Neighbor Dearest (6 page)

Damien: Okay. How about Saturday afternoon at 3?

Chelsea: Sounds good.

Damien: Looking forward to it. See you then.

“Well, that was pretty easy,” I said.

“You’ll get used to it. Just always keep in control. You make the decisions.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Does it matter?”

“Probably not.”

“What?”

“How am I going to
know
that the guy isn’t a bad person?”

“You can’t really know a hundred percent. Use your instinct the best you can. And get his full name. I pay for this background check service. I’ll run the same one I do on all the tenants to make sure any guy you date is legit.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“What are friends for?”

“Oh…are we friends?” I joked.

“Yeah. Why not?”

And there it was: final confirmation of the fact that Damien wasn’t interested in anything more with me.

Handing him back the laptop, I said, “I’d better get back. It’s late.”

“Oh, hey. Before you go.” He walked over to the kitchen and unplugged the toaster oven before reaching it out to me. “Here.”

“You’re
giving me
your toaster oven?”

“I don’t use it much. I get the impression it might be all you use to cook. Am I right?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“So, here.”

I took it. “Thank you. I’ll give it back.”

“No need. If I ever need to toast something, I’ll just knock.
Loudly.
In case you’re holed up with a ménage book in the bathroom.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks again for dinner.”

“Sweet dreams, Chelsea.”

As I walked back to my smoky apartment, I couldn’t help the smile on my face. I also couldn’t help wishing the Saturday coffee date with Damien was real.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHANGE THE STORY

A couple of weeks later, it was Arts Night at the youth center, and I’d found myself in a major pickle.

The event was our biggest art-themed function of the year and the only one I was held fully responsible for organizing.

Many of the center sponsors would be showing up to view some performances put on by the kids. There were also various workshops that featured a few local celebrities. I’d lined up a jazz musician, an actress from a Bay Area theater group and an oil painter. The idea was to have one person from each category: music, theater, and visual arts.

At the last minute, the painter, Marcus Dubois, called to say his flight home from London was cancelled and that he wouldn’t be able to make it. While the event would still have to go on without him, I knew that this wasn’t going to look good in front of the donors and wouldn’t bode well for center management or me.

Feeling desperate, I wracked my brain for a solution and immediately thought of Damien. I wondered if he would be willing to be my fill-in, if he’d be willing to demonstrate some of his talent. It would also include talking to the kids, which I wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable with.

Damien and I had only casually hung out a couple of more times since the night he made me pizza. Both times I had initiated it, knocking on his door and inviting myself in. At no point had he ever really spoken about his art, so I wasn’t sure how he would feel about running a workshop, especially on such late notice. But with two hours to go until people would be arriving, I was feeling desperate when I picked up the phone.

My heart was pounding when his voicemail kicked in.

My voice was shaky. “Hey, Damien.” I cleared my throat. “It’s Chelsea. I have sort of a huge favor to ask, but I’m not sure if it’s something you would even consider. Basically, it’s Arts Night here at the youth center. It’s a huge event, and the biggest artist I had lined up, Marcus Dubois—you might have heard of him—bailed on me. We have all of these sponsors here and are trying to make a good impression and well, this just looks really bad. I’m kind of desperate and freaking out, so—”

BEEP.

His damn answering machine cut me off.

Shit!

Now, I would sound like a total desperado if I called back. Deciding to try to forget about it, I did my best to suck up my embarrassment about having no visual arts presenter. I would explain what happened as best I could and cut my losses.

Feeling completely defeated, I went through the motions, letting the caterer in, helping to set up and eventually greeting the arriving guests with a fake smile on my face.

An entire section of the room that had been set up for Marcus Dubois sat blatantly empty.

Just as I was in the middle of explaining the Dubois situation to another sponsor for what felt like the hundredth time, I heard a deep voice behind me.

“Sorry I’m late.”

When I turned around, Damien was standing there in his classic gray beanie, dressed in all black and smelling like leather and cologne. He was carrying a massive bag around his shoulder. My weak knees felt like they were ready to snap from under me. So shocked, I stood there speechless until I finally found the words to introduce him. “This is—”

“Damien Hennessey,” he interrupted, offering his hand to the woman along with a flash of his perfect teeth that I wanted to run my tongue along. “Chelsea called me to fill in after Dubois cancelled.” He looked at me. “Where do you need me?”

“You can set up right here in this corner.”

Damien followed me and dropped his stuff. Once we were alone, I turned to him. “I can’t believe you came. I didn’t even get to actually ask you to come on the message.”

“It was obvious where you were going with it. And Jesus, you sounded like you were afraid or something. Why were you so nervous to ask me?”

Because I have a major crush on you.

After getting lost in his eyes for a few seconds, I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Anyway, I got here as fast as I could.”

“You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I think I do. You look like you’re about to cry. You don’t hide your feelings very well.”

He was right. I could barely contain the tears of relief.

“It really means a lot.”

Damien looked around. “So, what do I do?”

“Okay…did you bring all the supplies you need to paint?”

“Yeah. I have everything.”

“Your workshop starts in a half-hour. All you need to do is create something of your choosing, maybe explain a little bit about how you do what you do, your technique, and then they’ll just ask you some questions at the end. You know, stuff like how you got into this…advice if they want to become an artist…things like that.”

“I can handle that.”

“Seriously, I owe you so much for this.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you a toaster, and now I owe you more.”

My director suddenly pulled me away to mingle with some more of the donors, leaving Damien alone to set up and causing me to miss a majority of his workshop. Eyeing him from time to time, I snuck glances as he wore his mask and spray-painted the canvas he’d set up on an easel.

Finally able to break away, I snuck into his workshop in progress. I was standing behind him and unable to see what he’d actually spray-painted, since the easel was now facing out toward his audience during the question and answer portion.

“How did you get into this?” one of the boys asked.

“Well, when I was a teenager, I was going through a particularly tough time after my father died. It started out as graffiti on property that wasn’t mine.” He held out his palms. “Not condoning that or anything.” They all laughed as he continued, “I accidentally discovered I had a real knack for it and found new places to practice, hoping not to get in trouble. I used it as an escape then. But over the years, it’s become so much more than that. Now, I live for creating images and bringing them to life.”

One of the adults raised her hand then asked, “What do you say to young people who want to become artists themselves?”

Damien addressed his answer to the kids. “You have to find a balance. Most people aren’t lucky enough to make a living doing what they love. So, you have to stay in school, find a practical career at first, get some skills to fall back on but always keep doing what you’re passionate about. I made some smart decisions early on that allow me to spend my days creating art now, but that’s only because I worked hard in school. Now, I’m reaping the benefits.”

One of the teenagers, Lucas, raised his hand and said, “I draw, but I don’t show anyone. I guess I’m afraid because once my brother found my drawings and laughed at them. So, I feel like I can’t share that part of myself now.”

“If you’re telling yourself you can’t do something, change the story in your head. Visualize a different outcome. Change the story. That’s the beauty of art, too. You can create your own interpretation of anything. Take a sad or awkward memory, for example, and rewrite the ending. I actually did that with this painting. The real story behind it didn’t go as smoothly.”

Since I had missed his painting segment, I had no idea what he was talking about. Then, I heard one of the teenagers ask, “So, Chelsea didn’t really like your dogs?”

What?

He continued, “Actually, when I first met her, we got off to a rough start. She gave me a bit of an attitude, so I dished it right back. She had this impression that I was this mean person. She came over one day smelling like bacon…”

When everyone started to laugh, Damien said, “I know. Who does that, right? Anyway, the dogs go absolutely nuts over that smell. They got excited and trampled her. She didn’t like it. They’re harmless, but they’re pretty big. So, I couldn’t blame her.” Our eyes met, and he smiled when he realized I was listening to every word. “Anyway, she didn’t realize it, but I was mortified that day.”

My heart clenched.
He was?

He faced his audience again. “So, anyway, in a perfect world, maybe she would have been laughing like in the picture instead of almost in tears.”

When I finally got a good look at the canvas, I covered my mouth, not knowing whether I wanted to laugh or cry.

It was the spitting image of me.

My wavy blonde hair was spread out all over the floor as Dudley and Drewfus lay on top of me licking my face. It was a lot like what actually happened, except he’d depicted me with the hugest smile, as if I were laughing hysterically, unable to get enough of the big goofy animals.

He changed the story.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, and now I was wearing a similar smile that matched the one in the painting.

The kids were flocking to Damien for the better part of an hour after the presentation ended, asking more questions and trying their hands at spraying on some blank canvases that he’d brought. Damien had invited them all to the building to look at his mural in progress whenever they wanted. I never dreamt that his filling in at the last minute would leave such an impression on them, but his words were truly inspirational.

When the crowd had dissipated, Damien was packing up his things when I approached him.

“That was amazing.”

“It was nothing.”

“No. It wasn’t nothing.” I touched his shoulder as he glanced briefly down at my hand on his arm. I looked him in the eyes. “You’re amazing.”

I didn’t know why I was feeling so emotional in that moment. He’d just awakened a part of me that realized it was craving so much more out of life.

“It was one of the best presentations we’ve ever had. Seriously, I owe you dinner tonight.”

His mouth curved into a smile. “You’re gonna burn me dinner?”

“Hell, no. I’m gonna buy it, and I’m not taking no for an answer. Do you have plans tonight?”

His eyes momentarily closed. “Actually, I do. I’m sorry.”

Trying not to let my disappointment show, I nodded. “Oh. Maybe tomorrow.” Quickly realizing that tomorrow was Friday night, I said, “Oh, shit. I just remembered. I have a date.”

“Really…”

“You sound surprised. You’re the one who set me up on that website.”

“I’m actually not surprised at all, Chelsea. Where are you meeting him?”

“The Starbucks on Powell. Same place that Damien guy stood me up.”

“Good ol’ Damien.” He grinned. “Are you headed back home now? You want a ride?”

“Sure. I usually walk. But today was exhausting.”

Damien opened the passenger side door to his black pickup truck and let me in before he packed his supplies into the back. The car smelled like his cologne mixed with air freshener. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath in. I looked at the backseat and smiled at the towel he’d put down for the dogs.

The ride to our building took all of three minutes. Damien pulled the truck into the special spot reserved for him. Once he put it in park, he didn’t move.

It was quiet for several seconds before I asked, “You mentioned your father passed away. What happened to him?”

“He died of a heart attack when I was thirteen. He was only thirty-five.”

“Wow. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“Where does your family live?”

“I grew up in San Jose. My mother still lives there. I have one brother, two years younger than me. He lives in San Francisco, a couple miles from here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tyler.”

“That’s a nice name. Your mom has good taste…Damien and Tyler. What nationality are you?”

“My mother is half Greek, half Italian. My father was Irish.”

“Thus, Hennessey.”

“Yup.” He smiled.

“Your father…dying so young. I would imagine that’s had a big impact on your decisions in life.”

“You mean why I’m living like a retiree at almost twenty-seven?”

“Kind of, yeah. I mean, that’s not to say you didn’t earn it.”

“You’re not off base. My father’s death definitely motivated me a lot. He was a workhorse, never got to enjoy his life, never had the financial means to. He just lived the daily grind, and then he died. So yes, because of that, I want to enjoy my life unapologetically, and I don’t take anything for granted.”

We sat in his car for over an hour talking about anything and everything. He’d asked me about my family and how I came to work at the youth center. He also talked about the four years he lived in Massachusetts before moving back to work in the Silicon Valley. I wanted to stay in that truck talking forever. It was a weird feeling because my mind was so engaged, yet my body was flustered, unable to ignore the physical pull it felt toward him. Honestly, I hadn’t felt that way toward any man before—not even Elec.