“In my downtime, I visit the cabin my father left my brother and me.”
“Isle Royale is secluded, right? The plan is to avoid people for our real-life etiquette lessons?”
“You can observe me communing with the squirrels and chipmunks. But you’d better believe I’m not at all polite when it comes to weasels.”
Everly rubs her hand down her face, but reveals a smile because yes, I made a joke.
On the second leg of our journey, I skip watching a movie. Once again, Everly takes out her notebook. She flips past the Viking.
The likeness to me is uncanny, same long hair as I had before she cut it, eyes, broad shoulders... All that’s missing is the armor, and my football pads could qualify. Though I can’t say I’m in possession of a sword.
Did Everly appreciate my wild, Norseman looks? I sense a smirk building behind my beard. Since the day in the salon, I keep telling myself to trim it again, but perhaps I’ll keep it a bit longer—or let her do it.
I grunt and tap the notebook. “Hmm. He looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen this guy before.”
Heat creeps up her neck and warms her cheeks. “You’re not supposed to look at someone’s diary.”
“I thought it was a sketchpad.”
As she moves to close it, the pencil catches on the binding and the pages flip to reveal another sketch that’s unmistakably me.
“And this one? Did you draw it? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or appalled.” I narrow my eyes as I study the image. She is incredibly talented. But I look like a brute fresh off a Berserker bender.
She frowns. “It’s just a doodle I did during your initial interview.”
“This is what you’d call a doodle?”
“I sketched it that first day, but never meant for you to see it.”
I snort. “My mother would frame it if I didn’t look like such a wild man.” I peer closer at the fine attention to detail, the lines around my eyes from the sun, and the cloudiness that seems to surround me.
Everly and I are nearly temple to temple, hovering over the image—not exactly difficult since I take up so much room and we’re seated side by side on an airplane, but I can’t deny that this woman is taking up more and more space in my mind.
“You really call this a doodle?” I repeat.
“Yeah. It’s just a silly thing I do. It’s nothing,” she says humbly, almost embarrassed.
And yet she saw so much of me and somehow translated it onto a piece of paper. “You even got the scar.” I tilt my head a couple of inches so we’re eye to eye. In hers, I see the depths of trials, tears, sweat—everything worthwhile.
My breath stalls as Everly traces the scar with her gaze. “What happened?”
I’m not sure I can tell her. But I want to ease the pain that clouds her from seeing how beautiful and amazing she is.However, I also have a practical reason. If Todd tries to make any trouble in our lives, I have to know what I’m dealing with and be prepared.
The notebook sits in her lap and as it flips closed, it not only reveals long entries of her writing, but more sketches of people and places, illustrating the beauty she sees in the world.
I want to hold up a mirror so she can see that she, too, is part of that. I sense she doubts herself despite what she said about the diagnosis and surgery. Whoever truly makes Everly his wife someday will be a very lucky man.
But I’m not that guy, because I’m made of stone and grunts and clouds.
Without a word, I nab the pencil and notebook from her hands. Our fingers brush, sending something like liquid washing over me, through me. I’m immersed, yet buoyant as I enter this uncharted water.
She grabs at the notebook, asking for it back.
When I tease her with it out of reach, she says, “Okay, fine. Those sketches are of you. Happy?”
“Me? Happy? Not at all. Appalled? Nope. But am I flattered? The answer is yes. I’ll give you this back if you explain what you think you did wrong.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”
