Chapter 12

Erica

"I love this place." I picked up my menu and tried to push down the feeling of unworthiness I always left my mother's house feeling. It didn't matter if I was five or twenty-nine. I still had the uncanny sense that she looked at me like I was one of the greatest mistakes of her life. My father had always gone out of his way to remind me that I was loved and a princess in his eyes, but my mom stripped that warmth away any and every chance she got. I was never enough.

"The menu looks great. What are you thinking about getting?"

Matt's deep blue eyes moved from the menu to my face and the depth in them caught me off-guard. He'd been so good to me over the last day or so, but seeing a different side of him didn't help my desire to push him to stay in Seattle with me. There had to be something bigger or better than me that would convince him that he needed to move. If I wasn't enough for my own mother, then I certainly wouldn't be enough for a complete stranger.

"I like the hummus and their pizzas are killer."

"Good. Let's get the hummus for an appetizer and share a pizza or two."

"Two?" I laughed and laid my menu on the table. "I'm good with whatever you want. What did you want to talk with me about?"

"Let's do the pepperoni and mushroom and then the curry pizza. That sounds weird as hell. We'll probably love it." He leaned back in his chair and picked up the beer the waitress dropped off a few moments before, but didn't take a drink. "I know this might sound trite, but I really want to have one more piece ready for the showing that Jonathan is working on for De Luge."

"Why would that sound trite? It seems like a great idea to add something that you specifically did just for the showing." I picked up my glass of white wine and took a quick sip. "What were you thinking of doing?"

"I want a piece that shows beauty, strength and sensuality."

"Mmm... I like that a lot. It reminds me of my red painting in the hall." I smiled, having a newfound excitement over the possibility of getting back to my own art. If I got nothing more than an awakening inside me from Matt's visit, it might just be enough.

"Exactly." He lifted the beer bottle to his lips and took a long drink. "You should paint out your pain from your visits to see your mom. That's the only way you're going to survive that shit."

I nodded and let my eyes move down to my hands as I began to pick at my nails. "It's always been this way. It's nothing new."

He reached across the table and gripped the top of my hands. "That doesn't make it right."

"I know, but she's getting older. I'm not going to turn my back on her now when she needs me most. My brother, who she worships, never visits her anymore. We both know that he isn't out of town, and yet she keeps on pushing me away." I shrugged. "I really don't want to talk about this."

"I know you don't. We can move to another subject, but I want you to consider going by the nearest art supply store and loading up on paints and canvases. Open your mind back up to the possibility of bleeding out your heart in the best way you know how. Tears aren't you."

I took a shaky breath and glanced up. "You're right. I'll give it some consideration. Tell me what you're thinking about painting for your additional piece."

"You."

"I'm sorry?" I pulled my hands from his and leaned back in my seat, confused.

"I want to paint you." He shrugged. "You can pick something you enjoy wearing, or even better, let me see what you have in your closet and I'll pick it for you. I want the world to see what I see."

A flurry of emotions beat through the center of my chest.

"And tell me... what do you see?" I crossed my arms across my midsection, not completely sure I was ready to hear his response. I wanted him to want me too much as it were. Suffering another blow after having my mom bend me over wasn't a possibility.

"I see so many things." He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. "I see strength and determination. You run your working world with an iron fist and keep people at arm’s length, don't you?"

"Yes," I whispered and reached for my wine, needing liquid courage to get through the rest of our lunch together.

"I see beauty beyond anything I've experienced anywhere else. The way your lips swell right here." He leaned across the table and ran his fingertips across my bottom lip before sitting back down. "Your eyes are the color of the sky on a clear day at times and the cloudiness of a storm in the belly of the sea at others. Your skin is flawless and leaves me wanting to reach out and touch you like you belong to me."

"Thank you." I lifted my glass.

He reached across the table again and pushed the glass back down a little. "I see passion trapped behind your facade. You're an artist and yet you don't paint, you aren't drawing and I would even stretch to say that you haven't made love in a long time."

"Is it that obvious?" I pulled my glass toward me and downed the contents. "I'll think about letting you paint my picture. You flatter me, but I've heard enough. Really."

He smiled and dropped his hands back into his lap. "Tell me any of it's wrong and I'll apologize for being a presumptuous prick."

"No, it's all spot on. I just hate you a little more for bringing it all up. It's a horrible reminder."

"No, you didn't hear me, Erica. People are going to stop by the painting of you and stand there, longing with this incredible desire to know you. To heal you. To love you." He picked up his beer and lifted it in the air. "To the best still-life painting I will ever create."

"I haven't said yes." I laughed as he shifted his beer bottle toward my glass. I couldn't deny him, though I hated myself for hitting my wine glass against his beer bottle. In effect, he won.

"But you will. You want to see what I see." He gave me a cocky smirk as the waitress walked up.

"Such a Bryant right now." I rolled my eyes and picked up my menu to order for us. The sad part was that he was right - about all of it.