Unable to stand the tension any longer, I switch on the portable speaker on my desk and choose a playlist. The mournful sounds of Hozier filter softly through the room and I take a deep breath before returning my attention to my stylus.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should be concerned about the difference between the music I listen to in here and what I play on the other side of the door. The overlap between the two is minuscule. When I’m in here, I allow the music to match my mood. Out there, I’m often trying to persuade my mood to match the music. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the upbeat and fabulous music I play when I’m out and about in the world. I do. I’m not faking it. It’s more like, by the time I reach the privacy of my office, I don’t have any fabulous left in me. I’ve used it all up showing my best face to the world.
When I’m here, all alone, I don’t have a best face. I just have me.
As the first hour ticks over into the second I find my way intothe zone. The rising sun fills the room with light and everything feels calm and peaceful. I almost forget I’m waiting.
“Good morning.”
My hand stops moving. An inaudible gasp fills my lungs. I turn my head enough to catch sight of him in my periphery as he leans against the doorframe. “Good morning.”
For a long moment, neither of us move. Perhaps he’s wondering if I simply forgot to shut the door and now I’m thinking of a polite way to close it in his face. Perhaps I’m wondering the same thing.
“May I come in?”
My throat closes up and my mouth goes dry. Unable to speak, unable to try, I settle for a nod.
He enters the room and I shift my gaze back to my monitor. My stylus moves in a sweeping motion across the surface of the drawing tablet, but the tip doesn’t touch down. I want to appear occupied, but every cell is focused on the man invading the room behind me.
His bare feet are silent on the carpet as he moves from one covered cork board to the next. There are no words of approval or flattery, for which I’m exceedingly grateful. I’m baring my soul here. The last thing I need is for him to embarrass himself with pointless gushing.
I turn my head again, unable to resist peeking. He’s stopped moving, his gaze trained on the picture of the two of us kissing. The one I drew that first night, after he failed to provide the good night kiss I so desperately wanted. I’ve drawn other pictures since then—of him performing on stage, of us fighting in the trailer, of him sleepy eyed and satisfied upon my rumpled sheets. However, it seems he’s chosen his favourite.
He’s in front of me before I even realise he’s moved. Pulling me from my chair and dropping into it, he tugs me across his lap. His arms wrap around me, and he buries his face in my shoulder, breathing deeply, as if he wants to inhale all the parts of me he’s meeting for the first time.
“You. Are. Amazing.” His voice is muffled, but I hear every word and I dissolve into a dopey grin. Maybe I can stand a little gushing.
When he lifts his head, his eyes are suspiciously glassy. “I mean it, Toni,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “I knew you were good at designing websites and stuff, but this…” The words disappear as his gaze wanders from one piece of artwork to the next. “I could stare at these walls for hours. And I have so many questions.”
Ugh. There they are, as predicted. The questions.
“How about we start with one and go from there,” I suggest. Surely even I can handle one question. How hard can it be?
“Okay.” He lifts his arms out to encompass… everything, I guess. The room, the art, the lock, my life. “Why?” he asks.
It’s a single word. Only three letters. Even so, it is a hard question to answer.
Raising my eyebrows, I gesture to the many pictures hanging from the walls like viscera. “Are you joking? I can’t show all this to the world. It would be like screaming every private thought I’ve ever had out loud.” With a high-pitched laugh, I spring up from his lap and rip a single picture off the wall. “Dear Diary, today the boy I like laughed at me and called me a fudge packer and now I’m sad.” I toss the paper aside and reach for another. “Dear Diary, today I got shafted on yet another account I wanted because the boss thinks I can’t handle it. I got so angry I finally quit.” Throwing the evidence of my tantrum over my shoulder, I storm over to a different board, digging deeper into the layers this time. “Dear Diary, my grandmother died today, and my heart is broken.” I don’t toss this one away. Instead, I handle the paper with care, staring at my grandmother’s wrinkled, but smiling, face. The picture is old, drawn by hand in the weeks after her death. I was fourteen at the time. I’d never tried to draw an elderly person before, and I did a pretty crappy job of it. But I did it with love.
“You know, when my brother first told me to be myself as hard as I could, I tried to do what he said.” I don’t look up as I talk, and Ned doesn’t interrupt. “I tried to emphasise the best parts, of course. Everyone has a fun side, I played mine up. The not-so-fun side got played down, but it was still there.”
I hand the picture to Ned before clearing a spot on my desk so I can sit down. “When Grandma died, I was sad in a way I couldn’t hide. She’d been a big part of my life and I missed her. By then I’d made lots of friends and they were sympathetic at first, but after a few weeks they kind of expected me to be over it. Except, it wasn’t over. My parents were still dealing with Grandma’s estate. Selling her house. Going through her stuff. My dad cried. I’d never seen him do that before. It hurt.”
I fall silent for a minute and Ned takes my hand, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze.
“One day, I overheard Rodney complaining about how morbid I’d become. He said he wished I’d snap out of it and go back to being fun-Toni.” Ned curses under his breath and I huff out a sad laugh. “The knife twisted deeper when everyone else in the room agreed with such enthusiasm.”
“So, you snapped out of it?” Ned asks.
I nod. “I went home, drew this picture, sticky-taped it to my bedroom wall, and never mentioned Grandma again, except around my family.” I shrug, getting up to wander around the small space. “Rodney isn’t responsible for me being who I am,” I tell him firmly. “That’s on me. I get the credit and the blame. He may have been my best friend, but he was also a dumb fourteen-year-old kid having a whinge when he thought he wouldn’t get caught.” With a quick look, I add, “He still doesn’t know I heard him, so please don’t ever mention it. He’s put up with way worse from me over the years.”
Ned nods in understanding.
“So, anyway, I guess I figured if people liked fun-Toni best, I would give them more of what they liked. It was still me,” I insist, “but the best parts version.” It didn’t seem like a bad thing. I enjoy being fun—most of the time. “The rest of my moods needed to go somewhere, so I put them into my art, where no one else would have to look at them. When they became darker, I realised I didn’t want anyone to look at them. One day, I started locking the door, because I couldn’t bear for anyone to see.” Glancing back over my shoulder, I give him a wry smile. “I don’t think anyone would recognise me if I lived all my moods out loud.”
Ned’s gaze is locked on mine when he stands and takes the step that brings us toe to toe. Cupping my face between his palms, he lowers his forehead to mine. “I want every mood you can throw at me.” His voice is all growly, low and sexy as hell. “I may have been drawn in by your dimples, same as everyone else.” I grin, flashing said dimples at him. “But they’re not why I’m still here.” He kisses me softly, briefly, and with all the longing I feel in return. “I’ve seen you playful, cranky, silly, possessive. I’ve seen you devastated and jealous and horny and kind. I still haven’t seen enough.” His arms come around me, gathering me close. “I want to be a safe place for you—so you can show me all your moods.”
I bury my face in the curve of his neck. “I’ll try.”
