CHAPTER THREE
ALEXANDRA JONES
MORNINGS AT THE ART MUSEUM WERE MY SANCTUARY.
A simple escape just down the block from Cane Street. There was one painting that held a profound significance for me, one that compelled me to reflect upon my own life.
It was a woman in tears, her shadow trailing behind her, trying to catch up with her—a reflection of my own struggles and emotions. It was the only painting in the building that really spoke to me, that said something to me. I felt a connection with it. Mostly because I understood it, there are times when I feel exactly like her.
I slide my container out from my bag, flicking the lid open before, a movement caught my attention.
I turn to my left and found myself face-to-face with Ares, who appears just as captivated by the painting as I was.
“Are you stalking me?” I speak out.
Only a few people were aware of this painting, tucked away from the mainstream art collection. And I am here almost every day, which makes me wonder- why is he?
He turns his head, “oh, wouldn’t you love that.” His voice rasped, resonating like the sound of homecoming tires upon a gravel driveway. I turn to look behind me, half-expecting to find someone else in the room. But there is no one else present. It is just the two of us, in this hidden corner of the museum.
This is my space.
My comfort zone.
What the hell is he doing here?
“This is my space,” I assert. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Ares’ lips curve into a faint smirk, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes. “I could ask you the same question,” he retorts, his tone laced with a hint of challenge.
I narrow my eyes at him, my suspicion deepening. “I come here often,” I admit, my voice softer now, “but I’ve never seen you here before.”
He shrugs casually. “Maybe I just have a knack for finding hidden gems,” he quips, his gaze flicking back to the painting before us.
“Or a knack for stalking someone.”
Ares meets my look with a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the thrill of the hunt,” he suggests, his tone teasing.
I scoff doubtfully, not buying into his playful facade. “Or perhaps you have other motives.”
He raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “And what motives would those be?”
I hesitate, unsure of how to respond. There’s something about Ares that both intrigues and unsettles me, a magnetic pull that draws me in even as it fills me with apprehension.
But before I can formulate a reply, Ares takes a step closer, his presence looming over me. “You’re an interesting one, aren’t you?” He muses, his eyes searching mine for any hint of vulnerability. The intensity in his eyes softened, revealing a depth I hadn’t anticipated.
Or maybe I was simply reading too much into it, allowing my mind to wander into the realm of romantic comedies. Perhaps it was my tendency to overanalyse.
“I could say the same about you,” I shoot back, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.
“And how am I interesting to you?”
“Because you’re weird, I’m not used to people speaking to me, especially boys like you.” Ares exuded an air of mystery, dressed in a fitted black shirt, and black trousers. It was evident that black was his colour of choice. Glancing down at my own attire, a yellow sundress that covered me modestly, I couldn’t help but contrast our styles. I had never owned revealing clothing; my mother had always been the one to dictate what was suitable for me.
“Boys like me. Explain,” he demanded, his tone carrying an air of authority that emphasised his status as a man rather than a boy.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” I speak, facing the art piece once again. “Now leave me alone.” I haven’t even yet begun to enjoy my pomegranate.
“You draw?”
“Yes, I’m an art major.” I reply, a genuine smile spreading across my face. It was a rare moment for someone to express interest in my artwork. Even Cathy, my closest friend, had never shown much enthusiasm, simply assuming that my work was already incredible.
“Can I see your work?” Ares’ request caught me off guard.
“I didn’t bring it with me.”
“I can see it, poking out your bag.”
Shit. He caught me on that one.
“Well, I don’t want to show you.”
“No need.”
There is no need.
“Are you always this tense or do I have an effect on you?” My brows furrow, and I turn my head to face him.
“I am not tense.” I stand up, shoving the closed container back into my bag. “And you do not have an effect on me.”
“I don’t? Doesn’t seem like that.”
“You’re very egoistic, aren’t you?” He smirks.
“I wouldn’t use that word.”
“And what word would you use?”
“Okay maybe I would.”
Don’t laugh. It isn’t funny.
“Goodbye.” I yank my bag from the bench, walking out of the museum.
“Wait.” Ares’s voice pierces through my thoughts, and I look back to see him jogging towards me. I continue to push past the bustling crowd on the streets, my mind flooded with conflicting thoughts.
Why is he following me?
“Leave me alone!” I shoot back at him through gritted teeth, lost in my own thoughts, I fail to notice the danger ahead until Ares’s arm slips around my waist and pulls me back.
My eyes widen as a car zooms by, blaring its horn in warning. I was so close to being hit. My belongings scatter onto the ground, and I turn to face Ares, my heart pounding in my chest at the unexpected physical contact. I glance up at him, butterflies flutter in my stomach as my hands rest on his biceps, a consequence of his height. I quickly let go, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks, and he releases his hold on me.
As I gather my things from the ground, Ares picks up my sketchbook. “You could have gotten hit, butterfly.” He says, his voice laced with concern.
“Well luckily you were there to save me, huh?” I whisper out sarcastically, Ares smiles a little.
“You really don’t like me?” Ares’ voice is tinged with a hint of interest.
“No, I don’t,” I reply, my tone firm. “Now, can I have my sketchbook back, please?”
Ares raises my sketchbook, holding it slightly out of reach. “Oh, this?” He teases. “I’ll give it back on one condition.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this, Ares.”
His gaze locks with mine, an intensity burning in his eyes. “You tell me your name.”
I hesitate for a moment, contemplating his request.
Slowly, I offer him a small smile.
“Alexandra,” I finally reveal. “My name is Alexandra.”
“Alexandra,” he repeats, his voice laced with a hint of intrigue. “Why don’t you like me?”
I raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze head-on. “You said you’d give my sketchbook back.”
Ares leans in slightly, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Answer me, Alexandra,” he insists, his voice laced with a mixture of determination and curiosity.
My jaw tenses, a blend of annoyance and something else, a tinge of happiness, spreads through me. I find myself enjoying this unexpected exchange with him, I like it.
It’s different.
“Because.” I reply, a mischievous spark dancing in my eyes.
“Because?”
I take a step closer, feeling a newfound confidence surging within me. “Because.” I repeat, matching his tone, “You’re too intriguing for your own good. And it’s both annoying and weird.”
Ares’ eyes widen slightly.
He hadn’t expected such a bold response. A smile plays at the corners of his lips, revealing a hint of admiration.
“Intriguing, huh?” He murmurs, “I must say, Alexandra, the feeling is mutual. You’ve managed to get my attention like no one else.”
I feel a warmth spreading through me.
We stand there, locked in a silent exchange, the air between us crackling with an undeniable tension. It’s as if the world around us fades into the background, leaving only the two of us in this moment.
“And that’s supposed to be good thing?”
“No.” He responds. “No, it isn’t.”
He hands me my book and I take a step back after retrieving it, “goodbye Ares.” I walk away.
“Goodbye Alexandra Jones.”
My eyes widen, I never told him my surname.
I only told him my name.
For some reason, I take a look back-watching him walk away.