6. Chapter Five #2
It’s what every critic has ever told me—that my paintings lack life . I had one critic tell me that looking at my artwork was like watching someone die, slowly . I took it as a compliment.
Accepting the loss of this conversation, I open my mouth to say something, but she beats me to it.
“They appear almost unfinished. It’s like. . .I don’t know, they need a conclusion.”
Interesting. “What do you mean?”
When I expect that to be all, she surprises me again. “They seem open-ended and…well, not everyone wants to contemplate the meaning of something. Sometimes, it’s better when the purpose is obvious.”
My head tilts in thought. “What is art if not there to ask why?” It’s a rhetorical question an art teacher of mine once asked me. It’s the question that sparked my imagination in ways that’s helped me build the career I have today.
She shrugs. “Not everyone likes complicated things.”
“You said they were creepy, now they’re also complicated?”
Her eyes narrow. “Aren’t they allowed to be both?”
“Yes,” I say. Most of my work is personal and I suppose that most of the time the only person who can decipher the meaning is me.
This goes for a lot of art, so I take it as her not being a big fan.
It doesn’t bother me. I understand that people have different interests. It only makes me wonder what hers are.
“Huh.” She cocks her head, frowning at my art. “They’re strangely sad when you look at them long enough.”
This silences my thoughts and a part of me no longer wishes to discuss my work; the other part has long since healed and accepts fate as it is.
I welcome myself as I am and others as they are, and I’ve learned rather harshly that this is a difficult task for most. I will always live among the misunderstood and I’m content there—here.
She must sense my mood shift because she asks, “So. . .when do you want me gone?”
A single eyebrow lifts as I repeat her ridiculous question in my head. “Pardon?”
She huffs, tapping her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Are you really going to make me ask again?”
I know that her being snappy has to do with the fact that she thinks I want her removed from my home, so I don’t take it personally. The idea of her leaving feels incredibly wrong. If anything at all, I’m always a gentleman. I could never do such a thing.
It makes me wonder why Carter didn’t bother to ask me, it’s not like I’d have said no. His weird mood last night finally makes sense at least. Still, I’m not the biggest fan of lying and it does manage to slice something inside of me where he could have simply been honest.
“You can stay as long as you need to.” I know apartment hunting in New York can be extremely taxing and I don’t want her going to some hellhole just because she doesn’t have another choice.
There’s also a part of me that’s intrigued by her and the idea of not having to be alone in this apartment.
The company might be nice after the weeks I’ve had.
Though, there is a tinge of regret that arrives at the look on her face.
Her eyes bug and she blinks a few times as she processes what I’ve said and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line I can’t see. I’m about to open my mouth and say that I didn’t mean to assume, but then she blurts, “What?”
Hesitating, I say gently, “I’m sure we can work something out until you figure out your situation.” I motion a hand around us. “I have plenty of space to spare.”
Her mouth falls open and then snaps shut. There’s something about the way her brows bunch together as if trying to read me that I find endearing. “You’re serious?”
“I hardly make jokes. I’m not a monster. Did you think I’d kick you out?”
She stares at me skeptically. “What do you get out of it?”
My head tilts in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I guess I can pay you—”
“Who said anything about you paying me?” I ask and when her shoulders begin to hunch toward her ears I add, “I don’t want your money, Andrea.”
She grows distressed, the robe falling from her shoulder. She’s fast to lift the fabric back in place, but not before my eyes catch the delicate skin of her collarbone.
“I can’t just stay here for free.”
“Nothing stopped you before,” I quip. Narrowing her eyes at me, I can see the snarky retort a mile away. Quickly, I add, “Carter is a close friend, and my favors don’t require anything in return.”
“Mhm, right, you’re the kind of man who can’t remember the faces of the women he has sex with.” With a huff, she looks away from me, her eyes scanning the room in dismissal.
Internally, I grimace at myself but keep my face neutral. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve had a shitty couple of weeks. ”
She contemplates something silently with herself.
When her eyes connect with mine again, the natural light coming through the windows hits them perfectly.
I’ve never looked into anyone’s eyes and felt solitude before.
I must be coming down with something. I make a mental note to check my temperature later.
“Thank you,” she says softly—unexpectedly. “You’re not what I expected.”
“No?”
She shakes her head. Appearing to have come to a conclusion, she stands, flattening her palms over her silky robe. “If Carter trusts you then so do I.”
Trust is not something that I take lightly, so I take her words in with care. “I don’t know that he’s a good source, but I’m honored, nonetheless.”
She lets out a soft laugh, the sound mesmerizing and her smile drugging. My brain finds her undoubtedly fascinating, causing my heart to ring like a warning bell in my ears.
Goddamn it.