Being myself was the worst thing I could’ve done.
Someone who’s savvy, who remembers her endgame, would’ve declined dinner. She wouldn’t have let the familial warmth cloud her judgment the way I did, but it felt so good to be hugged by Connor’s mom. Watching a smile struggle onto his dad’s face felt like the best gift in the world.
I wasn’t always this frightened, anxious person. I used to be vivacious. That’s what my old boss called me. I had moxie, and I was fun. I created a scene inside the club that made people want to be there, having what I was having because if they had what I was having, they could be as happy as me.
For a little while tonight, I was me again.
We’re in Connor’s truck now, on the way back to my place. We pass through the bigger streets, come to life with the collective exuberance only a Friday night can create. Crowds of people hang out on the stadium-style concrete seats of the amphitheater. Teenagers laugh and playfully shove each other. Families push strollers, and couples hold hands.
Connor must notice me taking it all in, because he says, “We could stop if you want.”
“No,” I say quickly. I’ve been too happy tonight, too carefree. I’m way past the limit of happiness I’m allowed in one day.
“Okay,” Connor says, and I can tell he’s trying to cover the hurt in his voice.
“It’s not you, Connor.” My voice is low. I feel awful.
“Right,” he says, but the word is empty.
We arrive at my house, but I don’t get out right away. There’s so much I want to say and so much I cannot say. I’m searching, trying to find a spot somewhere in the middle where I can land safely. Trouble is, I don’t think that exists.
I turn to look at Connor and find him watching me. His eyes flicker over my face and down to my neck.
“Can I paint you?”
I jump at the sound of his voice. “Why…why would you want to do that?”
He lifts his chin and closes his eyes. “For me to paint, I need to feel certain things. Emotions. I use my hands to communicate those emotions, and when I’m around you, I have enough emotions to carry me through three paintings.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me.
“I guess what I just told you isn’twhy.That was my need to paint. I want to paint you because you’re beautiful. I want to make sense of you, and I don’t know how else to do it. You’re a mystery. A question mark in human form.”
“You can paint me.” The words tumble from me, and as I say them, I see how this is the perfect solution to my problem. I can’t tell Connor specifics, but if this will make him happy, help him make sense of me, then I’m a willing participant. I want to be understood.
Connor licks his lips and bobs his head. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon. Is that okay? Do you have plans?”
I give him a derisive look and he chuckles. “I don’t know, maybe you have plans with Walt.”
“Actually, I do. I’m taking him lunch and then I’m going to help him with his backyard.”
Conner’s eyebrows pull together in confusion.
“He has junk everywhere,” I explain. “I can be ready by five.”
“Then I’ll be here at five.”
Small butterflies take flight in my stomach.Connor is going to paint me.
I reach for the door handle. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Connor’s eyes me tentatively. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”
Another thing that’s a bad idea. “Yes,” I answer, ignoring the internal chiding happening in my brain. Will it really hurt anything? Just one more kiss?
I let go of the handle and move over, so I’m closer to the center. Connor takes my face in his hands. Just when I think he’s going to kiss me, he starts talking.
“Don’t attack my mouth like you did before. That was so embarrassing. For you, I mean. Not me. I was the victim—”
