Fearsome (7 page)

While most things are out of style, Aunt Virginia did at least invest in an expensive eight-burner Viking range and an elaborate coffee and cappuccino machine. I can’t cook, however, I sure do love infusing my body with high doses of caffeine.

There are a few bags of gourmet coffee beans on the counter along with a grinder and, having worked at a coffeehouse while I was in college, I manage to figure out how to work the complex coffee machine fairly quickly.

The fridge is stocked with local farm eggs, cream, butter, pre-cut carrot and celery sticks and apples, which tells me Archie must have made sure I had some staples. The cupboards are the same honey colored stain as the walls. I search through them and find granola, bread, peanut butter, jelly and a few cans of chicken noodle soup. Underneath the counter I find bags of dog food. Bert sees my discovery and then trots over to the far wall where, below the rotary phone with the long dangling cord, there are two metal dog bowls. Bert nuzzles one and returns to me with a mouth full of dry, crunchy nibbles.

“Good. It looks like someone knew enough to leave you food and water. Just so you know, I’ve never owned a pet, so you’ll have to speak up if I forget to feed you.” Bert keeps chewing while he looks at me as if we have a perfect understanding of one another.

As my cappuccino finishes gurgling and frothing into my waiting cup, I grab an apple and then take my breakfast out the kitchen door that leads to the porch on the east side of the house. As I walk outside, I find Dylan and Carson seated not far from the door at a bistro-style table with three chairs.
How quaint. I get to dine with the two giant lumberjacks
, I think to myself as I carefully juggle the oversized mug and apple over to the table. Dylan jumps up and pulls out the empty chair for me as Carson continues eating his sandwich without even so much as looking at me.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?” Dylan asks.

“I’m fine. I’m still stuffed from all the food yesterday. Really, an apple is all I need.”

“Let me go make you an omelet,” Dylan offers.

“Shit. She does quadratic equations for a living, she can manage on her own,” Carson snaps.

I am touched by Dylan’s attentiveness and keenly surprised by Carson’s awareness about me. I know my aunt kept them informed about my life, but to think Carson has been making a conscious effort to understand my work is a little mind-boggling. He’s a little too aloof or cocky to be interested in me, so it must be Dylan’s attention towards me that irritates him, as if I’m undermining their work schedule.

“I’m trying to be polite.” It’s the first time I see Dylan register anger. “You could try it.”

“You can find your way around the kitchen, right?” Carson asks me in a measured tone meant for his brother.

“I’m fine; thanks for your concern,” I say and drink my coffee.

“We need to get back to work.” Carson directs to Dylan, although he’s looking at me. He grabs his paper lunch bag and can of soda. “Come on,” he barks to Dylan.

I gather I’m a thorn in Carson’s side. I don’t know why and I don’t care. I kind of like that I annoy him.

Dylan looks flustered. We both expected to have this opportunity to talk, yet Carson is the taskmaster. I pretend to not care that they are leaving my company unexpectedly, so I take my cell phone out of my pocket and try to look very busy.

“Sorry for rushing off. If you want company, come hang out in the library.” Dylan winks.

“Knock it off.” Carson smacks the back of Dylan’s head.

“Shit. What’s that for?” Dylan rubs his head.

It’s pretty evident that Carson isn’t keen on me hanging out with Dylan.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I say, trying to smooth things over. “I have plenty to do. I have people I have to call; you know, work, my friends.” I hold the dead phone to my ear as if I’m waiting for someone to answer. The battery is completely drained, but I keep holding the phone to my ear like a fool.

“She doesn’t want to be in the same room as the sawing and hammering,” Carson says, holding the kitchen door open for Dylan who reluctantly leaves. I give him a little parade-wave good bye without taking the stupid cell phone from my ear.

Before Carson closes the door, he leans back out. “If you need to make a call, you’ll probably have to take ten paces off the porch to get service.” I nod while remaining extremely committed to following through on my fake phone call. “And by the way,” he continues. “I found your phone charger on the second floor, so I put it on your dresser this morning while you were sleeping.” Then his mouth curves slightly at the corners and I know the jig is up. I put my dead phone down on the table.

“Thanks. You’re a peach.”

He chuckles as he leaves me alone with Bert.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this country life, Bert.”

He is sprawled on the floor at my feet as if he’s overcome by fatigue. Looking at him makes me tired and I get the feeling that this is pretty much what Bert does all day.

“My aunt should have named you Hangover.”

Eight

I head back up to my room and plug my phone into the charger, which Carson not only left on my dresser, but also plugged into the wall socket buried behind the dresser. How he moved the heavy furniture this morning without making a sound is beyond me. Thinking of him standing inches from my sleeping body leaves me slightly breathless. I have a brief thought of him looking at my naked body that was completely visible through my see-through T-shirt.
Oh my
, as Archie would say.

Next, I head to Aunt Virginia’s painting studio, which is on the second floor at the back of the house. It is separated from the library by the playroom that is sandwiched between them. The playroom was created the summer I stayed here and it is where my dollhouse and other artifacts of my shared childhood with Carson and Dylan still reside.

I only take a quick glance around the room, wondering what I should do with all the board games and baskets of toys lining the walls. Why did my aunt hold on to these childhood items all these years? The toys and our beanbag chairs on shaggy throw rugs are evidence of the times when we were sequestered inside by rainy days. I don’t want to spend time going through each and every item that will only bring back the happier memories I’ve been expected to forget.

No sooner do I think this when another vision returns, Carson picking up after Dylan and me while telling us to start behaving. I also recall following him around a lot, demanding answers to impossible questions. I remember Carson being incredibly patient sometimes, letting me help with his Lego models or having me stand on a chair next to him while he made us sandwiches.

I know I’m intelligent. Everyone has always overused the “you’re so smart” phrase with me. The I.Q. tests my parents have made me take tell me I’m a genius, so how have I let my brain block out my memory of these people and this place?

The pounding from the library becomes deafening again, so I head in the opposite direction to
my
studio. Aunt Virginia was a tidy artist. Her oils and acrylics are stored neatly on a worktable along with clean brushes organized by size and material, horse hair and synthetic. About a dozen of her large, finished canvases lean against two walls.

I open my large portfolio case and take out eight of my finished paintings. I tack them on the bare walls with poster putty so they won’t get damaged. I know other artists wouldn’t do this, but I don’t really consider myself an artist and I can be very careless with my pieces. For me it’s all part of the process. I enjoy making something I like to look at. It’s about expressing myself through paint in ways that I cannot communicate through language. Perhaps that’s why I have trouble with the rules of dating. I have neither the patience for nor the comprehension on how to speak to men.

I scan the walls filled with my paintings and am pleased to be surrounded by familiar images I’ve created. There are two empty wooden easels and a large drafting table in the room. I set my watercolor paper on the drafting table, and study a handful of my charcoal and ink drawings that I will enhance with watercolors.

My current project is a young woman in a ballerina costume and combat boots. She stands in the middle of a busy section of midtown New York City with cars and pedestrians passing by and skyscrapers looming above. An old man who could be homeless or just tired and haggard is standing next her with an expression of defeat. The young woman appears to be enraptured by her surroundings. Her arms float at her sides as if she is dancing while her long, puffy ballerina skirt twirls.

I begin to drizzle watercolors down parts of the drawing, painting in the girl with vibrant colors to offset against the black and white grimness of the man. I’ve been doing these types of paintings for a few years and I enjoy them so much that I obsess about future ideas while I’m doing my day job or hanging out with friends. My mind is always thinking of new images I want to explore.

My roommates and colleagues at 5 Alpha call my paintings grunge art because I combine so many images of pop culture and world news, blending the humor of society with the grimness of reality. Some people seem to really like it, but others have told me it’s kind of scary.

When I gave a couple of pieces as gifts to my boss, he got me hooked up with a friend of his who owns a gallery in Chelsea. I didn’t think much of it, yet the art dealer, Tom, was persistent. He came to my ramshackle apartment and insisted on taking ten of my paintings to hang in his gallery. When I didn’t initially jump at the chance, Tom reminded me that having a dealer asking to represent you was like winning the lottery and no artist can afford to be self-deprecating. That shut me up. I handed over all of my paintings with gratitude.

There are starving artists everywhere wanting to get noticed. I realized that, however, he didn’t seem to understand that I never started out with the intention of selling my paintings. I did it because the images hounded me until I put them down on paper. I did it to escape from the daily grind of work as well as to escape the numbers that plague my brain. It’s true.

Sometimes, my brain feels like it’s an automated system running code on its own and I’m forced to visualize the numbers as they scroll through my mind. I can be eating lunch and some random number will pop in my mind and I’ll whisper out loud,
“Seventy million.”
Seventy million what? The numbers change and they generally come to me during stressful times when my brain is deliberating over a predicament. I’m really not sure what it is; if it’s an affliction, a form of anxiety, a part of obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I manage with it while, at the same time, I find that it compels me to draw and paint more.

Once I finish a piece, I feel an incredible release and sense of freedom. Katie says it’s an
art
gasm because I haven’t gotten laid. She’s blunt like that. It’s what makes her a good roommate. Besides, maybe she’s right. I’ve dated enough and done plenty of things over and under the clothes, but even with the guys I think I could fall in love with, I reach a point where I realize I don’t want to have sex with them.

I never wanted to be a twenty-year-old virgin, yet for some reason, I’m holding back. The last guy I dated was a pretty good catch, enough so that one night I was naked in his bed and doing just about everything. We were both eagerly horny and sweaty; however, when he climbed on top of me, I immediately pushed him aside and struggled away. The desire had deflated in a flash.

“Nope, this isn’t going to work,” I said to him. I wasn’t angry, scared or weepy; I just realized I didn’t want that with him. He was pissed. Watching him trying to put his pants on with an erection and then wrapping his hoodie around his waist so he could escape my apartment, left me wondering if I was a lesbian and just didn’t know it. Sharing a tiny bathroom with two other women tells me, no, I definitely love the male body. I also love having crushes and the idea of falling in love with a man.

Yep, when I saw Dylan, that rush of lust and desire hit me like a bug on a windshield. Splat! Could I fall in love with Dylan? I don’t know about that, especially since I keep thinking about his rude older brother. If I want a summer fling, Dylan seems like a sure thing. He’s sending all the right signals, but I’m very good at making things not work out. I’m very good at taking the hard road, which is probably why I’m attracted to Carson.

I laugh to myself and then, without thinking, I whisper, “Fifty million.”

“You still do that?” A deep voice startles me, a voice that I like very much.

I turn around and find Carson standing at the open door to the studio. He is incredibly handsome with his chiseled, serious face and his broad shoulders that veer down into a muscular torso. A leather tool belt is slung low on his narrow hips and it simply makes him sexier.

“What?” I ask.

“That whispering thing. You used to whisper numbers to yourself all the time.”

“I did? You actually remember that?”

He nods and then enters the room as if he was waiting for a safe time to pass between us. He walks around the studio and studies each painting I stuck on the wall. He is quiet as he takes his time with each piece. It’s almost more difficult than if he saw me naked. After a few minutes, he turns back to me and his expression has all the earlier tension and crankiness washed from it.

“These are good. Provocative,” he comments.

I pause and then stammer, completely surprised by his compliment.

“Thank you. I didn’t think you’d like them.”

“Why?” He stares at me as if it’s a standoff.

“Because you always thought I was a pest. At least, that’s what it sounds like even though I don’t recall it being that way when I was a kid.”

Carson laughs lightly and comes closer to me. “You’re talented. I knew that then and I see that now. You’ve grown into something that is your own. Not many people get to be so fortunate.”

I savor the praise coming from his deep, alluring voice and I feel lucky to see him smile. Is that a rarity for him? I suspect so.