But surely this can’t last forever. Claude likely just wants to make a good impression on me for our first few days together.
I keep telling myself that, even though all the way through dinner, Claude watches me eat like there’s nothing else he’d rather do.
* * *
The next evening starts much the same. Claude brings me coffee and breakfast. He drinks from me again; I try and fail not to be affected by it, again. Then we take our places in his studio: me in the window seat, him at his easel.
He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck while staring at me. “That’s not how you were sitting yesterday.”
“Isn’t it?” I look down at myself, eyebrows pulling together as I try to recall.
“No,” he says. “Your hand was resting on your thigh.”
“Like this?”
“Lower.”
“Here…?”
“No,” he says, a frustrated edge to his voice. “And your face was more turned toward the window.”
“Okay…” I try turning, but I can see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye.
“Your hair is wrong, too. There was a strand falling over your eye yesterday…”
I sigh. “What do you expect me to do? I can’t control every little thing.”
One second he’s next to his easel. The next he’s at my side. I jump and stare up at him as one of his cool hands takes my wrist and carefully moves it.
“There,” he murmurs. “That’s where it was. And your face…” His fingers gently grasp my chin, tilting it just so. “Yes. That’s it.”
His fingers feel cold against my suddenly hot skin. He’s very near, his eyes intense as they study me. I want to break the tension somehow, maybe make a joke or complain about his micromanagement, but instead I find myself tongue-tied as he maneuvers me into place.
“One last thing,” he murmurs, and coaxes one strand of hair out, draping it over my forehead. “And… perfect.”
He steps back, and I can breathe again. As he returns to his position at the easel, I curse myself for the foolish reaction. Claude is being perfectly professional, and here I am getting worked up about him touching me.
But the excitement of it quickly drains, leaving me itchy and restless again. Claude complains every time that I move, so I try to hold my position. There’s nothing to do but stare out the window, and while the view is lovely, I’m already starting to get sick of it.
When I shift to scratch an itch on my nose, Claude makes a soft, perturbed noise, and I glower at him. “I’m not an inanimate object, you know,” I snap. “You could always go back to painting landscapes if you’re so averse to me moving about.”
Claude sighs, twirling a paintbrush in his fingers. “It’s just that I want it to be perfect.”
Then you should paint something else. I bite back the comment, and the desire to fidget more out of spite. It’ll only draw this process out more. “How long do I need to do this?” I ask.
Claude frowns at his canvas. “I’m not sure.”
I sigh. “Wonderful,” I mutter, and return to staring out at the sea. My portrait is probably going to end up with a permanent scowl, but I guess that would be a faithful representation.
I shouldn’t complain. I’m getting paid for this. Paidvery well, to sit here doing nothing. I’m sure a lot of people would be happy for this job, and this house, and Claude’s insistence on taking care of me. There must be some defect in me to be annoyed with it, even for a second.
But for me, the future I’ve always strived for is being entirely self-sufficient and stable. This undermines all of my ideas of what I want for myself… and I’m terrified of getting used to being taken care of when I know it’s a temporary situation.
I force myself to sit as quiet and motionless as possible. I let my mind wander as my gaze stays on the water outside. I count the waves crashing against the cliffs, think fleetingly of my mother and the call she never returned, wonder how Sophie and Elaine are doing, and…
“That’s enough for today.”
I blink, turning back to Claude, caught off guard by the subdued note in his tone. He sets down his paintbrush, shakes his fingers out, and rubs at his temples, sighing.
