"This is crazy," I say, shaking my head before tearing a piece of toast and stuffing it in my mouth.
"Probably," he says with a shrug as he takes another sip of his coffee.
"I should be scared of you."
"You should."
"But I'm not."
Something alters in his expression. It’s not quite a smile, but very close. Right. Of course he'd noticed that, he’s been watching me long enough.
Pull yourself together, Roxy, you should be calling the police, getting a restraining order, doing all the things normal people would do when confronted by a man who admitted to stalking them.But who am I kidding. I’m as crazy as he is, that’s why I pull out my sketchbook from my bag and start to draw.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"I’m drawing you."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Why?"
"Because you're interesting."
I start with his eyes, so dark and intense, framed by thick lashes.
"I want to see if I can capture whatever it is that makes you so..."
"So what?"
"Real."
As soon as I say it he goes still, but I keep drawing, my pencil moving across the page in quick, confident motions. I capture the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead, and the tattoos I can see peeking out from under his black sleeves.
"It’s so refreshing to be around someone like you, you know? Everyone lies, whether it’s big or small, pretending they have morals while hiding their secret thoughts, the fantasies of what they would do to a person they don’t like, hiding behind computers to post hate," I say, not looking up from the page.
"Instead they pretend to be normal, to portray an image to the world that even they start to believe. They all have a rotten side, to their core, a part that if pushed, spews all the dark truths they want to share, but they mask it with fake sincerity. Lies. You’re not like that."
"Neither are you."
"No," I say, adding shadows to his cheekbones. "I’m not."
We sit in silence for a while, the only sounds are the scratch of my pencil on paper and the low murmur of conversation from the truckers. When I finally look up, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
"Can I see?" he asks.
I turn the sketchbook around, and he studies the drawing for a long moment. I'd captured his rawness, not just his features, but the intensity behind them. Darkness blended with truth.
"It's good," he says finally.
"I know."
The corner of his mouth twitches with another almost smile. I close the sketchbook and stand up, leaving money on the table for the coffee and toast I have barely touched, my hunger now satiated.
"I'm leaving now."
"Okay."
"You're going to follow me."
"Of course."
