Ethan

When I got back to my loft, there were packages waiting for me, just as I’d hoped. Since I couldn’t be seen shopping for paints and canvases—for several reasons—it was so much easier to buy the stuff and have it delivered. I used a local art supplier and business credit card so they had no way to connect the purchases to me. Packages for my address always stayed at security until I arrived to verify they were legit.

It was a lot of shit to go through for some art supplies, but one could never be too careful.

Once inside my loft, I dropped my keys on the entry table and made a beeline for the studio. I unloaded the bags and set about arranging everything on the huge steel work table, putting away the colors and brushes I wouldn’t need yet and leaving others out so I could make progress on my painting of Emily.

When I was satisfied with the way everything was laid out. I pulled the canvas over and got to work. It was still early, and the morning sun was streaming through the windows, giving me the perfect amount of light to work by.

The smell of the acrylic paints was comforting and familiar as I began working on the outer edges of the piece and worked my way in, from the darkest corners of the alley toward the faint glow of the aging security light, and finally to Emily’s slender form.

I worked for hours, homing in on the smallest details, making every snow flake that fluttered around the lone light source seem real enough to catch on my tongue. Emily’s silky blond hair looked real enough to run my fingers through and her slender neck was enticing enough to make my mouth water.

The only flash of color was her bright red pumps. In reality, they had been slightly brighter than my signature red, but I couldn’t bring myself to make that change. I needed that red in every piece. No one apart from Emily would know the difference anyway.

My hands were stained and a bit shaky as I focused in on that portion of the painting, a familiar ache starting in my chest. That color, that exact shade that I now kept dozens of tubes of, was a memorial, a tribute to the person I’d loved most in the world growing up, the person who taught me to paint in the first place.

It was Ryan’s red. His favorite color. The one he couldn’t stop using from the moment he first fell for Cara, who had been wearing a sweater in that exact shade the night he realized she was the one. He said he couldn’t stop looking at her, memorizing every part of her, and after that night, he swore he saw that color in his dreams.

It became his obsession to use it at least a little in every piece from then on, bringing a little part of his love for her into the other love of his life—painting. And when he wasn’t here anymore to do it, I picked up the habit. I tried several times over the years to finish a piece without it, but it was impossible. I just couldn’t think of a painting as complete without that splash of Ryan’s red.

No one had ever commented on it before Emily. She was so intuitive, so different.

My phone chirped in my pocket and I stepped back, admiring my work for a moment as I idly wiped my hands and pulled the phone out with two fingers.

Emily: Making my list for turkey day. Candied yams or sweet potato casserole (with marshmallows because that’s the law)?

My smile was so wide it actually hurt a little.

Me: Casserole. And damn right it’s the law.

Emily: I knew I liked you for a reason.

Me: And here I thought it was my winning personality and rockin’ bod.

Emily: And your modesty.

Me: Exactly.

Emily: You must be painting.

I frowned down at my phone and looked around the studio.

Me: Yeah. Non-stop since this morning. How did you know?

Emily: Educated guess. From your responses, I figured the fumes must have gotten to you.

Me: You’re hilarious. And my studio is well ventilated, or did you miss all those windows and fans when you were here?

Emily: Totally missed them. I may have been a bit distracted, but that was mostly your fault.

Me: Overwhelmed by my animal magnetism?

Emily: I was referring to your immense talent. You know, the dozens of breathtaking paintings?

Me: The only thing I saw that was truly breathtaking was you, Miss Emily.

There was a longer pause then, like she was having a hard time finding a response. The little typing bubble appeared and disappeared several times but nothing came through.

While I was waiting, I set the phone down and did a more thorough job of cleaning my hands. I only glanced at the darkened phone screen half a dozen times in that two or three-minute span.

Eventually, my patience was rewarded.

Emily: Sorry. Dammit started doing a little dance he reserves for emergency situations. We’re in the elevator, heading out for our afternoon walk. I’m gonna ignore your compliment for now because I have no idea what to say to that, but I’m curious…why do you keep calling me Miss Emily? I’ve been dying to ask for weeks now, but you keep me so flustered I keep forgetting.

Me: Give Dammit my apologies for distracting you. And the Miss is largely because of that southern accent you try so hard to hide. It’s a southern thing to throw the Miss in there, right? It was for my high school math teacher, who was from Georgia. All the girls were Miss and the guys were Mister.

Emily: As long as it’s not a patronizing thing we’re good, Mister Ethan. :P

Me: Me? Patronizing? Never. Sarcastic, yes, but never patronizing. So, where do you and Dammit go for your walks?

Emily: Depends. For regular walks, we hit Washington Square Park but we’ve been known to venture further on really nice days to change it up. Today is cold as hell, so we’re going to find the nearest patch of grass and hustle back home. Brr.

Me: Then what? Any plans?

It took her a few minutes to respond, during which I cleaned up my paints and headed downstairs to gather my stuff for a shower. After all these years, I still couldn’t manage to paint without getting the shit all over me.

Not that I cared, really. It wasn’t that hard to scrub off.

But Ryan had never gotten a speck on him.

I started the shower and had just finished undressing when Emily texted back.

Emily: No plans. Hot cocoa, doggie snuggles, and yoga pants that have never actually been worn for yoga. How about you?

Me: Sounds like a wild Saturday night. I’m not doing anything either. Kade and Aubrey had plans, and Kane and Lenn are going back to the club they darted off to last night.

Emily: No interest in clubbing tonight, huh?

Me: None. Not even a little.

I wasn’t going to tell her I’d thought of nothing else but seeing her since the plane touched down after midnight. We hadn’t made specific plans for when I got back, only that we’d see each other—hopefully a lot.

Emily: How do you feel about cocoa and attention-seeking canines?

Me: Depends…would I have to sport the yoga pants, too?

Emily: Yoga pants aren’t necessary but I do ask that you wear pants of some sort.

Me: You say that now…

I was standing in my bathroom—naked—laughing down at the phone in my hand and trying to ignore my burgeoning erection.

Emily: You’re terrible.

Me: You misspelled terrific.

Emily: Sure I did. Smartass. I’m making homemade beef stew, so don’t eat anything.

Me: A home cooked meal AND cocoa? I’ll be there in twenty.

Emily: The cocoa is homemade too…

Me: Make it fifteen.