The Girl in the Painting

She is the girl in my paintings.

I know it in the way she moves her mouth and the way she smiles and the way her eyes reflect the light of day.

I know it’s her. It’s the whole, not-knowing-why part that has me reeling.

Though, my mind and my heart are fanatical in their pursuit to figure it out.

I’ve never been the type of man who believes in fate. But I know to my core that there is a reason for Indy.

A meaning. A purpose.

Her gaze is locked with mine, so tight, so strong and powerful, and I sense the way she’s searching my eyes for something. For answers to unknown questions. For reasons and truth. For something she’s hoping I know.

Her blue eyes turn hazy, and all at once, she blinks and averts her gaze.

“Well, I’m sorry for bothering you today,” she whispers, “but I just had to meet you.”

“You didn’t bother me, Indy,” I reassure her.

And then I do the only thing I can think of to reassure myself that this isn’t the last I’ll see of her. “I was thinking about grabbing a late lunch. Would you like to join me?”

She opens her mouth and closes it, trying to make words come out, but instead, another quiet moment spreads between us, and I let it.

The caged little bird can’t sing right now. She’s too uncertain. Too overwhelmed.

All of the things neither of us has said are written all over her face in shaky script.

“Um…I really appreciate the offer, but I have somewhere I need to be. It was nice meeting you,” she mutters, shrugging on her coat and heading for the door without delay.

I follow her as calmly as I can manage until she turns back to look at me over her shoulder.

“Goodbye, Ansel,” she says softly, and I have the insane urge to chase after her even after the door has closed.

Instead, I let her go.

But I know this won’t be the last time I see her.

Indy Davis.

It can’t be.

Indy

“Family Feud?” Lily questions in outrage between bites of lasagna. “We’d be horrible. We’re more Wheel of Fortune people than anything else.”

I nearly choke on my garlic bread. Wheel of Fortune? The whole lot of us would get slaughtered. We’d be lucky to walk away without owing Pat Sajak money.

This, right here, is family dinner at the Davis’s. A night with too much wine, the soft sounds of my dad’s favorite jazz bands playing in the background, my mom’s delicious food, and arguments over ridiculous shit like which game show my family could win.

The real answer? None of them. But I keep my thoughts to myself.

While I normally enjoy the company of my family, tonight feels like more of a task than anything else, and the last thing I want to do is incite a riot because I don’t think we’re smart enough to spin the big wheel with Vanna White.

“Don’t be dramatic, Lil,” my father says, and a piece of cheese from his last bite of lasagna dangles from his beard. It’s normally good manners to let someone know they have food on their face, but when it comes to Mac Davis, we’ve all learned just to let the man be until he finishes his meal. Otherwise, we’d be busy all fucking night.

“We’d kick ass at the Feud,” he adds after a sip of wine. “And your mother would be our ace in the hole.”

“Aw, thanks, Mac.” My mother smiles, and the slight waves of the laugh lines around her lips appear. “But I’ll be honest, if I’m going on any game show, it has to be Jeopardy.”

Instantly, my sister bursts into laughter.

It’s completely warranted. Our mother’s knowledge of history goes as far as 1990, and her literature expertise ends with Rachael Ray cookbooks and The Notebook.

“Jeopardy?” Aunt Bethany, my mom’s sister, questions with hilarity in her eyes. “Have you lost your mind? You’d have better luck coming up with an invention for Shark Tank.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m really good at Jeopardy, Bethie.” Mom is unconvinced and offended. “Tell her, Mac.”

“She’s good.” Another bite of lasagna. Another piece of cheese added to the beard. “Really good.”

It’s safe to say everyone at this table has had too much wine.

Besides me.

The conversation switches to who Alex Trebek would like the best, and I can hardly focus on the chatter.

I push a bite of my mom’s lasagna into my mouth and force myself to chew.

My appetite is nonexistent, which is rare considering lasagna night usually concludes with me feeling like an overinflated balloon.

But I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.

About the gallery.

About him.

I met the man behind the painting. Yesterday morning, I barely knew who Ansel Bray was, and now I can hardly think about anything else.

I hate it.

One glance in his direction and you know he’s incredibly handsome.

Like a modern-day James Dean. He filled the role perfectly when he walked into the gallery yesterday, an exquisitely worn black leather jacket covering his strong torso, with jeans and boots finishing off the look. His brown hair was perfectly messy, and he had the fullest lips I’ve ever seen on a man.