“You’ll always be my kid,” he says, pushing us apart just to grab me back to him again. “The love and devotion you have for your mother is a beautiful thing,” he states firmly. “I hope you know that I don’t take it for granted.”
“I know…” I tell him, feeling the life being squeezed out of me.
“And I hope you know none of this is easy for me either.”
“I do…” I wince, his arms somehow tightening their hold even further.
“Okay.” He steps back, then looks me over head to toe. “Good.” He smiles somberly, squinting his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m going to get some shut-eye. You should think about calling it an early night too. It’s been a long day.”
I nod, brushing my hand over his shoulder as I make my way around the crowded living room, through the dining nook, kitchen, and out past the chirping crickets toward the A-frame. Once inside the studio, I turn on the lights and make my way to the bathroom, which is tucked next to the steep staircase that leads to the loft.
The downstairs of the A-frame is the same as it’s always been. I’ve left it untouched other than carving a wider path for myself between canvases, paint cans, easels, and random artist’s bits and bobs, from the door to the bathroom and stairs. The walls are covered, all twenty-feet high of them, in Mom’s artwork from the many years she spent out here, other than the triangular-shaped front wall of the A-frame that is mostly made up of windows and slatted wood paneling. Upstairs, however, is all my own. My hideaway from the world and personal oasis.
I’ve covered the walls in ripped-out pages of my favorite poetry books, postcards from my aunt’s travels, every possible photo that evokes some feeling of nostalgia, and, of course, oneof my favorite paintings by none other than Julia Welch herself. The sunset-drenched lake painted just for me that moved from my bedroom in the main house to out here.
My bed, the coziest place on earth, is a beige and blue symphony of comfort made of more blankets and pillows than one human could use in her lifetime. My father calls it my nest, and it does resemble one. There is nothing better after a long day and a shower than curling up with a good book or my journal to write in. Or, hopefully, after days like today, passing out the second my head hits my pillow.
Making my way through the clutter and into the bathroom, I turn the shower on and sit on the closed toilet lid. I begin to undress my weary body as I wait for the old hot water heater to kick in and do its job. My sweater gets caught on my head and I have to nearly dislocate my shoulder to get it off but, once I do, I toss it away. It catches on the painting on the wall across from me, the small square canvas with a deep blue background and a bright-orange goldfish in the center. The goldfish is wearing a filled fishbowl around its head, fitted to him like an astronaut’s helmet, despite being surrounded by water.Fearful Fish by JW,my mom’s handwriting across the bottom reads.
Sighing, I reach for my bra clasp, undo it, and move to stand. Shimmying out of my trousers, I then remove my jewelry and lay it all out on the sink for me to collect in the morning. My gold bracelet was an eighteenth birthday present from my grandmother. My small hoop earrings are just cheap things from some online sale. My rings have all been collected from various markets and vintage shops or stolen from Mom’s collection before that would have felt like a messed-up thing to do.
Once my socks are off, I test the temperature with my big toe, then step into the shower. I let the water wash over me like a welcome relief, and the warmth of it turns my skin pink almostinstantly. I inhale the steam, reaching for my eucalyptus bodywash and pouring it onto a washcloth.
And, despite having a million and one worries that I could relive, replay, and dissect in the shower as I usually do—something else comes to mind, taking me by surprise. Or, rather,someoneelse, as I lather the soap over my arms, shoulders, and chest.
Milo. The man who seemed to have never heard the wordnoin his life. The man who made my throat dry and ears ring with only the exposed skin of his forearm on display. The man who knew my mother. The man my mother, somehow, knew.
He was flirting with me, but that seemed to come rather naturally to him, unlike me. While washing my hair I flip between two opposite theories. One is that he is most likely likethat—annoyingly charming—with everyone he comes into contact with. That I’m decidedlynotspecial and he probably has already forgotten that I exist. Which seems to be the more obvious conclusion.
But then, there’s the theory that maybe, just maybe, he actually liked what he saw. That maybe,justmaybe,that captivating, flickering heat in his stare is rarer than I believe it to be.
I’ve never been at the mercy of a gaze like that before. Or, if I have, I’d not bothered to notice. The idea of dating in high school was not all that appealing to me. I didn’t have many friends, many real ones at least, but I’d overhear the girls talking about guys in the hallways at lunch as I sat with a book in hand, pretending to be content with my own company. The way they talked about dating made it sound miserable. I couldn’t come around to the idea of putting myself out there, just to have some medium-ugly,Call of Duty–playing dude named Kyle, Kevin, or Zach break my heart when he stood me up for some pointlessly formal dance. My pride was far too big to put it on the line like that.
I had believed my time would come in college. I fantasizedabout boys in dimly lit libraries, drinking from steaming to-go cups, and reading Mary Oliver’s poetry across an oak table from me. They’d look up, see me, place their book down, and offer me a soft, self-serving smile. These college guys would be more interesting, findmemore interesting. They’d be named something more interesting too, like Sawyer or Aiden or Pierce.
And, I’d thought, when I did eventually lose my virginity, at what was maybe a slightly older but still respectable age of twenty or twenty-one, a college guy would take his time with me. He’d buy me dinner, with his money and not his mother’s, and then he’d kiss me on the stoop of my dorm as if he wasn’t in a hurry. I’d invite him in, each torturous step up the long flights of stairs toward my room making my lips long for his. Then, after some slightly awkward but romantic fumbling, he’d make me come before he’d even opened the condom wrapper.
I knew, or so I thought, that it would be worth the wait.
But none of that came to be.
I wasn’t quite ready to fly the nest after high school and then, once I’d finally built up the courage to consider enrolling, Mom’s memory started to go. It began with forgetting where she put her keys—which we’d tease her about. But far faster than I’d previously thought possible, it got worse. Soon, she was getting lost driving to the school she’d loved teaching at for over three decades.
So, now, I’m a twenty-four-year-old virgin whose nipples pucker at the sight of a strange man’s tattooed forearms.
When that obscene memory, in combination with the sudsy washcloth making its way down my body, nearly elicits a moan, I put myself on a time-out. Instantly, I reach down to turnupthe cold water and decide that I need to put all thoughts of Milo to rest.
Though after tonight’s talk with Dad, maybe I shouldn’t be soquick to dismiss him. It has been far too long since I’ve had someone to talk to other than my dad or Clyde. A guy like Milo wouldn’t want to be with someone as inexperienced and fumbling as me, but maybe he’d want to be my friend. He’s new to town and certainly seems to be an extrovert…. He probably needs a friend too…right?
But how does one become friends with a man so insanely attractive that they appear to be sure you will love them as much as they seemingly love themselves? I’m not going to further stroke his ego, that’s for damn sure. That is, until my facial expressions betray me, as they always have. I may be strong enough to deflect his charms for the sake of my pride, but I’m not blind to them.
Then again, there was the moment after he saw my mom, when his face fell. I know that Mom has a special bond with a lot of her students, and by that devastated look on his face, I’d wager to guess that he was one of them.
But,god,his arrogance. The crooked smile. The roguish eye. The tattoos that covered every visible inch of skin from his jaw down, like reliefs on the walls of Egyptian tombs I’d love to get lost in. Especially the ones on his hands and fingers.
When I close my eyes, I see them resting against my thigh.
So, I open them. Wider, like a deer in headlights.
