Chapter 9
W hen I walk into my apartment, I can still feel the warmth of Charlie’s lips on the skin right above my knuckles.
I ignore my plans to catch up on the hundreds of email inquiries sitting unread in my inbox—something that’s been hanging over my head since I went viral.
I’ll never be able to focus on work after that incredible second date with Charlie.
There’s only one thing in the entire world I want to do right now. And that’s paint.
I run into my guest room, now a makeshift art studio, and throw on a smock.
My fingers are trembling with excitement as I mix colors on my palette.
As soon as I’m finished, I start painting.
My hand flies across the canvas with a mind of its own, vibrating from the spark of Charlie’s kiss.
Before I know it, an image begins to take shape.
Rosy cheeks, tanned skin. Chestnut-colored hair, with a bit of lighter hazelnut mixed in.
Dark brown eyes, framed by gorgeous long lashes.
Charlie .
When I step back to look at the finished product, hours after the sun has set, my heart flutters. It’s like I’m back in the hallway with him again. He knew exactly what to say to put a smile on my face: “This can be anything you need it to be.”
If it were any other guy saying those words, I’d feel relieved. I could keep things uncommitted and uncomplicated. But the problem is, for the first time in years, I don’t want a casual relationship.
I want this to be what my gut tells me it is. The love story I’ve waited for my entire life. The one I drew in my high school journal. The one I gave up on because I didn’t think I deserved it anymore.
Because I felt guilty. I still do.
I think back to the day I left Christy and Kyle’s Manhattan apartment, after recuperating from something I’m sure Kyle has since deemed a “depressive episode.” Finally, after six long months under their watchful eyes, I felt well enough to go through with the plan I’d made before I graduated from my architecture program.
I was going to move to Pittsburgh and start flipping houses there.
But I could tell from Christy’s frown when I said goodbye that she was still worried about me.
“Jenna, I’m so glad you’re doing better, but…” She paused to clear her throat. “I’m afraid what happened with Hunter will keep coming back to haunt you, if you don’t go to therapy. I mean, it’s been three years, and look how it’s affecting you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Christy, I spent the last three years earning a master’s degree—which I imagine is still pretty damn hard, even when you don’t have dyslexia.
Of course I fell apart after graduation!
I couldn’t afford to break down before, without worrying about falling behind in my classes.
And this wasn’t only about Hunter. It was about Alex, too.
If a guy you were dating sent a picture of you naked in bed to all his friends, wouldn’t you be upset? ”
My sister nodded, her forehead still creased.
“Yes, I was a mess, but I got it out of my system,” I told her. “That’s what counts. And I guarantee you, I am fine now.”
But I wasn’t fine. I was convinced I’d ruined Hunter’s life. Every morning, when I woke up, the first thing on my mind was that look of utter disappointment in his ocean-blue eyes. I believed I was the bad guy. I couldn’t tell Christy that, though.
Maybe she was right about me needing therapy. It’s been five years since we had that conversation, and I can’t say I’m any better off.
Especially now that I’ve met Charlie. As much as I want to believe we’re meant for each other, I’ve seen enough romantic comedies and read enough fairytales to know that the bad guy doesn’t get a happily-ever-after.
By the time I clean my paintbrushes and lay them flat to dry, it’s nearly 10:00 p.m. I’m ravenous, so I whip up a late-night dinner of blueberry pancakes, using my favorite boxed mix from Sutton’s.
I crack a smile, thinking that it’s almost like Charlie made them for me himself.
Then I frown, wondering if I even deserve that.
My ambivalence is killing me. But at least the pancakes are delicious.
I’m finishing the last fluffy bites, dipped in Sutton’s golden maple syrup, when I hear a rustling sound coming from the foyer.
Sometimes the building’s maintenance staff slips notes under residents’ doors to advise us of water shut-offs or repairs that need to be made, so I don’t think much of it.
I rinse my plate, put it in the dishwasher along with my utensils, then head to the front door.
But there’s no note from maintenance on white letter paper.
Instead, I see what looks like a postcard.
I bend down to pick it up, and my heart skips a beat.
It’s a photograph of the abstract painting that Charlie and I spent nearly thirty minutes trying to interpret this afternoon.
A painting titled simply, Abstract No. 3 —but which I will forever think of as Brown-Eyed Charlie and Green-Eyed Jenna .
A huge grin blooms on my face. As I examine the photograph more closely, I notice the handful of museum-goers standing in front of the painting. An elderly gentleman with a cane. A woman carrying a sleeping toddler. A couple holding hands.
And me.
Charlie must have snapped this before I joined him over at the next wall. All that’s visible is my profile, but I’m smiling so wide in the picture, you’d think I was seeing my own painting on display at the Museum of Contemporary Art.
I flip over the photo and see a note from Charlie on the back:
Jenna,
I took this picture so I’ll always remember laughing with you over this painting. It was a great moment, and I feel lucky to have shared it with you. I got even luckier when I captured this expression of sheer joy on your face. Your passion for art inspires me.
I was going to text this to you, then realized we haven’t exchanged numbers. So here’s mine, for the next time you want to hang out—or if you ever get locked out of your apartment, and need me to return the favor.
He signed it Charlie in beautiful cursive, followed by his phone number underneath.
I turn the photo over again to examine my happy face.
I may not have realized it then, but I know now that it wasn’t only the art that made me so ecstatic.
It was Charlie’s sweet interpretation of the painting—and the fact that, of all our interactions, he chose to reference the one time I helped him, instead of the other way around.
I was starting to feel like a damsel in distress, the way Charlie wiped my tears with his sleeve when we first met and picked up my scattered art supplies after I’d dropped them. Not to mention, the time he got on his hands and knees to find my diamond earring on the Lakefront Trail.
But Charlie Sutton doesn’t see me as a hapless victim.
He sees me as a heroine.
And as I sit here, staring at Charlie’s number on the back of this perfect photo that he printed for me, I’m more conflicted than ever.
For one thing, I was kinda happy not to have his phone number, because that meant not having to worry about texting him misspelled words.
Something tells me, though, that, unlike Greg, Charlie wouldn’t jump to the conclusion that I’m an idiot.
And while I typically don’t talk about my dyslexia with the men I date—for fear of reinforcing the “dumb blonde” stereotype—the idea of telling Charlie doesn’t bother me at all. I’m already so comfortable with him.
But if I were to call or text him right now, what would I say? He put the ball in my court, and I have a decision to make.
It’s late. I guess I’ll sleep on it and decide tomorrow.
When I wake up the next morning, however, I’m distracted by another wave of design inquiry messages sent via the contact form on my website.
I let out a giant exhale. Great.
Since I went viral earlier this week, I’ve only booked one new client.
I told the others I’d be happy to put their names on a waitlist, which I hoped would buy me some time to decide if I want to go full steam ahead with this design business.
I have a considerable amount of money saved from both my house-flipping sales and design work.
I learned from my dad’s reckless spending habits what not to do with my earnings and, instead, I invested wisely.
If I wanted to quit my design job and try my hand at being a painter for a year or two, I could easily do it.
But still, there’s this nagging voice in my head. No, not my dad’s. Like I said, I gave up on his approval a long time ago. It’s my own voice, telling me that the only way I’ll ever be taken seriously is if I’m a successful businesswoman.
Now that I’ve gone viral for my work, what will people think if I throw it all away just to paint? Will they say I’m too dyslexic and dumb to do anything else? Will I become the laughingstock of the Internet, like I was the laughingstock of my elementary school?
With a pit of dread in my stomach, I open one of the messages that came through only a few minutes ago, the subject line of which reads, Time-sensitive Request :
Hello, Jenna. This is Genevieve Grant, reaching out on behalf of my client, R.J.
Miller. Mr. Miller re-located to Chicago recently and would like to hire you to assist with the interior design of his penthouse.
Due to his busy schedule, he would prefer to meet today at noon.
Please let me know if that works. You can reach me via email or on my cell phone.
It’s an unusual inquiry, considering it’s ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, and whoever this R.J.
Miller is wants to meet almost immediately.
I do a quick Google search on him, but come up empty.
I have to admit, I’m intrigued. And it’s not like I have anything better to do.
If I stayed home, I’d probably spend the entire day stressing about my feelings for Charlie.
So I call Genevieve Grant and let her know I’m available. She gives me an address that’s only two blocks away from me. Then I shower, get dressed and, at ten to noon, I walk over to R.J. Miller’s place.
But as the elevator opens to the penthouse, my jaw drops in stunned silence when I see the all-too-familiar face of the man waiting on the other side of the sliding doors .
He looks just like he did when I last saw him. Except, this time, his ocean-blue eyes are smiling at me.