dragged in air, hardened her belly. There was no point in trying to misrepresent the unenviable situation she was in. She’d tried that before. It always blew up in her face, sooner or later.
“This is all I can afford, with no help from my father,” she said. “The books are selling well, so it’ll get better eventually, but for now…” She shrugged. “Parrish money comes with strings attached. I’d have to be good, take my meds, not embarrass anybody, not say anything strange. I’ve tried, but the meds make me feel half dead. I can’t draw when I take them. I don’t even recognize myself. My father thinks I’m doing it to spite him.” She shook the painful thought away. “So, here I am.”
“Here you are,” he echoed quietly.
“I’m lucky I make enough money as an artist to afford even this much,” she said. “I’m not much good at anything else.”
The autumn sun slanted in the window, lighting up his eyes and warming the color into the luminous jade of a glacial lake. She’d never gotten anywhere near his power with her drawings, though she’d tried for a decade. His scars just made his stark male beauty more poignant. They put it in sharp relief, a brutal reminder of his vulnerability.
He was no superhuman. He was real.
His scars made her think of that day that split her life in half. All his revelations were bringing her own long-buried truths to the surface. Things she knew so deeply, she barely thought about them. They were the bedrock of her deepest self, the underlying landscape of her mind.
Seeing the burned man, wounded and desperate, had broken something inside her heart when she was eleven. Something that could never be mended until she could soothe those wounds, and give him the help that he had begged for. She still couldn’t. There was nothing she could do for him. But God, how she wanted to. She ached for it.
It was ridiculous. Pathetic. And it was the truth.
She looked down, eyes skittering around the crowded little room. Afraid of looking stupid. Of being judged by him. She wished she were bolder, more uncaring, more fuck-you-all. But she just wasn’t.
She couldn’t bear to look at him, and she couldn’t bear to look away. Slices of sunlight shifted on the wall as drafts from the warped window moved the blinds. The crystals she’d hung spun rainbow splotches lavishly, everywhere. The space seemed incredibly small. He just stood there. Not twitching, not ill at ease or embarrassed. A silent, powerful presence, patiently waiting for something. Who the hell knew what. She was the jittery one, hoping desperately not to screw this up.
Not even knowing what “this” was. Where she wanted this miraculous turn of events to go. Just one thing was for sure. She didn’t want to chase it away. Like she’d chased away every other man she’d ever gotten close to. But it wasn’t up to her. It never was.
It was out of her hands, and that made her so scared.
Well. You could ask the man to sit down, suggested a dry voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her mother.
“Have a seat,” she offered. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”
“That would be nice,” he said.
“Oh, and yeah. Here.” She rummaged in her cupboard, and pulled out a colorful cardboard box. Animal crackers. She placed them on the table. “I know they’re ridiculous. My mother would turn over in her grave if she saw me offer these to a guest, but it’s all I have at the moment. I keep them for Jamal. He stays here a lot. You know, to use the computer, and sometimes he sleeps on the couch, when his mom is, um, occupied, with her boyfriends. I leave my window open for him, the one with the fire escape, so he has a safe place to do homework when I’m not here.” She pulled it shut, latched it. “But, ah…not today.”
He gave her a smile that made her wish she’d kept her mouth shut. Babbling on about Jamal, like a fatuous fool. “Stop it,” she said.
“Stop what?” His low, gentle voice sounded caressing.
She waved her hand at him. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“I can’t help it,” he said. “It’s a sweet thing for you to do for the kid. It’s a total nightmare from a security point of view, but it’s sweet.”
“I have nothing here worth stealing,” she retorted, flustered. “And I wasn’t trying to get your approval, or trying to prove anything to—”
“Of course you weren’t. You don’t have to. It’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?” she snapped.
He hesitated. “Who you are,” he said. “Your quality. Never mind. I don’t want to embarrass you. You don’t take compliments well.”
“I guess not,” she said testily. “Will you please sit down? Eat some of these cookies.” She ripped open a box, undid the wax paper, held one out. “Here. Sit down, eat a giraffe. You’re making me nervous.”
“In a moment,” he said. “I’d like to look at your pictures. May I?”
She huffed out a gusty breath. “Be my guest.”
She shoved the giraffe into her mouth, and crunched it while he walked the walls. She’d covered the walls with clippings, magazine images, things scribbled on restaurant bills, napkins, paper towels, paper plates. A chaotic, fluttering floor to ceiling collage.
She tried to ignore him by putting the teakettle on, setting up mugs with teabags. All she had was spiced green tea chai. No point in asking if he liked it, since she could offer no alternative.
And then there was nothing to do but wait for the water to boil.
She forced herself to turn around. He was peering at the wine-stained sketch of her father, the one she’d done in the restaurant. She’d almost thrown the ill-starred thing away, because it hurt to look at it.
Then she’d pulled it out of the waste basket, and put it up on the wall. She had to learn to use the information that came to her in this elliptical way. To save people, change things. Not just be a helpless witness to disaster. Throwing the sketch away would mean that she had given in to despair. She wasn’t ready for that yet.
“Your father,” he said quietly, touching it with his finger. “I recognize him. This is the drawing you told me about? The prophetic one that you did of him at the restaurant?”
His perception startled her. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it prophetic,” she forced out. “How did you know that was the one?”
“It gave me cold chills. The other sketches of him didn’t.”
No other person had ever had an independent reaction to one of her “charged” drawings before. It felt strange. Not entirely good.
He prowled her space, peering at her things and drawing his own imponderable conclusions about her. He wouldn’t sit. She wanted that leopard-about-to-pounce energy to settle, so she could breathe.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” she blurted.
He shook his head. “You don’t have to do anything.”
She rushed on.
