CHAPTER 13

Several things about this interaction need my attention.

Hayden's non-reaction to my bipolar announcement, for starters. I find it hard to understand why I didn't get an Oh, what's that? Or I'm sorry to hear that, like I have a terminal illness. In my opinion, everyone has a terminal illness. It's called life. You're guaranteed to die.

Ah, look how clever and philosophical I am when I'm manic.

It shouldn't have been that easy – answering his questions, that is – but I think I'm beginning to see this man the way others do. He's watchful. The kind of watchful that makes you straighten your spine and fix your collar. Make sure you pronounce your words properly and give him the answers he's demanded. I'm world-famous when it comes to giving away my (and others') life stories to complete strangers when I'm manic but telling him personal things about me doesn't feel dirty and embarrassing. Not yet anyway. I might feel differently in a couple of weeks.

Maybe I was too low to notice these things about him during our earlier encounters. Now, everything about him is amplified: the comforting gravel in his voice. The softness in his eyes. His large hands. A scar near his ear.

I'm staring. Stop staring. He'll think you're a psycho and he'll get you arrested for looking like a psycho, and then they'll send you to a psych ward for a dozen evaluations and discover that you are, in fact, a fucking psycho, and they'll lock you away. No. I'm not a psycho. I'm just bipolar. And OCD. It's just a bit of OCD. But what if it's not just bipolar or OCD?

Oh. My God. Shut the fuck up and focus.

The other thing I need to analyze later is his answer to my question. It isn't that he said yes, he wants me to paint for him. It's the way he said it – his eyes trained on me like he really believes I'm the one who can take him to this place not found.

I shift awkwardly in my seat. Then, finding my voice and willing myself to slow my pace, I ask, "If I understand correctly, you want paintings of the things you don't have?"

"Yes."

Another time, I would've disintegrated under his scrutiny. Right now, I'm emboldened enough to return his stare. Unfortunately, as usual, and along with my manic bravery, comes the racing heart and my even faster, multiple trains of thought. Then, my sweaty palms and a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh inside my head.

I do my best to ignore all of it. My eyes drop to my pen lying next to his hand, almost touching his pinky. I feel lost without it. I don't like the smoothness of the pencil he's given me to use. The texture makes the tips of my fingers tingle. My pen has ridges along the middle. The absence of the ridges along the side of this pencil is discomforting. I also don't like that the three pencils on the left side of Hayden's desk are not in a straight line. One of them is shorter than the other. I shouldn't judge this gorgeous man for the state of his pencils. If he could hear my thoughts, he'll think I'm a bad person. I give my eyes an internal roll. No, that's stupid. He can't hear my thoughts.

Anyway, I'm confident enough in my mania-inducing euphoric state to reach over and take my pen back, but, before I can do so, he lifts his hand and rolls the pen back to me. Still, those watchful eyes.

Did he know how badly I needed my pen back?

Hayden's eyes remain on my pen. Click-click-click. I try to force myself to stop this fucking clicking, but my mania is climbing fast. I need something to distract me. Click-click-click. My left knee bounces up and down underneath the desk, so I cross my right leg over it to keep the jerks under control.

He gets up and walks to a bar fridge behind the desk. I have about four seconds to look at him from this angle. He works out, no question about it. And wow, look at that ass. What I wouldn't give to ride that piece of meat. I swear to God, I'm going to get rid of that celibacy contract.

Hayden slides a bottle of water across the desk.

"What don't you have?" I ask after I've taken several ungracious gulps of water.

"Peace." He says it in much the same way I told him about my Bipolar Disorder. No emotion. Just a stated fact. But I know – and I'm dead certain he knows – it's never that simple. It's never just a stated fact. He's suffering. How much like my suffering is his?

"You want me to paint your peace?"

"If you can find it, yes."

"I don't think that's possible." I know first-hand how impossible it is. I've been trying for as long as I can remember.

He waves his hand in the direction of the painting on the wall. "You painted the place not found."

"No. I painted the longing for what cannot be found. There's a difference." I'm not sure what else to say, so I divert. "I don't think I know you well enough to paint something like that, anyway. It's too abstract. Can we start with something more concrete? Something more rooted in the real world? And then move on from there?" Funny how I'm the one with the mental disorder, but here I am, talking about ‘the real world'.

Hayden leans back in his chair, rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip. "Okay, Levi. When you look at me, what do you think I can't have in this real world?"

I chuckle. I'm reaching the peak of my mania. My eyes must be big and round. My laugh is light, like I have no problems in this world. I'm becoming excitable. His questions are too open-ended. My brain – now almost fully manic – works faster than I can keep up.

I set my pen down, pick up his pencil, and turn to a blank page on my notepad. Ignoring the smoothness of the pencil, my hand moves quickly over the blank page. It only takes a minute or two, and Hayden watches me the whole time.

When I'm done, I rip the paper from the notepad, turn it over so the blank side is facing up, and slide it across the desk. I can't stop the silly grin from dominating my face. It's cheeky, I know, but I feel like being cheeky. Hayden is too serious. Every time we talk it feels like I'm in a therapy session after falling off the rails. It's annoying, and I've decided he needs to loosen up a bit.

I watch as he flips the paper over and studies my sketch. His stern expression persists, but it's still not enough to keep me from grinning ear to ear.He gets up and rounds the desk. I love how he prowls over to me. I love his expressionless face. He's a mystery, inviting me into his maze. If I ever got lost inside this man, I would never even try to find my way back.

I am definitely going to break my vow of celibacy.

He bends, one hand on the desk and the other on the armrest of my chair. I have to lean back to create some space between us, but still, I'm so fucking caged in. It's magnificent.

"Do you really think I can't have you, Levi?" he asks. His voice is a purr and a growl all at once. Soft and dangerous, thrumming over my skin, and more importantly, gliding across my over-sensitized brain. His voice has induced an orgasm of the mind. I close my eyes for a fraction of a moment, inhaling the sound of his voice.

"Are you hiding somewhere in a place that doesn't exist?" he asks softly.

My eyes skate over to the desk where my sketch of my face lies innocently. "Yes, the real me," I breathe. I'd meant the sketch as a joke, but Hayden has read far more into my careless antics than I'd bargained for.

"And you can't find yourself? The real you?"

"Yes," I reply, abandoning my playful intentions.

"Why can't you find yourself?"

"I don't know what I look like. I don't know what the real me looks like."

"You only know the manic you and the depressive you," he murmurs.

Either Hayden Ashford is bipolar himself, or he knows someone who is. Or he's some sort of shrink. I nod. "The me inside of me is nowhere to be found."

He straightens, allowing for much needed space between us. Then, he reaches over and takes my sketch between his fingers.

"You can put your face on a canvas for me," he says. "Thank you for your time, Levi." He leaves with my sketch, closing the door with a soft thud.

Evaline shows me out a moment later. I leave Hayden Ashford's home feeling more found than lost, but I know I can't trust that feeling because I'm manic. And if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that manic me can never be trusted.