CHAPTER 11

Hayden Ashford wants to go to a place not found and he wants to pay me to take him there.

It's hard to say what I would've made of it if he had told me this secret – and it is a secret – a few weeks ago when I had been deep underwater in a depressive episode. Because those are not words you utter to people you know. You tell those things to priests at a confessional or to your therapist. Or to a dululu artist so far down the food chain you don't have to worry about keeping up an image. I don't know what he's looking for, but it must be as elusive to him as my quiet is to me.

I survey my apartment from my couch, impressed and satisfied with the sparkliness. I spent all week cleaning – spring cleaning also known as manic cleaning – trying to expel all the energy I've had the last few days.

Slow down, Levi, Shawn had said earlier today when I rushed out of work.

It's always slow down, Levi and I hate it when people say it. But I can grudgingly admit that, in a way, it's helpful. It's usually one of my first clues that I'm moving into mania. My in-between this time had lasted only a short while.

Along with the climbing mania had come the decision to ask for a meeting with Hayden Ashford. Yes. I've been very productive.

My phone lights up next to me. A text from Daniel: You ready?

My eyeballs find the back of my head fast while I type back: It's not even six o'clock. The meeting is at eight p.m.

Daniel: I know. Just checking.

Me: Lucky for us, I'm on my way to being manic. I won't look half-dead when I get there. I flinch immediately after hitting send. Dick move, Levi. Dick move.

Daniel reels me in fast. That wasn't what I was counting on, if that's what you were going for. I just want you and the gallery to make the most of this opportunity.

I call him to apologize because even when my brain is beginning to fracture a thousand feet above sea level, I feel the guilt like a freight train. "I'm sorry," I tell him.

"Thanks, Levi. I'm checking up on you, but I'm not checking up on you, you know what I mean?

"I know. I cleaned my apartment—"

"Again?"

I shove my sigh back into my mouth. "Yeah, again. I cleaned my house, and now I'm going to try and do a few sketches. I'll take the late bus out."

***

I arrive at Hayden Ashford's house at seven-fifty. Although it's well after hours, I'm received by his housekeeper, who introduces herself as Evaline. I greet her with a level of enthusiasm that makes her smile. "You have such a wonderful energy about you, Mr. Anderson," she says as she leads me through a wide hallway. If only my energy really was ‘wonderful'.

"That's very kind of you," I respond. I'll bet her employer would be surprised, given his experience with me over the last few weeks. Maybe Dr. Emily will find a new cocktail of meds when I see her again, and I can have more stable days. Maybe then, I can stop giving people whiplash with my erratic moods.

Evaline stops in front of a set of double doors, left slightly ajar. "This is Hayden's office. You can wait here. I've prepared some light snacks for you both." She points to a table on the side of the room. "Please help yourself. Hayden will be down shortly. He's had a long flight so bear with him if he's a few minutes late."

"Flight?"

"Yes. He arrived from Australia just a short while ago."

Australia? I'm not smart but I know that a flight from Australia is at least twenty-six hours long.

Evaline leaves me in the office, promising once again that Hayden will join me shortly. My first observation is that the plant on his desk seems to be doing much better. Its edges are still tinged with a crispy brown, but it now seems to stand up a little straighter. I attribute my excessive gratitude for this plant that never gives up to my manic need to see the good in everything.

Fuck, I wish I could get a cocktail of meds that actually work.

Twenty-six hours. My brain works a hundred miles a minute. Hayden Ashford can't be that interested in my artwork.

The snacks are delicious, and I help myself to everything – cucumber slices topped with smoked salmon and cream cheese, bacon-wrapped asparagus spears, and several high-quality cheeses. I don't know their names, but I eat almost half of the entire cheese spread.

I survey the room while I eat, my fast-escalating mood giving me the courage to walk around. It's a big office but very brown. Brown desk. Brown leather couch. Brown carpet on the – yep – darkwood.

My brain feels like I'm standing on a beach and tidal waves are crashing through me. But anyway, who cares. The food tastes great. I hope I'm not allergic to anything. What if I react badly and these strangers have to carry my body out of here? Wait, I don't have allergies. But what if I develop one right now, right this minute. No. That's stupid. I've been eating my whole life and I've never had a food allergy. But what about the cheeses? I haven't eaten every single cheese to have ever been made. No. I'm being dumb.

Oh. Wait. There's my painting. The only painting to hang on the wall. The plant is the only one in the room. There are picture frames on the desk, and, when I round the desk to look at them, I'm disappointed. There are photos of his family, I presume, one of them being a childhood photo of two older people—his parents, I guess, and two children. I lean in closer. The one next to the woman is him. Even as a young child, he was the serious type, it seems. While the other one – older than him, from what I can gather – smiles happily, young Hayden Ashford looks disapprovingly at the camera. He was no less beautiful as a child than he is as a man, smile or not.

My disappointment lies in the absence of photos of his fiancé. Or of him and his fiancé. If I'd had a love like the one they supposedly had – the ‘dream couple' according to Daniel – I would have my whole house adorned with pictures. My house would become a shrine.

My stomach makes a weird, unknown sound. Is it the cheese? It must be the fucking cheese. I mentally check other parts of my body. What happens when your body is shutting down? Does your chest start to close up? Like you can't breathe? Is my chest closing up? Or is that just like, my anxiety?

"Ahem."

I lift my head, my ears already ringing with embarrassment and my face hot. I straighten, cursing what I must've looked like, bent over the desk like a spy, and tell my brain to just stop talking to me.

Hayden Ashford steps further into the room, rounding his desk until he's standing in front of me. I lift my eyes to look at his face. He's freshly showered. His hair is still wet, falling over his forehead on one side. He's wearing a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. His body is molded in all the right places, muscles on display for my hungry eyes.

His skin glistens with newly applied moisturizer. He's very tanned. Does he spend a lot of time outside or is it just good genes? Apart from the light scruff covering his cheeks and the two spots near his mouth, his face is impeccably clear – the opposite of my freckle-covered face. I have the urge to step up to him and rub my cheek over that scruff. This man is beautiful as fuck.

His lips shine with a soft pinkness. Maybe he applied a lip balm after his shower. Maybe I won't mind losing my job for leaning in and kissing a client. And just because I'm celibate doesn't mean I can't kiss someone.

It feels like a lifetime, standing there looking at him with my overactive brain absorbing minute details of his face at an inhuman speed. In reality, it must've been only a fraction of a second. He locks his gaze with mine for a fraction of a second too, and then drops his eyes.

"You may take a seat here," he says, pointing to the opposite side of the desk.

"Oh, right."

He steps to the side. The space he's created for me to pass him is unnecessarily large. I take a seat across from him, and he sinks into his swivel chair. Placing my notepad and pen on the desk, I tell myself that he's not a client yet. If I tell him I refuse to be his personal artist, then I'm well within my right to leap across this desk, straddle him, and ride him like a fucking storm.

Maybe he's a gentle lover. If he fucks like he talks, he's probably one of those missionary-style love-making types. Very prim and proper. I'm more the fuck me till there's nothing left of me type, but for just one taste of those lush lips, I would be willing to settle for ordinary love making.

Also, fuck the celibacy rule?