The Girl in the Painting

The girl in the painting.

Only, it’s not the same one in the gallery; it’s a different one.

The painting is a visual of her from behind, the delicate lines of her bare skin being showcased from the back of her head to her neck to the small area where her lower back meets the curves of her hips.

When my eyes make their way down her body, they freeze on the right side of her lower back and latch on to red.

A gasp jumps from my lips, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

How can that be?

Instantly, my knees buckle, and I have to reach out and grip the wall to prevent myself from falling to the floor.

But my eyes? They’re fixated. Stunned. Locked on to a tiny, red heart etched onto the girl in the painting’s skin.

And my heart starts to fold in on itself as vivid memories of the day I got my first tattoo show like a movie behind my eyes.

The memories stab like a knife, and the realization of how deep this connection between Ansel and me goes shocks me to my very core.

I am the girl in the painting. I don’t know why, but I know without a single doubt, that girl is me.

The urge to flee the situation, to try to run away from my own thoughts, is so strong, I find my feet moving of their own accord. I make my way out of the studio and into his bedroom and get myself dressed as fast as humanly possible.

Just calm down, Indy, I tell myself. Calm down. You can’t just go sprinting out of here without saying goodbye.

Shit. I have to get it together.

But how? How do I get it together after seeing that?

Ansel

Soft but quick footsteps move across the floor above me, and I smile to myself as I wait for the coffee machine to finish brewing.

I don’t know what Indy is up to, but it’s obvious she is no longer in my studio.

I open the oven to check the Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and find the dough rising and browning with the heat. One quick check of the timer and I see they have less than ten minutes left to bake.

The coffee machine beeps, and I grab two mugs from the cabinet.

Footsteps move down the stairs and make their way into the kitchen, and just as I’m pouring the fresh brew, I glance over my shoulder to find Indy walking into the room.

“Hey,” I greet with a smile before turning back to the coffeemaker. “I was just about to bring these up.” But something makes me look again, and when I do, I realize she’s fully dressed. My brow furrows in distress. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah.” She nods and averts her gaze to her boots. “I just…uh…remembered I have a music lesson today. In about forty-five minutes, to be exact.”

A music lesson? On a Saturday?

“Oh.” I look down at her fingers and find them fidgeting against the material of her pants. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yep.” She nods again, and the smile that slides across her lips feels all wrong. It’s awkward and forced, and I don’t like it. “But can I get a rain check on the cinnamon rolls?”

“Of course,” I respond with a hesitant smile. “Let me call Hank to give you a lift.”

“That’s okay.” She looks away from me. “I’m going to take the subway.”

My stomach roils with unease when I take in her shielded eyes and recount the strained, hesitant tone of her voice.

Something is wrong.

“Are you planning on stopping home first?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “I can’t exactly go to my lesson in yesterday’s clothes and covered in paint.”

Instantly, I know that the story she’s telling me is filled with lies. Not even the savviest New Yorker can make that kind of round-trip commute in forty-five minutes, let alone change and shower in between.

Is it guilt? Is she confused? Is she doubting what happened between us last night?

“You sure everything is okay?” I ask again, knowing the more I push for an answer, the further and faster she’ll run away.

“Positive,” she answers.

I hate that she’s leaving like this.

I hate that I don’t know what the fuck is happening.

This, whatever is going on, feels like it’s completely out of my control.

And all I can do is let her go.

But I refuse to let her go on some awkward, uncomfortable moment where she is lying to me through her teeth.

That is one thing I won’t let occur.

Between one breath and the next, I cut off the distance between us and pull Indy into my arms and press my lips to hers. A tiny gasp escapes her mouth, but then her lips willingly participate.

It’s deep and emotional, and with my lips, with this kiss, I try to understand what is going on and I try to tell her all of the things I can’t say, but mostly, I show her how much she means to me.