The Girl in the Painting

“Ansel,” he greets on the second ring. “What can I help you with this evening?”

I tell him the situation, and he doesn’t hesitate to oblige.

“Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there.”

“Perfect,” I respond into the receiver and hit end on the call.

Indy’s mouth turns down at the corners. “You really didn’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

With my hand at the small of her back, over the material of her jacket, I lead her out of the studio, down the stairs, and toward the entryway of my home. The entire way, I can sense something is on her mind, on the tip of her tongue. Several times, she glances back at me and opens her mouth, but then snaps it shut before words come out.

“Everything okay?” I ask as we stop in the small foyer near the front door.

Indy glances down at her boots and then at me and then back at her boots, and it only takes about three more circuits before she finds the strength to meet my eyes and stay there. “I enjoyed spending time with you today.”

“I can assure you the feeling is mutual.”

“W-why do you think I look like the girl in your painting?” she blurts out the question, and her own surprise slides its way onto her face in the form of parted lips and widened eyes.

Why do you look like the girl in my painting?

That, my sweet Indy, is a question that’s been on my mind ever since I came face-to-face with you.

“I don’t know.” It’s the only answer I have right now.

Her big blue eyes stare up into mine, and her voice drops to an almost whisper. “I don’t know what your intentions are—and I’m definitely not assuming you have any sort of intentions—but I should probably let you know I’m in a relationship, and the only thing I can offer you is friendship.”

Her words are weak at best, feeble and flimsy. It’s like she doesn’t even believe them herself, but the ins and outs of her relationship are none of my business.

“Matt, right?” I ask with a forced smile, and she tilts her head in confusion. “Your sister mentioned he was your boyfriend at dinner, remember?”

“Oh.” She purses her lips, and her mouth forms a tiny, exquisite heart. “Right, yeah.”

“And, Indy?”

“Yes?”

“I’d be honored to be your friend.”

If friendship is all she can give me, then friendship it is. Even if I fucking hate it.

“Maybe that’s why it feels like the universe is pulling us together,” she adds. “So we can be friends.”

Friends. Fuck.

Do I like that she has a boyfriend? Hell no.

But when it comes to Indy, I’ll take what I can get.

Even if that means I have to put my own emotions aside.

It isn’t long before I’m saying goodbye and helping her into Hank’s Escalade. I don’t make a big thing of it, and I don’t press for the next time I can see her.

I’ll see her again. It might be the one of the only things of which I have no doubt.

Once Hank’s Escalade is out of sight, I head back inside my house and lock the door behind me. I make my way back up the stairs and into my studio, and I don’t stop my progress until I’m standing in front of her painting.

Maybe I’m biased, but Indy Davis is better at art than she thinks.

With the light of the moon filtering in through the windows, I stare at the wet paint of her work.

She may be gone, but I can still feel her in the room.

My private studio.

The one place that is my safe haven.

Indy and Bram are the only two people other than me who have ever been inside.

I can’t decide if it’s all a bit John Cusack holding a boombox over his head or completely batshit crazy.

With careful fingers, I take Indy’s painting and carry it downstairs with me. Once I reach the first floor, I set it on an empty bench by the window and head into the kitchen to make some fresh coffee.

I’ve got several missed calls and texts and even more emails to answer, and I’m going to need the bitter bean’s assistance if I have any hope of getting through them all.

Nigel asking if I want to sell a painting I most likely will not sell.

Lucy bitching at me for cutting out early today and not signing the paperwork she left out for me.

My mother asking me God only knows what.

Bram letting me know his band is playing at Rookwood Music Hall tomorrow night.

It’s an endless list of people who undoubtedly deserve at least a cursory response. But I don’t bother with any of them. Instead, I open up my texts and find the one and only person I feel like talking to right now.

Me: Did you make it home okay?