatening discomfort. A reason to laugh that isn’t hysteria.
I can’t decide if I’d rather be at family dinner right now—enduring Yiayia’s interrogation via zoom about why I’m not married yet—or chugging the entire bottle of rosé Moscato sitting beside my easel.
The studio is exactly what you’d expect from a converted warehouse art space. Exposed brick walls. Industrial windows letting in gray February light. Easels arranged in a semicircle. A small platform in the center with a single chair.
Very dramatic. Very we’re serious artists here.
There are maybe ten other people. An older woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a chain who looks way too excited to be here.
A serious art student type—early twenties, black turtleneck, judging everyone’s technique.
A middle-aged couple doing this for their anniversary, apparently.
A few other people who look as uncomfortable as I feel.
The room feels safe. Warm. That art-studio energy Alex loves—creative, open, no threat.
The older woman radiates gentle enthusiasm. The art student has that self-conscious intensity of someone trying too hard. The couple is nervous-excited, touching each other’s arms.
No danger here. Just people trying to make art and feel less alone.
And then there’s the instructor.
She’s maybe forty. All black clothing. Severe bob.
The kind of person who definitely has opinions about Rothko.
She’s been walking around talking about “capturing the essence of the form” and “celebrating the human body as art” and other things that sound very profound but mostly make me want to die.
“Welcome, welcome!” She claps her hands. “I’m Margot. For those new to figure drawing, remember—we’re not just drawing a body. We’re drawing energy. Movement. The spirit of the human form.”
Alex is already setting up her supplies. She brought her own brushes—of course she did. Nice ones. The kind you’d use for actual painting, not for whatever disaster I’m about to create.
I pour myself a healthy glass of rosé Moscato.
Alex raises an eyebrow. “Starting strong?”
“Starting scared.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I will not be fine. I will be the worst person here. Everyone will see how bad I am and they’ll ask me to leave for bringing down the collective artistic energy.”
That old fear. The one I’ve been carrying since I was twelve. The one that says if I’m not competent, if I’m not good at things, if I show weakness—I’m not safe. The armor I built when Daddy died and competence was the only thing I could control.
And now I’m about to be publicly terrible at something and I can’t hide behind performance.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It feels like it should be a thing.”
Margot is still talking. Something about negative space and the relationship between shadow and light. I’m not listening. I’m too busy having an existential crisis about the fact that I’m about to stare at a naked stranger for two hours and pretend it’s normal.
“Our model today is very experienced,” Margot continues. “Please remember to be respectful. No photography. No inappropriate comments. We’re here to appreciate the form, not objectify it.”
“That’s rich,” I mutter to Alex. “We’re literally objectifying him by turning him into an object we draw.”
“That’s not what objectifying means.”
“Feels like it should be.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m hydrating.” I take another sip of wine. It’s helping. Sort of. Maybe if I drink enough, my hands will be too shaky to draw anything recognizable and I can blame it on that.
The door to the side room opens.
And he walks out.
Hot Guy. The man I’m about to draw naked.
My intuition does its automatic check. Confident but not threatening. Comfortable in his body. Professional energy—this is just work to him. No predatory vibe. No Marcus-feeling. Just a guy doing his job.
The serpent stays quiet.
He’s wearing a white robe. Hair slightly damp like he just showered. Completely comfortable. Professional. This is just his job. He does this all the time.
I want to die.
He nods at Margot. Steps onto the platform.
And drops the robe.
Just like that.
Casual. Easy. Like he’s taking off a coat, not exposing his entire naked body to a room full of strangers with paintbrushes.
I immediately look at my easel. At the blank canvas. At literally anything else.
“Oh my god,” I whisper to Alex.
“What?” She’s already sketching. Actual sketching. Light pencil strokes. Confident. Like she does this every day.
“He’s posing with his dick out.”
“That’s generally how nude modeling works, yes.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” She doesn’t even look up. Just keeps sketching. Her tongue sticks out slightly in concentration. That thing she does when she’s focused. I’ve seen that face a thousand times—over tarot cards, over murder boards, over her laptop screen.
Never thought I’d see it while she’s drawing a dick.
“Alright everyone,” Margot says, walking around the circle. “Let’s begin with a five-minute warm-up pose. Darling, if you could—yes, perfect. Notice the line of the spine. The weight distribution. The energy moving through the body.”
I peek around my easel.
He’s sitting on the chair. One leg extended. Arm resting on his knee. Very classical. Very I’m a Greek statue but alive.
Very naked.
I look back at my canvas.
Then peek around the easel again.
His face is turned slightly away. Strong jaw. That hair falling just right. If he were wearing clothes, I’d probably think he was attractive in a distant, objective way.
But he’s not wearing clothes.
And I’m supposed to draw him.
I grab my pencil. Try to sketch something. Anything.
Maybe I’ll start with the chair. The chair is safe. The chair is not naked.
I draw the chair.
It looks like a drunk rectangle.
“Beautiful work, everyone!” Margot is circulating. Getting closer to my side of the room. “Remember, we’re not aiming for photorealism. We’re capturing essence.”
Good. Because there’s no danger of me achieving photorealism.
I peek around the easel again. Try to actually look at him as a collection of shapes. Lines. Shadow and light. All that stuff Margot is talking about.
He’s just a person. A naked person. Doing his job.
I can do this.
I start sketching. Head. Shoulders. Torso. I’m actually trying. Really trying. Measuring proportions with my thumb like I’ve seen in movies.
It’s going badly.
The head is too big. The shoulders are uneven. Something about the torso looks like a potato.
I take a drink of wine. A big drink.
Alex glances over at my canvas. Bites her lip. Trying not to laugh.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you’re doing great.”
“Liar.”
“The biggest liar.” She grins. Goes back to her canvas.
I peek at her work.
It’s... good? It’s actually good. When did Alex learn to draw naked people? How does she know dick proportions? Why is she so comfortable with this?
“How are you so good at this?” I hiss.
“Art history minor, remember?” She adds shading. Confident strokes. “We had figure drawing as part of the curriculum.”
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked if I’d drawn naked people before.”
“That’s not a normal question!”
“It is if you’re an art major.”
“Okay, everyone!” Margot claps. “Let’s move to our longer pose. Darling, whenever you’re ready.”
Hot guy shifts. Stands. Stretches slightly.
I look at my easel very intensely.
When I peek back, he’s in a new pose. Standing. Weight on one leg. Arms in a position that’s probably meaningful from an artistic perspective but I’m too panicked to process.
I try again. New sketch. Fresh start.
This one is somehow worse.
“You’re overthinking it,” Alex whispers.
“I’m not thinking at all. That’s the problem.”
“Just draw what you see.”
“I see a naked man and my brain is screaming.”
She laughs. Actually laughs. That full, genuine Alex laugh that makes other people smile even when they don’t know what’s funny.
The serious art student glances over. Annoyed. We’re disrupting his process.
I try to focus. Really focus. Stop thinking about all the nakedness. Just draw lines and shapes and—
Margot appears behind me.
“Interesting,” she says, studying my disaster of a canvas.
I want to sink into the floor.
“Very... interpretive.”
That’s art-speak for this is terrible but I’m being polite.
“I was going for realistic,” I admit.
“Hmm.” She tilts her head. “Perhaps try embracing a more abstract approach? Sometimes our inhibitions create barriers to traditional representation. Let the emotion flow through you instead.”
She moves on to the next person.
“Did she just tell me I’m too uptight to draw a dick?” I whisper to Alex.
“She told you to go abstract.”
“Because the realistic version looks like a potato with limbs.”
“A very enthusiastic potato.”
I laugh despite myself. Nearly snort wine. That would be great—choking on rosé Moscato in front of a naked man and ten strangers.
“Okay. Fine. Abstract it is.”
I give up on the pencils and grab the acrylics.
I dip my brush in paint. Stop trying to make it look like an actual human. Just start putting color on canvas. Shapes. Movement. Whatever the hell Margot was talking about with essence.
It’s actually kind of freeing.
Maybe this is what my life is now. Not controlled. Not planned. Not carefully managed like case files and evidence. Just chaos that I move through. Colors that don’t make sense but feel right. Shapes that don’t represent anything but somehow represent everything.
I can’t control Dom. Can’t control Marcus. Can’t control whether we’ll find justice for Dahlia or whether my intuition will save me or whether any of this will end well.
But I can put paint on canvas and call it art. I can embrace the mess. I can stop trying to make everything look the way it’s supposed to look.