Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

I start at the beginning and I can see the fault lines already, the warning signs I should have recognized immediately. "Bryce and I met in the House cafeteria; our mutual friend Sutton introduced us. He was the hottest item on Capitol Hill, a rising star. He was quite the conversationalist and he knew how to influence people to get his way, so he was on the golden path to power. I was starstruck from the first moment he made eye contact with me. I felt like I knew all about him from the gossip, but the fact that he looked at me… it was different, you know?"

Cole nods.

"I was so flattered. He asked me out a few months later, after weeks of flirting and teasing me. I had waited so long for him to ask that I was dying to say yes. He was kind and attentive. Our first holiday season, we'd only been together like a month, and he took me to see The Nutcracker. He didn't even know it was on my bucket list, and it was so beautiful I cried."

It's cathartic to verbalize the things that I've shoved down the last few months. Even in knowing it was right to leave, even in the relief of all of it being behind me, there's still a tinge of sadness.

"When I was with him, on a date or at an event, I felt like I had a place. It gave me a sense of belonging to be Bryce McFourne's girlfriend, because he was a big deal, and I became a big deal too when I was attached to his name. But he was always subtly asking me to be more or different or less. I never knew what he was going to ask for, if I could be enough for him. I didn't realize it was all about him being in control."

Shame burns my chest. Why did I let myself be so devalued? Why did I let him wear me down like that? Tears prick at my eyes again.

"He laughed at my art and I still thought I could see a future with him. I just kept adapting to his whims. Earlier this year, I thought we were getting to a place where things were good. I felt like we were on an even playing field. Which was stupid of me. Bryce would never let anyone be equal with him."

I press my hands to my cheeks, trying to get them to cool down.

"I should have known that…" I stop mid-sentence to take a breath as I cry. "Ugh, I should have seen it coming. I overheard him on the phone, telling one of his old fraternity buddies that he would never marry me. That his family didn't even know I existed."

"Oh no," Cole says, his voice dropping low and incredulous.

"So, I left. Packed my bags and quit my job and never looked back. I won't be going back to the East Coast ever again. I'm going to be building a new life here. I'm ready to create my own stability, for myself."

I wipe my face as Cole gently puts one arm around me.

"You've been through it," he says. "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry isn't enough."

"It's not anything to be sorry about. It's just life," I say, digging my foot into a mound of sand, letting the damp chill press against my skin. "And I'm not the only one who's been through it. I'm so sorry you lost your dad."

He turns to face me and wraps his arms around me, letting me lean into him at my own pace. I'm scared to let go, to hug him back, worried I'm going to like it too much. He's told me his story and I've shared mine and there's more between us now than ever before, more meaning and respect and understanding.

But I go ahead and hug him.

I wrap my arms around his solid waist and rest my cheek against his sweatshirt. One of his arms drops down to circle my waist, his other hand warm against my back. I let go of everything holding me back and commit all the way, completely hugging him and being held in a way I've never experienced before.

We fit together. He's steady and warm and he holds me like I'm something to be treasured and protected.

"Thank you," I whisper to him.

There's another conversation waiting to happen, where we talk about what it means that he likes me. But for now, this is us meeting each other, soul to soul, heart to heart. Everything about it feels safe, like I'm where I'm supposed to be.

One week later, Cole has passed his final board for his FMF pin and, as promised, shows up at Aunt Mari's house at eight at night for our first portrait session. I could have faked painting him in the dark, but I want everything about this portrait to be authentic, including the lighting. He brings burritos for dinner, the perfect move because I forget to eat when I'm by myself and there's no one cooking food.

Aunt Mari left for her trip earlier in the week, and I love the freedom it gives me to do this portrait on my own, without her comments and ever-watchful eye. I've rearranged things a bit so that I have a bright lamp set up across the dining room from where Cole will sit, and I can leave it like this for this session and the next. I'm hoping to have the confidence to get it done in two sittings so Cole only has to give up two of his evenings.

Céline Dion is playing quietly from a speaker in the kitchen, per Cole's request. He's sitting at the dining table with his notebook, study guide, and an array of pens and highlighters fanned out in front of him. He's wearing his black sweatshirt, USMC in bold red letters across the front, and his forearms rest on the table as he leans forward, looking intently towards the light streaming from the lamp across from him.

So far, he seems content not to revisit his admission of liking me, and since I've now taken on the role of professional portrait painter I'm definitely not going to be the one to bring it up. Compartmentalization is the name of the game, and tonight is about art and art alone.

He's a willing subject, listening to all my cues. I decide I'm going to paint him in three quarter view, with his eyes looking up into the light, his shoulders leaning forward, and his arms and hands braced across his study materials.

"Tilt your head, no, sorry, turn your head towards the light more. There! There we go." I snap a few pictures with my phone to reference later.

"Do I have to stay still like this the whole time?"

"No, we can take breaks. But give me a few minutes or so like this."

"Are you going to do the whole portrait today?"

"Definitely not. I'm just trying to figure out the lighting and shadows, what background I'll do, and then hopefully do a blocking sketch with all the lines."

"How did you learn to do all this? I wouldn't know where to start."

"Art class in high school, YouTube, and a lot of books from the library," I say, focusing on the contrast between Cole's blond hair, freshly cut, and his fair skin. "How often do you get a haircut?" I ask him as I look back and forth from him to my canvas, judging what the scale of the painting will look like.

"Every weekend."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Since I opted into wearing a Marine uniform, I abide by Marine regs, which includes getting a skin fade every six to eight days."

It's going to be tricky to create enough contrast to accurately portray his hair in the light. And then the black of the sweatshirt is going to need to be mixed right to not be too cool. It's supposed to be a warm painting, despite the nighttime setting. I'll probably go for a warm, reddish gray background, mixing cadmium yellow and dioxazine purple, and make sure there's plenty of depth between his sweatshirt and the background. His face and head are the focal point, and the real test will be getting his gaze right. His eyes are such a gorgeous brown, nearly hazel, and I need to convey a sense of forward movement and urgency, a drive towards something.

But how? How do I do that?

Negativity and insecurity rush to the forefront of my mind. I am in way over my head. I don't have nearly enough technical skills. It's going to be a miracle if I can pull this off. And what if I can't? What if I show Cole and he hates it?

The first time I showed Bryce a painting of mine, he gave me this sneering, pitying smile with a little chuckle, like I was a cute kindergartner drawing a stick-figure family. After enduring the waterfall of shame that followed, I kept my art to myself—with the added burden of doubt. Was I really not good? Bryce had taste, and he would know, right?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, pulling in the full scent of the Turpenoid and linseed oil mixture I use to dip my brushes, along with the subtler scent of oil paint.

That was the past. I have to put all that behind me.

"You good?" asks Cole.

"Yeah," I say, keeping my eyes closed, trying to quell my nerves.

"You don't look good."

"This is a big project for me," I admit.

"You'll do great," he says. "I've seen your drawings. I mean, granted, I haven't seen any paintings you've done, but I believe in your artistic abilities. You'll be fine."

"I can't settle for fine this time. I need it to be fantastic, stellar, incredible, amazing."

One more big inhale, one more big exhale.

I open my eyes, pick up my palette and palette knife, and start mixing my background shade and spreading it on the canvas. A blank canvas will get us nowhere, but panic is rising in my chest. I don't know what I'm doing.

Céline Dion is gently singing about being forever thankful, and to my surprise, Cole starts singing along under his breath. My hand pauses in mid-air. When he catches me watching him, he doesn't stop. Instead, he sings louder and gives me a cute grin, leaning into the lyrics with feeling.

"You know all the words to this song?" I ask.

Cole nods. "My mom absolutely adores Céline Dion, so my dad learned all the lyrics to sing along with her. Taught us boys too. We always belted out love ballads on family car rides."

The thought of all the Slaedens singing this makes me smile.

"That is adorable. And very thoughtful of your dad," I say.

"Yeah, he was an awesome husband."

The song changes key, and I go back to focusing on the canvas. I can do this. I just…argh, where has my confidence gone? I am wasting time with all this wavering.

Cole gets up from his seat and comes around the table. He gently takes my palette and palette knife from my hands, sets them on the table, then spins me around while dramatically singing the lyrics.

"What are you doing?"

He pulls me back towards him and starts rocking back and forth, slowly dancing with me in the little space between the dining room and the kitchen, singing every single word of "Because You Loved Me."

"Just breathe," he says. One of his hands settles on the small of my back and he interlaces his other hand through mine as he guides me in a small, swaying circle.

"You can dance? Who are you?" I say with a laugh.

He grins. "My dad would do this whenever my mom had a hard day or was overwhelmed with us boys. Anything remotely romantic, I learned from him."

"That's really special," I whisper as I lean my head on his shoulder.

He goes back to focusing on the lyrics, a hint of extra drama to his singing, not taking it too seriously. I find my shoulders relaxing as we sway.

"We got my pin together, as a team," he says in a low voice. "We're going to do this painting together, and we're going to win the soccer championships as the best midfield team in the world."

"You've got a lot of faith in us," I say, looking at our stuff spread across the table. My palette and palette knife next to his Fleet Marine Force study guide, our passions uniting.

"I do," he says, giving my hand a squeeze. "You're up for this. You can do it."

My heart is demanding that I notice the way Cole reassures me, the way we work together, the way we can read each other. I don't know what to make of it, and I find it frustrating how incredibly thoughtful he is. I really need him to have some disgusting habit—anything to stop me from caring about him more than I should. But…he is so worth caring about. And the time I've spent with him has been my favorite part of being in San Diego.

"You have to listen to the kindest words in your head," Cole says, shifting my thoughts. He's holding me so close, my face nearly against his, his voice in my ear. "Is there someone's voice you can imagine being encouraging to you?"

Yours, Cole.

"Maybe," I say softly.

He spins me again. Calm and peace are settling in my body simply from letting Cole lead us in little circles and spins.

"There's a voice in your head that's good and encouraging, you just have to listen to it. Give it some space to get louder."

I nod. "Say something nice, something positive."

He thinks for a moment, then he murmurs in my ear. "Tia Lopez is my favorite artist."

My knees go weak and my breath shudders as I press my cheek to his. Cole's grip tightens on my waist. I close my eyes, drop my hands to his side, and I end up grabbing his sweatshirt in my fists. That kind of kindness, support, that love…I want that in my life forever. I want to hold on to it and never let go. I press my forehead to his, everything inside of me at war and peace at the same time.

He doesn't move until the song ends, then we wordlessly step away from each other. I don't know how I manage it, but we fall back to our positions as painter and model. My pulse is pounding in my ears and it takes a few minutes for me to be able to focus on the canvas again. I can't look at him, can't meet the look I know will be in his eyes.

Tia Lopez is my favorite artist.

I like him way too much. I like him in a way that puts our hearts in danger. And it does not help to know he likes me too. There's too much at stake here.

And yet…there's a part of me that's ready for the thrill of the roller coaster, the highs and lows of the beginning of something, especially with someone I trust. I don't know what will come of it and it's scary and exciting.

No. I shake my head and finally put my palette knife back into some paint. No, we're not doing that. Neither of us deserve to be taken for a ride. I can't be with him, I can't have him, he is not for me.