CHAPTER 18

Levi is tired.

His eyelids rest heavily over his eyeballs, and his voice drags when he says, "Hey, Evaline said I could come right through."

I rise from my chair. My office feels claustrophobic today. The space is large, but there isn't enough room for us. The air is thick, but I'm happy to see him again, even if it's like this.

I don't ask him how he is. That would be a waste of words. Too much effort on his part to have to engage in small talk. Instead, I say, "She'll get us something to drink in a minute."

He looks at me blankly.

I have not kissed a man in two years. The last time I was kissed was the morning of the meeting that was more important than answering Nicholas's calls and texts.

"Have a good day, honey. I'll see you later," Nicholas had said, pulling his robe closer to his body that morning. "I love you." He kissed the words into my mouth, sweet and soft.

"I love you more," I told him, and I kissed him back the same way.

I clear my throat, turning my back on the memory. "Evaline. She'll bring us something to drink."

"Not alcohol."

I already know that. "No. Not alcohol."

"I'm driving back. That's why, uh, no alcohol." He's still standing at the door.

"Come inside, Levi." My voice is soft because maybe he's easily frightened by loud sounds and voices. Like Nicholas used to be.

His feet drag across the carpeted floor. His bag looks like it's too heavy for him, but I know that's not the case. He might not feel like it right now, but you can see that he has some muscle on him. It's been so long since I've felt the light curve of muscle on a man of Levi's build.

He sits, placing his bag on the desk. "I finished your painting," he says.

I return to my seat. "May I see it?"

His mouth lifts. Almost a smile. If I admitted to wanting to kiss his almost-smile, it would be better than admitting that I wanted to touch him in places I have no business thinking about.

"May I see it," he says lightly. Then, an effortful chuckle. He's teasing me. "Of course, you can see it. Why do you talk so fancy?"

I'm not sure how to respond. He's wearing his depression like clothing. A heavy winter coat, pulled tightly around his body, keeping him safe from the bite of reality. Yet, he smiles. His attempt to break free from the fog that must be suffocating him makes me think of Nicholas again.

I pull his bag across the desk and open it carefully. I'm aching to see his face. Even though he sits right across from me in the flesh, there's a version of him inside this bag that might not exist anywhere else but within the strokes of his paint brushes.

I'm right.

He's beautiful. Just as beautiful as he is sitting not two feet away from me, but here, on this canvas, he is so alive. His face is in profile, his eyes lifted. His lips are parted, and there's wonder in those vibrant eyes.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

I think I want to kiss him. Kiss him and touch him. Study his tattoos and ask him if he has more in the concealed parts of his body. Trace those freckles with my tongue and test the strength of his grip when he's in ecstasy.

"It's . . ." He holds my gaze. ". . . exquisite."

Another smile. "So, you're happy with the work?"

"Yes." The work is exquisite. And so is he.

"How many pieces do you want?"

"Who inspires you?" I ask, instead of answering him. Because to give him an honest answer would be the same as offering him a full-time position as my personal artist for the rest of his life. I want to own everything he would ever create.

"Van Gogh, obviously."

"Your favorite painting?"

"The Starry Night."

"Obviously."

Another attempt at smiling. "Obviously. It scares the shit out of me but it's still my favorite." And then, "You should water your plant."

My eyes move to where he's pointing. He's right, but the peace lily is not dead. Not yet anyway. It'll manage, but maybe if I do as he says, he'll smile again. Reaching over, I toss the remainder of my water bottle into the pot.

He smiles. I'm lost in it.

A knock on the door pulls me away from this storm building inside of me and from asking questions about why The Starry Night scares him. Evaline enters, rolling in a serving cart. She has arranged enough food for a small cocktail party – mini lobster rolls, smoked salmon pinwheels, prosciutto-wrapped melon, and a dozen other bite-sized foods. For drinks, she's brought still and sparkling bottled water, various lemonades, and iced teas.

I think Evaline likes Levi.

She smiles widely at him, but her smile falters when he responds to her enthusiastic small talk with monotone answers. Then, her smile disappears altogether when her eyes fall to the tattoo on Levi's left hand, in the space between his thumb and index finger.

She gives me a curious look. I give her nothing. She arranges our food and drink and leaves quietly.

I reach over for a bottle of water. Levi doesn't move. "When did you last eat?" I ask. It's automatic, my question. An old habit.

He shrugs again. He can't remember.

I walk around the desk. Add a few food items to a plate and push it into his hand. He has no choice but to take it because, if he hadn't, it would have fallen to the ground. Then, I grab another bottle of water.

"Come with me," I tell him.

He looks up at me from his seated position.

I like how he looks up at me like this. So innocent. So curious. Tired, but . . . I think he wants to be here. He's trying hard to keep his exhaustion out of his face. Unfortunately, I'm almost an expert at this. Almost because I made a fatal mistake. An expert wouldn't have made such a mistake. An expert wouldn't have missed the most crucial signs.

He starts to place his plate onto the desk. I reach out and take it back, pushing it back into his hand.

"Eat." I've known this man for less than four weeks. I have no authority over his . . . anything. Certainly not his eating habits, yet my instruction is issued with command, and he obeys. He stands, plate in hand.

"I want to show you something," I say.

"You want me to take the food with me?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

I don't know if his acquiescence is due to his low mood or if he is really as submissive as he appears to be right now. Then, I remember that he told me that I can't have him. I don't think he's necessarily submissive.

Levi follows me through the house, past the kitchen, through the winding hallway until we're standing in front of a set of French doors.

My heart bangs inside my chest. I haven't been in here since I set it up. All these months it has remained closed off, even from Evaline, because I can't bear to be surrounded by the things Nicholas loved the most.

"You have a gallery in your house?" Levi's gasp, when we enter the room, lifts my spirit.

"Yes." A gallery for Nicholas, but I don't tell him that.

He turns his body toward mine, impressed. He smiles for a third time since he arrived. I wish I could share in his muted enthusiasm.

I walk to the left side of the room, and I'm happy to see that he's nibbling on his finger food. He almost drops his plate when I bring him to a painting on the far side of the left wall.

Levi holds a piece of the mini lobster roll to his mouth, staring at the painting and then, with another smile, he shakes his head. When his eyes meet mine, I'm astounded by the beauty of his face. All of his freckles and his chapped lips. His hair, silky and touchable even though it's clear he doesn't care much for its upkeep. And his eyes. His lovely eyes, whose emptiness speak volumes.

"Of course, you'd own a Van Gogh painting," he says.

Not me. Nicholas.

"No one can own The Starry Night privately. Not yet anyway. So, Landscape Under A Stormy Sky was the best we could do."

His gaze. I can't stand it. Nicholas used to look at me like that. Like I'm more than I actually am. So much awe in his eyes now. I'm nobody, I want to say. Don't look at me like I'm your hero.

"We?" he says.

He must have caught the terror in my eyes. We are not that different after all. I am afraid of this life as much as he is. He lets me off the hook. "Best you could do? Your best was only fifty million dollars?" He scoffs.

I laugh – a nice, genuine laugh that makes me feel good. It had been a little more than fifty million, and I'd insisted on paying half.

"Do you know what I like about this painting?" Levi asks. Is it just me, or is there a slight lift in his voice?

"Tell me."

He points to the heavy clouds, which dominate most of the picture. "You see those clouds? That's the first thing you notice, right? The dramatic sky?"

"Right."

"Look at how ominous and angry they look. It's chaotic, right? Overwhelming?"

They're storm clouds, so I guess they must be angry. And chaotic. Overwhelming. "Yes," I say.

"Then, the next thing you see are the trees. Right?"

"Right." He eats some more. Talking with his food still in his mouth sometimes. I hand him a bottle of water.

He takes an enthusiastic gulp. "And then, after that, you notice the houses."

"Yes."

"But these little flowers?"

I focus my attention on the field depicted in the painting. "What about them?"

"They're the last thing you notice. They're almost lost. If you focused on the clouds, you might have missed them altogether."

"Yes. Why do you like it?"

He pauses. I like what he looks like when he's contemplative. He scrunches up his nose and cocks his head. "Well. That's what my brain feels like. Like there's this constant heaviness – storm clouds just making everything foggy."

He points to the houses again. "I know I can be happy. Should be happy because I have friends who care about me. And family, too. I have a pretty decent place to live. But . . ."

I face him fully, interested in his perspective. "But?" I prompt.

"But . . ." He points to the field. "That's me – my mind. Me and my millions of thoughts beneath all the chaos. I can't focus on the houses or the trees – the ‘good things' in my life. I can't focus on one thought at a time. All there is, is that overpowering, scary sky, and the storm clouds. I"m waiting for them to burst and drown me. All I do is wait for things to explode, with my thoughts running wild."

"Do you feel lost inside your own mind?"

"Yeah," he says quietly.

His gaze again. I can't break free from it when he captures me like this. He's lost inside his own mind, and I'm getting lost in him.

He eats some more. My elation cannot be ignored. Nicholas had to be hospitalized more than once for not eating during his depressive lows.

"Why does The Starry Night scare you?" I ask.

He doesn't skip a beat. "It's what mania feels like for me. Large, and loud and overpowering. Too bright. Too much." He laughs softly and I decide that I love the sound of his laugh. "Still my favorite. We can still love what scares us, right?"

I am truly in awe of him. Yes, Levi. We can still love what scares us. I like you. And I like your mind.

After Levi leaves my home with an empty bag, I sit on my bed and stare at his alive face. Then, the reality of what I've done comes slicing through me, the iciness of guilt and regret that I'd taken him into the gallery I'd made for Nicholas, making my blood freeze.

I escape to the shower, my head hanging in shame, hoping the sharp spray of the showerhead will bring some warmth into my bones.

My body heats up, but it's not over any easing of my guilt. My cock is in my hand, my erection heavy.

I fuck my fist, a war raging between the physical need for release, the reason for this explosive orgasm, and my need to preserve the innocence of my first love.

My body wins. I come, the image of Levi's face burning through my mind like he had a right to be there.