And when I get a glimpse at the screen, pretending I’m not prying is out the window.
Holy shit.
An illustration of a barren, charred land with a gray sky dominates the screen. And in the distance, an almost medieval-looking city rises in front of a desolate, dark mountain. But it’s the lone figure in the foreground that captures and holds most of my attention. Hooded, the woman with the long twists exudes mystery, power, and strength. The detail and color ... I can’t tear my gaze away. I have no idea what this drawing depicts, but I’m drawn to it, want to discover more about this strange and lonely yet beautiful land and its gorgeous, obviously deadly defender.
“Here you—what’re you doing?”
I somehow tear my gaze away from the tablet and find Miriam standing at the edge of the sofa, a bottle of water in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
Though I have no right, I lift the tablet and ask, “What’s this?”
Frowning, she sets the water and coffee on the table and reaches for the device. “Mine.”
“Miriam. It’s ... fucking phenomenal.”
Her hand pauses midair, fingertips grazing the edge. Slowly, her arm drops back to her side, those brown eyes staring into mine, seeking ... what?
“Miriam,” I say again. “Is this yours?”
“Yes.” She thrusts her hands into the pockets of her joggers, hiking her chin up. But the gesture strikes me as bravado. As if she expects a blow to that chin. At least a verbal one. “It’s mine.”
“Sweetheart.” I peer down at the drawing again, shaking my head. “This ... I didn’t know. I knew you loved anime, but I had no idea you could dothis.” I keep repeating myself, but goddamn, she’s floored me. Miriam Nelson is an onion. Every time I think I know her, another layer is peeled back, revealing a new, startling side. “Why haven’t you said anything?”
Especially to me?
I don’t add that, but it’s there.
“Because it’s mine,” she repeats. “It’s me. And no one in my family is ready to meet me.”
“Miriam,” I whisper. Her parents—she might have something there. But Zora, Levi ... “That’s not true ...”
A small rueful smile twists her lips. “Oh, but it is. Even you aren’t.”
“Then show me,” I plead, a desperate note entering my voice, and I don’t care. Iamfucking desperate. We’re friends. Even though I’ve been inside her, we’re just friends. And yet the thought of her holding back from me, of not sharing all of herself with me, drives me a little bit fucking crazy. “Give me a chance to prove I am.”
She removes her hands from her pockets and folds them in front of her, locking and twisting them together. That nervous tell is new, and I almost launch myself from the couch to cover those hands with one of mine to stop the frantic gesture. That she’s anxious—withme—has hurt and bile churning in my gut. It’s offensive.
“When Zora and Levi asked me to join BURNED, it was because of my degrees in marketing, graphic design, and digital media. But they either forgot or dismissed my master’s in graphic illustration. Same with my parents. Because I was so good with math as a child, they all forgot that I would fill pad after pad with drawings to escape the war zone that was my house. To create the friends I didn’t have. To build the worldI wished I lived in instead of the one I inhabited. They all believed it was a hobby. A harmless hobby that passed the time. None of them ever understood that math, numbers, equations—they ...” Her face scrunches up, and she peers up at the ceiling, her hands twirling as if she could conjure the words she seeks out of thin air. “They ground me. But art? Art makes me fly.”
I blink.
Desire kindles inside me, her passion a bellow that blows on mine. Only shock holds me to the couch cushion. Shock and the hunger to hear more about this secret-until-now side of her. More. I want more of her. And it’s not just physical. It’s emotional, spiritual, fucking visceral.
If I could crawl inside her and touch the mystical part that created that illustration, I would already be on top of her, searching for a secret opening like she’s my own personal Narnia.
“Mom and Dad”—she flicks her fingers—“I’ll never expect them to get it. And I disappointed Mom by not becoming a teacher. There’s always been some distance between me and Zora and Levi, and it all didn’t have to do with age. They didn’t know how to deal with me either. I was younger than them but ahead in school. And then, in their eyes, I went ‘crazy’ in college. Finding this out—that I’m a graphic novelist—would just be one more item for them to jot down on their ‘That’s just Miriam being Miriam’ list. I couldn’t stand to watch them relegate it to something small or inconsequential. Not when it means everything to me. So no, I haven’t shared this part of me with them. With anyone. Until now.”
Until me.
Clearing my throat, I switch my gaze back to her tablet and study the illustration again. I lift a hand to the screen and glance at her, eyebrow arched, the unspoken request still loud and clear between us. There’s a moment of slight hesitation, but then she dips her head.
With her consent, I brush the screen and bring up another panel. In this one, a giant, ripped, Viking-looking male with blazing-blue eyesand a braided blond mohawk fights an emaciated, rotting figure, his axes slicing through gray flesh, gore splattering. In the background, two children in tattered clothing huddle together, fear drawing their faces. But also, awe shines in their dark eyes as they stare at the blond warrior who’s obviously protecting them.
The Viking character is dressed in leather and boots with dark tattoos scrawled over his muscled arms and thick neck, but I recognize the shape of the face and mouth, the color of the eyes, the mohawk.
He’s ... me.
My heart thunders against my rib cage, and the roar is deafening in my head. A vise tightens around my chest, and my breath wheezes out of my lungs. A slight tremble vibrates down my arms, and the tablet quivers in my hands as I stare at the next panel. The children run to him and throw their arms around his thick legs. They burrow their faces against him, clinging. As if he’s their safe haven, their savior.
