Chapter 1 #3
He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
His eyes are the deepest, richest shade of brown, and his dark eyelashes are even longer than mine.
His hair is chestnut-colored and cut short, but you can tell if he kept it longer, there’d be some curl to it.
He has the loveliest bronze tone to his skin, with a rosy glow in his cheeks.
He looks like he spent the summer on a boat in the Mediterranean.
He isn’t wearing a baseball cap, and his arms are covered by his sweatshirt, but I can still tell they’re toned. He’s the man I saw earlier today, unloading the moving truck. I never saw his face, but there’s no doubt in my mind.
I’m still staring at him when the hallway light above us flickers like lightning and, at the exact same moment, there’s a loud crack of…thunder?
“Did you hear that?” I ask him, wondering if I’m losing my mind.
I must have watched Four Weddings and a Funeral one too many times, and now I’m imagining thunderbolts, when they’re impossible.
I was outside a minute ago, and it wasn’t raining.
And even if it were storming outside, I doubt we’d be able to hear it this clearly from the elevator bank on the twentieth floor of our building.
The man standing in front of me blinks a few times before he takes his gaze off mine, then reaches into his pocket.
“Sorry, that was my phone,” he says, sheepishly.
“I should probably change my ringtone—it’s a little jarring.
” He frowns at the screen, then puts his cell back in his jeans.
When our eyes lock again, he squints at me. “Have we…have we met?”
The elevator doors squeak shut behind me. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so...”
“Hmm.” His gaze shifts from curious to concerned. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
I lift my fingers to my tear-streaked cheeks, embarrassed. I’m sure I have mascara running down my face. Of course I’d run into the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on when I look like a complete and utter disaster.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, wiping my tears with the backs of my hands. “It’s nothing.”
He looks down and pats his pockets. “I don’t have a tissue. But...may I?” He pulls the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand and offers to wipe my tears with it.
I nearly start crying again at the kindness of his gesture. “You’ll get makeup on your sleeve,” I tell him.
He smiles, his gaze fixed on me. “I don’t mind.”
So I nod, and he gently presses the ribbed fabric of his gray hoodie to my face .
A split second later, I hear music . The upbeat orchestral kind that swells when lovers kiss in the movies.
“Where is that coming from?” he asks, confused.
Down the hall, one of my elderly neighbors opens her door, and the symphony gets louder. It’s coming from her apartment. She ambles down the hallway with a small trash bag, puts it in the garbage chute, then walks back into her home and shuts the door.
The interruption brings me back to earth. I don’t know what movie moment I thought I was having, but my life isn’t a romantic comedy.
Yes, this man is impossibly handsome—and whatever I felt when I looked at him, he seemed to feel it too—but I’m sure it was just lust. There’s no point in sticking around and indulging in a silly fantasy.
“I’d better go,” I tell him, pointing to my apartment.
“Of course,” he says, making room for me to maneuver past him.
“I’m sorry, again, for running into you,” I say as I begin to walk toward my door.
“It was my fault,” he says, even though we both know that’s not true.
As I fumble to put my key in the lock, I glance at him one more time. “Have a good night,” I say with a nervous laugh that’s pretty uncharacteristic of me.
I don’t think any man I’ve ever met has made me feel this flustered.
“You too,” he says with an easy grin. “I’m Charlie, by the way. Your new neighbor. ”
“Jenna,” I tell him as I finally manage to open my door.
“Nice to meet you, Jenna,” he says as the elevator arrives again to whisk him away.
There’s something about the way he says my name that makes my heart skip a beat. I watch him smile one last time before he disappears.
I’ll have to avoid him like the plague. The last thing I need is to get involved with my neighbor. There’s no way to keep things casual when you live that close to someone.
I’ve been there before—I know.
As I get ready for bed, I put on another rom-com for background noise. I opt for a classic— She’s All That . But it’s like pouring salt on a wound. Not only does Laney Boggs get her happy ending, she’s also an artist. My eyes fill with tears as I watch her paint.
I gave up on love years ago, because I couldn’t take any more heartbreak. But why did I give up on art?
As a girl, all I ever wanted to do was paint. My mom always encouraged me. When I was in preschool, she set up a little easel in the corner of our kitchen, and while she’d cook dinner in the evenings, I’d experiment with different brushes and colors.
But when I was diagnosed with dyslexia, my dad put my easel in the attic, along with all my other art supplies.
I cried for weeks, even though I knew he’d never budge.
He had no appreciation for the visual arts at all.
And he didn’t care that my mom thought I had a gift.
She wasn’t an artist herself, so why should he listen to her?
In his eyes, being a painter wasn’t good enough.
He wanted me to be an intellectual , like him.
He insisted I work on assignments from my reading tutor every night, instead of painting.
My mother didn’t feel like it was her place to intervene.
Because she was a stay-at-home mom, and my dad was the academic, she left the important decisions up to him.
Now my tears are dried up, and my anger is raging.
But the person I’m most livid with is me .
Yes, my dad made me feel like my dreams were worthless, so I never painted for pleasure again—only when it was required for my art classes in school, and even then, I felt like I was committing some cardinal sin.
But I’m a grown woman now. What’s stopping me?
I may not be able to control my love life, or lack thereof.
But I can control whether or not I paint.
Maybe I don’t get the happy ending that comes with thunderbolts and music swelling. But maybe I can give seven-year-old Jenna the happy ending she always wanted—an easel that no one can take away.
I grab my laptop and look up the art studio I always pass on my way to the grocery store. I don’t even give it a second thought when I click the button to register for class. When I’m done, a small weight lifts from my chest.
I go to bed expecting to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I’m exhausted from that godawful date. Relieved that I’m finally going to make my way back to painting.
But I don’t drift off. I can’t .
Instead, I’m wide awake, thinking about my new neighbor, Charlie…and the way my heart skipped a beat when he said my name.