Being alone isn’t my strong suit. I’ve always made sure that someone is there to keep me from losing myself in my thoughts. It’s not a design that I follow on purpose, but more of a survival instinct. I need someone there to catch me if I fall. That’s why I finally decided to pull up my big girl panties and return Annie’s calls.
She’s surprised to hear from me. Of course, she is. I’ve been blowing her off ever since she told me she was moving out of state. If she knew why I was calling her now, she’d probably tell me to take a long jump off a short bridge. A certain amount of guilt comes with that. Knowing that I am essentially using her to keep me from doing something even more stupid, like asking Ransom to take me back.
We’re curled up on the country blue sofa in Annie’s living room facing each other. She’s wearing a soft white, fuzzy sweater that looks like someone skinned Sasquatch and black skinny jeans, and she’s glowing.
“I’m really happy you’re here,” she says for the tenth time since I walked through the door.
“Me, too,” I say honestly. I’ve never felt more at home than I have with this girl. She’s my soft place.
Her nose grows red at the tip and profound emotion tears across her face. “I really missed you this last week.”
I clear my throat and shift in my seat. I’m no good at heartfelt moments, but for her, I’ll give it a shot. It’s the least I can do. Reaching down deep, I hunt for the right words and lay them out between us.
“Listen, Annie. I want you to know that it was wrong of me to shut you out like I did. I hate myself for pushing you away over something that is important and life changing for you. If anything, you needed my support, and I was too self-absorbed to set my own insecurities aside and be there for you.
“I know an apology will never be enough, but it’s all I’ve got, and I hope you’ll accept it.”
She smiles sweetly. It’s the only kind she’s ever had. Her eyes well with tears an instant before they start falling down her now ruddy cheeks. “You’re in my apartment, aren’t you?”
Throwing herself across the single cushion dividing us, she pulls me into a choking hug. I guess that’s her way of telling me that I’m forgiven. I hug her back fiercely and take a relieved breath, because I was so close to losing this person that I need in my life.
Several minutes have passed by the time she pulls away and settles back on her side of the sofa. We both have to wipe our cheeks and touch up the makeup that has spread beneath our eyes, but it feels as though a tremendous weight has been lifted off my chest.
“I was never mad at you, you know,” Annie says as she wipes her nose with a tissue. “I understand why you were upset. I kind of hit you with the news out of nowhere and Jason is involved and…”
…and I have an extreme dislike for Jason. The words are left unspoken, but they don’t have to be for me to understand her meaning.
She waves her hand in the air and rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “Anyway, there’s nothing to forgive. You’re my sister from another mother. We fight, we get angry with each other sometimes, but we’ll always be sisters.”
That’s always been our motto. I don’t know how I could have forgotten that, but I’m glad she reminded me. It means we’ll always have each other’s back. Even when we’re alone, we’ll never truly be alone, and that is a security in life that no amount of money can buy. “Right, well, I’m still happy we’re okay.”
“Me, too, J.” She sits up, her expression lightening. A wide smile that shows all of her teeth emerges and when she speaks, her whole body is animated. “Oh, you have to see this.” Getting up, she dances away.
I follow her into the single bedroom, and studiously ignore the queen-sized bed that sits unmade, as though she and Jason have just rolled out of it. That is not a picture I want in my head.
Annie directs my attention to an old wooden rocking chair in the corner of the room, nestled between the wall and long vanity dresser. It looks like a poster child for lead poisoning and is painted a pale yellow that’s cracked and peeling…everywhere.
“I picked it up at the flea market the other day for a steal. I thought I would paint it blue or pink, and do that whole shabby chic thing with it, then put it in the baby’s room. What do you think?”
I look at my friend, whose smile is positively lovely. Her shining blonde hair brushes the tops of her shoulders and she looks…happy. As much as I dislike the circumstances, I can’t help joining her. The chair is in rough shape, but with a little work, I know she’ll make it great. If anyone can do it, it’s Annie.
“I think it’s perfect. You could even make a little cushion to tie to the spindles, so your butt doesn’t fall asleep when you sit in it,” I add.
“That’s a great idea,” she says, clapping her hands together beneath her chin. Then she aims two fingers at me like a gun. “Hey, maybe you can come with me to pick out the fabric?”
My reply is instant. “Absolutely. We can make a day of it.”
“Want to go right now?”
Her exuberance says I don’t have much of a choice, so I nod just as eagerly. “What are we still standing here for? Let’s go!”
We end up spending the rest of the day out shopping. By the time we make it back to her apartment, it’s dusk. We made out well. Maybe a little too well. Both of our arms are loaded up to the elbow with goodies, and I help Annie carry the bags up the two flights of stairs, complaining the whole way about her only asking me along because she needed a pack mule. Her tinkling laughter carries through the hallway all the way to her door and is replaced by a warm smile when the door to her apartment swings open.
Jason is standing on the other side, his semi-muscled shoulders tensed and his cold stare trained on me. My good mood instantly evaporates. As he reaches out to take Annie’s bags, he leans down and gives her a lingering kiss.
Giving them their privacy, I look away. Now that the mood is significantly subdued, it’s time for me to leave. Jason holds the door and I shuffle inside, laying the rest of the bags on the dining room table.
“Okay, lady, I had fun today, but you wore me out,” I tell Annie as I stretch my fingers and arms, which are marked with deep grooves and tinged a deep shade of red from holding the bags. “I’m going to head home and veg out on some Mafia Wives.”
“Are you sure?” Annie looks disappointed as she returns my hug. “We’re ordering pizza tonight. You’re welcome to stay and eat dinner with us.”
She means it, but one look at Jason and I know that invitation is one-sided. I wouldn’t have accepted anyway. “No, thanks. I need to keep my figure up,” I say, patting my flat stomach. “Eat an extra slice for me?”
“You know it. Hey,” Annie says as she sees me to the door. “I know I already said it, but I think it bears repeating. If by the end of this class you’re still hung up on this guy, you need to give him another chance. It’s a tough situation, but it sounds like he really liked you.”
I almost regret telling her what happened between me and Ransom. Almost. The fact is, she’s good at dishing out advice, and I’d be stupid not to eat at her table. I take her words to heart, but I can’t be sure what, if anything, I will do with them. Only time will tell. “I’ll think about it.”
I wave as I slip past Jason, flashing him a tight smile on my way out. He mumbles a very unenthusiastic goodbye and I hear the door click closed before I reach the top of the stairs.
What she sees in him, I don’t know, but if she’s happy, then I’m willing to pretend I’m happy, too. Lord knows, I’m great at lying. What must it be like, looking at life through a pair of rose-colored glasses? And where can I find a pair?
***
The last few weeks of the semester fly by. Between work and school and spending time with my friends, I hardly notice it. Keeping busy is the secret to maintaining any level of sanity, especially during the tough times life hands out.
That’s how I got through my mother’s passing: I threw myself into soccer and friends and adopting the role of daughter and homemaker. It’s also how I got past my father’s death. Before you know it, time has skated by you and wounds that used to ache are beginning to scab over.
Ransom has shown up at the club a few times. He’s watched me dance, but I don’t watch him. He’s asked for me personally, but I decline. Then he left a number for me with Bernice—I assume, out of desperation—and even though I have no intention of calling it, it sits buried in my purse.
It’s a small source of comfort to know that I could hear his voice anytime with just the push of a few buttons. It’s also a big source of stress because each day that passes makes me wonder how much longer I can prevent myself from picking up the phone.
The problem has only grown deeper as my impending show approaches, and now that it’s finally here, I find my hand searching for that scrap of paper. I won’t call it, but I desperately want to. I spent a lot of time preparing myself for this night, but now that it’s here, all of my insecurities are jumping to the forefront of my mind.
Is this how I want people to see me? Is it really worth taking my clothes off for? Does this cheapen me somehow? It’s supposed to be art, that’s what Mrs. Jackson said, but blending nude art with education somehow feels wrong.
But it’s a paying gig, and that’s what ultimately has me walking into that room Wednesday night.
There are easels set up in a circle around the edges of the room, creating a stage for the table placed dead center. It’s draped with white fabric that I think was intended to make the space more inviting, when in reality it lends it a clinical feel. I hate it instantly and a voice inside my head whispers that it’s not too late to turn around. I’m the only one here, so they would just assume I never showed up, right?
The idea is blown to hell when I turn to find Mrs. Jackson approaching. She’s dressed in a long, flowing tie-dyed dress and she’s pushing a cart stacked with paint, brushes, and other supplies. And she’s looking right at me with a pleased smile. “Good, you’re here. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
As I move to the side to give her room to pass, I feel my brows pull down.
Even though she hasn’t seen my expression, she continues speaking. “You probably wouldn’t know it from the level of cockiness in your fellow classmates, but there are a lot of cold feet at this school, especially the boys. They’ll strip down and blaze a naked path through a football field on game day for a laugh, but they’re shaking in their sneakers if you ask them to get naked and take a load off so a few people can draw a picture.”
I laugh nervously as I set my purse down on a nearby table and follow her deeper into the room. She stops the cart midway and positions it near a large sink basin.
Before I forget, I fish the paper Ransom gave me from my pocket and hold it out. “I need you to fill this out. It’s a questionnaire and proof that I was here.”
She takes it, and unfolding the paper, gives it a once-over. “This is for your final project?”
“Yes, it is.”
She nods and reaches over to drop it on top of her desk, sighing wistfully. “What I wouldn’t have given to have such a cool assignment for my final exam when I was your age. I’ll have it back to you at the end of class.” Leaning back, she props herself on the edge of the desk, and her expression is all business. “Okay, here’s the drill,” she says as she eyes me. “I assume this is your first time?”
“Yes.” That single word reveals the nerves currently creating a maelstrom inside my stomach.
Her smile is kind, but her words are frank. “You think you’re nervous now? Just wait until my class shows up. That’s the true test for everyone.” Pointing to the table in the center of the room, she says, “That’s your stage tonight. Once everyone is seated and ready to go, I’ll have you start by lying down on your side, facing my desk.”
Crap. I have to walk into a crowded room and get naked. I don’t suppose she has a stripper pole that I can warm up on. “That’s it? I just lie down and they draw me?”
“To start. The class is expected to draw three images tonight from three different angles. So we’ll get you lying down facing one direction, then have you flip over so they can draw you from a new perspective, and we’ll finish with a sitting portrait.”
I gulp. “How long is the class again?”
“Only an hour, and don’t worry, you’ll survive,” she says, her voice ringing with laughter. Clasping my shoulder, she looks me in the eye with utmost sincerity. “I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but everyone is nervous the first time. I can tell just standing here that you have a gorgeous figure and most important, you’re confident in your looks. Don’t let a little case of the nerves run you off. I am a firm believer that facing the things that strike fear in you is a great way to build character.”
I’m sure she’s right, but that doesn’t dull the churning feeling gripping me right now. Retrieving a white fluffy robe from cabinet near her desk, Mrs. Jackson directs me to a room that looks to be a teacher’s lounge that she claims all the models use and is completely secure. There are textbooks littering a small circular table at its center, and a short row of cabinets along the wall behind it that house an overlarge coffee maker, stacks of Styrofoam cups and stirrers, various creamers, and a microwave. It’s exactly what I imagined a teacher’s lounge to look like.
Glimpsing a mini fridge humming off to the side, I steal a bottle of water and gulp it down, hoping it will give me enough distraction to calm down.
Then I realize what a total mistake I just made, because I’ll end up having to use the bathroom a dozen times, so I spend the next ten minutes in the adjacent bathroom trying to evacuate my bladder.
Twenty minutes later, and I am standing outside a closed door completely naked but for the robe clenched around me. The blue and cream speckled linoleum is cool under my bare feet. Through a long, rectangular window, I can see Mrs. Jackson lecturing her students. There’s a mix of men and women, all roughly my age, seated on their stools in front of the canvasses they will be immortalizing my image on.
It strikes me all over again that I go to school with these people. If they didn’t know me before, they will now. I’ll be the-girl-who-took-her-clothes-off.
Before I can freak myself out more, Mrs. Jackson notices my presence and her burgundy painted lips split into a wide grin. She says something to the class, and they all turn their heads to look at me.
God, I should run now. But I don’t.
Mrs. Jackson walks over and opens the door. “Come in, come in. We were just talking about you.” She waves me inside with a flip of her hand, and I follow her into the room. My focus is on her back, on the way the fabric ripples like soft ocean waves with each step she takes. If I look up, I’ll bolt. It’s that simple.
“Please drop your robe and stretch out on the table,” she directs.
My fingers tighten on the plush fabric for a brief instant before I shove it away. I climb onto the table, feeling the slight chill of the wood seep through thin cotton sheet against my buttocks. Turning onto my side, I allow Mrs. Jackson to manipulate my limbs how she wants them. My right arm stretches out, is bent at the elbow with my hand opened wide to support my head. My left arm is brought forward on the table to steady me. My legs, which are clamped tight together and stretched long, are separated. She brings one knee forward, and I tense as the air touches between my thighs.
My mind goes wild imagining what the students positioned directly south of me must see. What will they draw? Do they like what they see? Are they turned on, or just as embarrassed as I am? I may take off my clothes for a living, but that doesn’t make me an exhibitionist. I don’t enjoy showing off my body to anyone willing to look at it. At least, not inthis context. Even in a strip club, there are boundaries, limitations.
After I am positioned just how Mrs. Jackson wants me, she leaves the circle, taking on the role of an observer. “Okay, class. As you know, you have twenty minutes to perform your first sketch. Try to capture the form as you see it. Focus on light and shadow and use it to create depth in the drawing. I will be walking around the room to take a peek at everyone’s work. If you have a question for me, just raise your hand and I will come over. Clock starts now.”
With the exception of the light scratching of pencils on canvas and the dull clack of Mrs. Jackson’s pumps as she moves around the room, everything is silent. At first it makes me even more aware of all the eyes on me, but as the minutes tick by, I begin to relax and I find my thoughts drifting inward.
I’m in a nearly sleep-like state by the time we’re halfway into the second pose, when I hear the knock on the door. It’s a faint rap, and my gaze flicks up, following Mrs. Jackson’s back as she walks over to answer it.
She opens the door a crack and sticks her head out—murmurs follow, the words unintelligible. Although curious, I retreat back into myself.
I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve been using this time to reflect on my relationship with Ransom. Annie’s suggestion is still fresh in my mind and with the end of class looming on the horizon, I’ve come to realize that I am not over him. Not in the slightest. Severing ties hasn’t worked. Having to see him every day, in fact, has only made the distance worse.
Seeing but no touching. The detached way we speak to each other. The longing looks and denial that nothing is going on between us. All of it keeps the wounds fresh.
Without that clean break, it’s impossible to close the door. Instead, the smallest look or spoken word sends it flying wide open again.
The memories are inescapable, and so is he.
That point is only solidified when Mrs. Jackson steps back and I see Ransom enter the room.