Chapter 24
Alice
I read your book. Jake’s maddening text has been staring back at me all afternoon. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that information? Concern burns my cheeks, because if he liked it, he would have said so, right? But I guess he isn’t saying he didn’t like it either.
Finally, I take a deep breath and pull up my big girl pants to type.
Me: And?
Jake: Is there anything specific you’re looking for with the cover?
My stomach drops. He hated it. If he’s really not going to share a single thought about the book that has been consuming every second of my free time for the past eight months, he must’ve thought it was terrible. How is this man tearing my insides apart while doing absolutely nothing?
Or not nothing, really. I suppose he’s being professional. The cover is why I hired him. It’s not like I asked for a book review. So, why does it feel like he’s punishing me by withholding his opinion?
Screw this. I’m just going to ask.
Me: What did you think?
Jake: About the book?
Is he trying to make me beg? What else would I be talking about?
Jake: Or the artwork?
Oh. Right.
Me: Well, both. But let’s start with the book.
Jake: Can you come over? Not gonna write a dissertation via text. We can talk about it, and I’ll show you some sketches.
My keys are in my hand before I finish reading his message, and before I know it, I find myself buzzing to be let into his building and climbing the stairs to his apartment. I knock lightly, and Jake appears. He’s wearing dark sweats and an old T-shirt advertising some event hosted by his former fraternity.
I came to this apartment a few times with Danielle back when Mike lived here. The small main living area still looks exactly the same. The only difference is the overstuffed dog bed in the corner. Hazel lounges with her head on her front paws, looking bored. When I coo a greeting at her, she lifts her head and yawns. She lets me scratch under her chin, then she flops back down again.
There’s an open pizza box sitting on the kitchen counter. Veggie with no cheese. Only one half has pineapple.
“You remembered.” I smile at him.
“I remember a lot of things.” Jake hands me a plate and a glass of water. He motions for me to grab myself a slice while he takes a pineapple-free piece. “I’ve been thinking about your story,” he says through a mouthful.
“Yeah?” I try not to let on how nervous I am to hear what he has to say.
“I started a few sketches, but before I finish, I need to know if we’re on the same page. I want to make sure my vision for this matches the way you see these characters. What are you trying to evoke?”
“That sounds very esoteric and artsy. Much like the word esoteric itself.” I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. My brain is all scrambled because he’s close enough for me to smell his body wash. I swallow. “I’m not sure I get what you mean.”
“Let’s start with this: why do you write? I assume it’s not to get a good grade and a pat on the head from some douche professor.”
“Of course not. I do it because I have to.”
Jake puts his pizza down and looks into my eyes. He stays quiet, holding space for me to work out my own thoughts.
I’ve never thought about why I do it, it’s just something I’ve always done. It’s a part of my fabric. Before I knew how to hold a pencil correctly, I was making up plays to perform for my mom or crafting elaborate scenes for my stuffed animals.
“If I don’t write, I don’t know who I am,” I tell him. “Sometimes I hear people talking about things like politics or pop culture, and I honestly don’t know my own opinion until I sit down and write a journal entry to wade through my thoughts. Writing is how I discover what I think about the world, or work through the tough stuff.”
When my mom was sick, I spent a lot of time alone with my journal.
“That’s how I feel about drawing. Like, I walk around looking at stuff all the time, but in order to draw it, I have to take the time to sit down and really see everything about it. I need to notice the shapes, and the lines, and the way the light hits. Or the imperfections.”
“You’re good at that, seeing things other people don’t.” Like right now. I’m sitting here with him, talking about our art in a way I don’t get to do with anyone else, eating the pizza he ordered because he remembered the way I like it. Jake makes me feel seen.
His eyes scan my face and land on my lips. “Thanks. So are you. There were a lot of little details in your writing. I tried to capture some of them.” He uses his thumb to lightly brush the corner of my mouth. “You had a crumb.”
I freeze and stare back at him. His hand stays hovering at my cheek, and for a moment it’s like we’re back at the cottage, alone with the familiar electric current traveling from his skin to mine.
Jake breaks the spell when he clears his throat and gets back to business. “There was a lot of commentary in your story about societal norms I never really thought about before. Let me show you what I have for the art so far.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin, and he stands to grab his sketchbook from the coffee table. Then he motions for me to join him on the couch. I clear our plates and wash my hands before I sink into the cushion next to him. He flips a few pages and places the open book on my lap.
The pencil sketch he’s drawn makes me gasp. “Jake, this is gorgeous.”
It’s a picture of my battle scene in the swamp done in intricate detail, down to the veins in every blade of grass. The characters are dressed exactly how I described, including the crest on my main character’s armor. The face staring back at me from the page looks a lot like my own. And she’s beautiful. Angry, fierce, and ready to fight for what she wants, but the first thing that comes to mind is she’s beautiful. Is this how he sees me?
I turn the page, and I’m greeted with another scene pulled directly from my imagination and brought to life on paper. Then another. Six in total. The last one is from the love scene I was so nervous to have him read. He drew an aerial view that only shows the back of the male main character’s head. His body is draped in a sheet as he hovers over his love, but her face— my face—is in full view as she reaches up to him. Her expression is adoring and serene. She looks peaceful and content wrapped in that sheet with him. The same way I must have looked at Jake that night in the cottage.
Emotion clogs my throat and I bring my hand up to cover my mouth. “This is…I don’t know what to say.”
“You like them?” There’s a boyish hint of vulnerability in his question.
I lift my eyes to find him already staring at me, waiting for my answer.
My voice comes out breathy. “I love them.” I nod at him, then I motion to the picture in my lap. “This one’s my favorite.”
For the first time, his returning smile is shy. It makes me think maybe he was as nervous to show me these as I was to have him read my story. He leans in to take back the book, and his hand brushes mine. His face is only inches away, and it continues to come closer until his lips are at my ear.
“I drew that one from memory,” he whispers.
I shiver and swallow the moan that wants to escape. He’s right here, barely a breath away. It would be so easy to turn to him and take what I want. But I freeze. I don’t know if I can trust that these feelings are real. Or that they’ll last. Back at the cottage, he said he likes Sassy Alice, but he’s only had to deal with me in small doses so far. What if more will be too much for him?
Jake tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and puts his forehead to mine. “I feel you thinking too hard in there, Ace. Come back to me.”
I close my eyes and try to find my words again, but then we hear footsteps.
“Sweet, you ordered pizza?” Jordan pads into the kitchen and makes a beeline for the box.
Jake straightens up and clears his throat before answering, “Uh, yeah. Help yourself.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“Why does this have an entire salad on top of it?” Jordan asks.
I shake myself out of the trance those pictures and their artist put me in. “That would be because of me.”
“Oh. Hey, Alice.” Jordan raises a hand to greet me.
Istay for a little while, and we teach Jordan how to play Speed, but all too soon it starts to get late, and I need to get home. My dad is getting released from the hospital tomorrow.