Eight Years Ago

The charcoal pencil glides across the paper in swift, short strokes. The library book I sought to read sits abandoned in front of me as the surrounding bookshelves blur in the background of my mind. Nothing can deter me once the creative mode kicks in—not even the few students scattered throughout the vast space.

I put the finishing touches on the sketch and stare at the lifelike picture. My fingers squeeze the charcoal pencil as my eyes flutter shut. I steel my insides for the wave of hurt that hits like a tsunami every time my thoughts stray to him. After eight months, the pain’s still too new. Too raw.

“Cupcake?” a tentative voice asks.

My eyes spring open to the last person I expected to see standing beside me in the library.

“AJ.” I slide my sketch under the library book and force a smile. “What are you doing here?”

His gaze shifts to the table and then back at me. “I, uh, need to do some research for my term paper. The librarian said you checked out the book I need. Is…is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I point to the History of Impressionism book, hoping my dismissive tone deflects any concern. “You need this?”

“I just need to get a few quotes from it. The professor is making us use a ‘real book’ for references.” His tall frame sinks into the chair beside me. “I have to fill my last humanities class.”

That struck me as odd since he’s a baseball player. Most undergraduate programs only require six credit hours to graduate. Considering he’s a senior, I would’ve thought he fulfilled that long before now. “What’s your major?”

“History.”

“History?” A laugh escapes. “You don’t look like a history major.”

“No? And why’s that?” The corner of his mouth lifts to a sexy grin as he questions my prejudices.

“Those students are boring and stuffy. The men”—I take a glance at his physique and know he doesn’t fit the stereotype—“turn into gray-bearded geezers, wearing a sweater vest and round-rimmed glasses.”

“Okay, Miss Judgmental. Quit history shaming me.” His appalled look draws my laugh. “In all seriousness, I have to write a term paper on the Impressionism movement. I was going to do Claude Monet.”

I tsk.

“What? He’s well known.”

“That’s the problem. Everyone covers either him or Van Gogh. Can you imagine how many research papers the professor has read about them?” I shudder. “You should focus on a different artist. That way, when you present, it’ll be fresh.”

“Good point. Anyone in mind?”

“I don’t know. You can choose either Eugène Delacroix or Alfred Sisley. Personally, I’d prefer Sisley. He’s best known for landscapes, which are the paintings I prefer.”

“I’ll look him up. Do you mind?”

“No, of course not.”

He grabs the book, and his gaze lands on my drawing. His eyes flash with a sense of awe. “Wow, looks like you’re just as talented. More even. Van Gogh’s paintings are blurry, this is—”

“Blurry?” I interrupt, hoping to shift his focus. “That’s just…wrong.”

“What? You know it’s true.” He chuckles, and the shiver, racing through my body, is in no way associated with it. “Seriously though, the grouping of cattails, the guy, it’s all so lifelike.”

“Thanks.”

“Is this someone you know?”

“My dad.” My voice sounds sadder than I intend. I pull my gaze away from the drawing, and AJ’s expression causes me to pause. His eyes darken for a second as either a memory or a thought fleets through his mind. It’s brief, and I almost miss it, but there’s no mistaking that disturbed look.

“The memory must be a good one,” he finally says.

“It was. Dad worked a lot.” I glance back at Dad’s profile and bite back a sigh. “He missed out on several things, but every so often, he’d do something fun like take us fishing.”

“You’re good. An art major, huh?” His voice holds a question but not the condescending tone that most people have when they find out my major.

“Along those lines.”

“Do you also paint?”

“I dabble.” That’s putting it mildly, but I don’t like to brag. “I mainly paint landscapes. That’s why I like living here—besides the warm weather—there’s so much beauty. Not that Vermont isn’t.”

“The winters are definitely warmer here.”

There’s familiarity in his statement which makes me wonder where he calls home. “Are you from Vermont?”

“No, but close enough. Pennsylvania raised.”

“Oh, I bet you’re thrilled at the chance to be playing for your home team.”

“Sadie told you who I was, huh?” His voice reflects a bit of disappointment as if he doesn’t want me knowing he plays baseball. I can’t imagine why though.

“Yep, but I didn’t know the Phillies were your hometown team.”

His stoic features crack, and he breaks into the cutest boyish grin. “Yeah, it’s a little surreal being scouted by the team you rooted for your whole life.”

“Every kid’s dream.” I know it’s my brother’s dream to play for the Boston Red Sox, and who knows? He just may someday. There’s a good chance he’ll be playing college ball if he doesn’t derail himself first.

“Sure is. I have to be drafted to the minors first though. Hopefully, that happens, and I’ll get called up.”

“I’m sure you will.” Our gazes connect, and I don’t miss his appreciative glance.

“When can I see these paintings of yours?”

“Never.”

“Why not? You surely don’t suck when you’ve mastered the charcoal pencils. I want to see some.”

“They’re not tucked away in my dorm.” Which is a lie. I have a few beach scenes I’ve done, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Don’t you have pictures on your phone?”

I hesitate. Before the paint dries, I snap a picture. My phone is like my personal portfolio, but that’s just it, emphasis on the word personal. The downsized version my crappy camera phone takes doesn’t do the paintings any justice. No way will I show him those.

“No.”

He eyes me like I’m lying but doesn’t call me out on it. “Then you’ll have to paint me one. Or maybe I should paint you. Channel my inner William Etty.”

Heat flames my cheeks. I think I’ve been played. “You only knew Monet from the Impressionism era, but you’re familiar with Britain’s first significant painter of nudes?”

“What can I say? I have an appreciation of his style of art.”

“I think a line drive hit you in the head.”

He smiles the widest smile, his white teeth glowing against his bronze skin. Damn, he’s gorgeous. “Foul tip, actually.”

“Huh?”

“Foul tip. I’m a catcher.”

“Oh.” My gaze dips to his hands—his rather large, beefy hands—and drop farther to his feet. Yep, matching size. I force myself to meet his stare and clear my head of certain naughty comparisons.

“Since you’re not volunteering to be the model, I guess you’ll be the one painting.” He looks down at my art supplies. “Do you keep paint supplies here at school?”

“Yeah, but the easel and canvases are kept in my car.”

“You have a car here?”

“Yep, it’s parked in a garage off campus.”

“AJ, are you coming or what?” a tall, lanky guy yells a few rows away.

AJ tells him he’ll be down in a few minutes and then turns his attention back to me. “Since you refuse to paint for me, how about something simpler? After Tuesday’s home game, go out with me.”

Every muscle screams for me to say yes, but he’s the type of guy I need to stay away from. The kind that can’t offer a future. There’s really no point. I mean, why date at all if it’s doomed from the beginning?

AJ raises his eyebrows, patiently waiting for an answer. So, I give it.

“No.”