His Beauty by Sofia Tate (7)

Slamming Ingrid’s trunk shut in my driveway, I haul two overflowing bags of groceries into my arms. I reach the door but can’t manage to get the key in the lock from being so overloaded. I use my elbow to ring the bell over and over until Reed appears in the doorway.

“Why didn’t you just use your key?”

My jaw drops at his cluelessness. “You’re joking, right?”

At least he’s enough of a gentleman to take the bags from me. “What took you so long?”

I follow him into the kitchen. “For crying out loud, Reed, it’s not my fault the supermarket was having a sale on Christmas turkeys. It was beyond crowded. Do me a favor, please. Nuke the rotisserie chicken and set the table. I’ll make the baked potatoes and salad when I come down. I have to go change.”

I hear him mumble under his breath about doing it during the next commercial break as I walk out, leaving my wet snow boots at the door before I head upstairs.

When I return to the kitchen a few minutes later, Reed is pouring white wine into glasses. Plates, cutlery, and napkins are already laid out on placemats on the table.

I give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you. I had a tough day.”

He shrugs his shoulders in reply.

I head for the kitchen, pulling the lettuce out to rinse it.

Why he didn’t want to know about my day?

I chop two tomatoes for the salad.

Why don’t I want to know how his day went?

I pop the potatoes in the microwave.

Am I afraid of his answer if I do ask?

The ping of the microwave brings me back to the present. I take out the potatoes and bring them to the table, where Reed is already sitting, waiting for me before he serves himself.

I return to the kitchen for the dressing, the salad, the sour cream and the butter, glancing at Reed, who doesn’t move an inch to help me carry any of the food.

Reed and I go through the motions as I take a long sip of wine and carve a thigh from the chicken. Then, taking some salad and a potato, I dig into my dinner.

I stare across at my boyfriend, who’s perfectly dressed in a long-sleeved polo shirt, not a blond hair out of place. He cuts his food so meticulously that he could be a surgeon performing an operation, every move precise. The silence in the room is deafening.

What is happening to us?

I can’t look at him anymore because suddenly, I think of Grayson and how perfectly imperfect he is. It’s such a cruel joke how one side of his face is deformed by jagged scars, the other intact, untouched by tragedy. Now I know why he has no mirrors in his house.

“Lily!”

Reed’s impatient voice snaps me back to the dinner table. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages. What’s going on with you?”

I sigh to myself. “Did you not hear me tell you I had a tough day?”

He closes his eyes. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. What happened?”

I put down my fork and knife. “It’s the man I work for. He has a horrible injury.”

“What kind of injury?”

“I can’t say. It’s just…very sad.”

He chews his food slowly, then reaches for his wine. “Christ, Lily, it’s just a job. And doesn’t he live in a mansion or something like that? He’s probably fine. If he’s living in a mansion, I’m sure he’s got some good insurance.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t get why you’re acting so weird. It’s not like you’re married to him. All you do is clean his house. That’s what you should care about more, not what he looks like. Sounds like he’s well off, so I wouldn’t feel so badly for him if I were you.”

I bite down on my inner lower lip to both keep me from yelling at him for his lack of compassion.

“I can’t believe you,” I whisper to myself.

I stare down at my food, suddenly feeling nauseous. I push the plate away, grab my wine glass, and push back from the table. “I need to be alone.”

“Lily, what the hell?”

I stare back at him, my eyes and voice unwavering. “Please take care of the dishes and the leftovers.”

I hear him grunt with displeasure behind me as I walk out, not looking back once.

Once upstairs, I sit in the bay window. I don’t know how much time passes before I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. When I glance over, Reed is standing in the doorway holding a glass of wine.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking forlorn. “Can I give you a foot rub, then maybe take you out for a nightcap? I think we both need one.”

Exhaling a deep breath, I agree. “Sure.”

He places his wine glass on the dresser and settles himself onto the seat, taking my feet into his hands, rubbing them from heel to toes, making sure each is properly massaged. I fall back into the soft cushions behind me, taking a long sip of wine. I close my eyes to absorb the sensations running from my feet, relaxing my nerve endings as I take deep, cleansing breaths.

I don’t even notice when Reed releases my feet from his grip, placing them in his lap.

My eyes snap open, nodding at him. “Thank you. That felt good.”

My cheeks begin to hurt when I return the grin on his face, from keeping it on mine for too long.

Sure, I’m relaxed now, and that was nice, but why do I still feel empty inside?

That question sticks in my head for the rest of the night, despite the fact that Reed’s behavior reminds me of how he was when we first started dating. He opens doors for me, pushes my chair in at the local pub where we both order Irish coffees, gets up from his chair when I stand up to go to the restroom.

When I return to the table, he reaches out to take my hand. “I know I’ve been acting like a shit, Lily, and I’m so sorry. I’ve been so worried about my job and my observation that I forget about everything and everyone else.”

The sincerity in his voice touches me to my core. “I forgive you. And I understand.”

“Oh, my parents want to have us over for brunch on Sunday.”

My good mood slowly dissipates. “Okay. That would be nice.”

He kisses the knuckles on my hand. “Thank you, honey. I promise from now on I’ll be the perfect boyfriend.”

He releases my hand to signal for our waitress.

Perfect.

Hearing him use that word jolts me as I stare back at him, wondering what the term perfect means to him.

And before I can stop myself, my mind fills with the image of Grayson’s face, so perfectly imperfect.

The next day at Grayson’s I call out to Emilia but nobody responds. I check the kitchen counter, finding a list of chores from her. When I go to the supply closet to hang up my coat, something catches my attention from the corner of my eye.

Sitting on top of the cleaning supplies is a postcard. When I pick it up, I smile to myself. It’s one of those postcards you find in a museum. The Lovers stare back at me.

I turn it over. A message is written in elegant penmanship:

My eyebrows narrow in worry.

Fuck. What did I do now?

I tuck the postcard into my purse and grab the mop bucket with shaking hands, eager to finish my chores so I can face Grayson and get it over with.

Grayson

A quiet knock sounds on the door.

When I answer it, Lily stands in the passageway. “Hello. You asked to see me.”

Her hands are clutched together, and she’s nervously tangling her fingers. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong,” I reassure her. “Please come in.”

I step back and watch her enter. She’s dressed in a black ribbed turtleneck and sweatpants with the word “Ashby” embossed across her backside, making me smile for a brief moment.

Very amusing. She graduated from Ashby. I like that.

I gesture to my desk chair. “Please sit down.”

She nods silently and settles herself as I pull up a stool from one of my worktables.

“So, you like The Lovers.”

A wide grin envelops her face. She leans back in the chair and clears her throat. “Um…yes. Yes, I do.”

“You called it your ‘sanctuary.’ What do you like most about it?”

She tilts her head before replying. “Whenever I’m having a bad day, that’s where I go to clear my head. I forget everything that’s going on and focus on the sculpture…her long hair, the hem of her dress as if it’s actually waving, the pain the man must be in to need that kind of comfort.”

I nod as she bites her lower lip. “What is it?”

She shakes her head. “No, forget it.”

“It’s all right, Lily. Ask me.”

Suddenly, her eyes fix on mine. “What was…I mean…what made you create that? You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”

I breathe in deeply, giving her a brief smile. “I don’t mind, Lily. All art is personal. The Lovers was one of my first sculptures. It was incredibly cathartic for me, working on it, that is. I never truly addressed my parents’ death, and it just helped me express a lot of emotions that I hadn’t faced until then.”

“Emilia told me about your parents,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you for that. And thank you for your thoughtfulness about asking me. But tell me, do you do anything when you’re there? I mean, do you just sit and stare at it?”

She laughs quietly. “Sometimes, but I like to take pictures of it. Close-ups, really.”

I lean back on the stool with my mouth agape, surprised by her confession. “I wasn’t expecting that. Would you let me see them?”

She sits up as her jaw drops, completely beguiling me. “Really?”

“Of course. I’d love to see my work through someone else’s view.”

“They’re on my Nikon at home. I’ll bring it with me next time.”

“I’d enjoy that.”

Silence permeates the room as we sit grinning at each other. But then, a cold realization hits me…I’m smiling. When have I ever smiled so much?

The newness of the emotion sends me reeling.

I jump to my feet. “Yes…well…” I stammer, “You’re probably tired and would like to go home.”

She laughs again, rising from the chair. “I do, but I really enjoyed talking to you. Thank you for the postcard and for the invitation.”

“You’re welcome. Here, let me get the door for you.”

When she reaches me, she turns to me with another grin. “Thank you, Mr. Shaw.”

“It was my pleasure. And please call me Grayson.”

She nods. “Good night, Grayson.”

I swallow. “Good night, Lily.”

I close the door behind her, slamming my back to it.

I am such a fool. Babbling like that in front of her. What she must think of me.

I take a few steps to the back table and stare at my work in progress. Something about it doesn’t feel right.

I mash the clay together, eliminating all traces of what was there.

And then I start over.