The Art of Us by Hilaria Alexander (10)

The week after the comic-con was hell. I wanted to apologize to Lena, but I was afraid that would piss her off even more. I didn’t want her to be mad at me, even though I shouldn’t have worried about it so much.

Part of me still wanted to be her friend, even though she had been far from friendly for the last two years.

Part of me wanted to tell her the truth. I was dying to let her know that yes, I did feel the same pull she did. I could feel the spark between us. It had been there since the beginning, but what would I accomplish by telling her that?

What good would that do us? And what about Olivia?

Olivia.

I had been talking to her on the phone, but we hadn’t seen each other yet. It had been days, and I had been making up excuses to avoid seeing her.

I needed clarity, and I thought putting some distance between us might do us some good.

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but if I were really in love with her, could I go days without seeing her? Shouldn’t I have been impatient to see her, to hold her again?

It had been like that once upon a time. We’d been inseparable in the beginning, crazy about each other, spending every waking hour, every free moment together.

We’d met at a party through mutual friends and had been together ever since, but our biggest problem was that besides being sexually compatible, we hardly had anything in common.

She was a bright girl and worked for a local nonprofit, but had no interest whatsoever in what I did. It was one of the biggest complaints I had about her.

When it came to work, she just didn’t seem to listen or care, so after a while, I stopped trying. Being with Olivia was sometimes as easy as breathing, but the rest of the time I questioned my reasons for staying with her.

It had been three days since that awkward Sunday when we’d gotten back from Seattle, and all I could think about was apologizing to Lena.

So many times I got up from my desk with the intention of walking over to her cubicle and apologizing, but every single time I stopped in my tracks and traced my steps back.

I was a coward.

I was a coward for staying in a relationship with Olivia.

I was a coward for not being able to talk to Lena the way I wanted to.

Am I ever going to be able to sort out my feelings for her?

Besides Marty and Violet, and the occasional hookup, I didn’t have much of a social life. I was one of those people who claimed to be married to their job.

The good news was that I loved my job, even when I drove myself crazy thinking about it so much. Comic book artists are just like writers: stressed and riddled with self-doubt. It happened to everyone, me included. When I was in the midst of the creative process, I seemed to lose all my confidence. Even though I usually believed in myself and I knew I had talent, from time to time I would second-guess myself and I’d start thinking my drawings or storyline weren’t good enough.

In general, I could work from home if I had a deadline, but I preferred to get my work done at the office. Paz Media’s employees usually left around six or seven at the latest, but most days I liked to stay past eight or nine, until it was dark outside and I could see my gangly reflection in the windows, under the bright neon office lights. I almost looked and felt like a ghost, roaming around the empty office.

When I suffered from writer’s block, I liked walking around the office undisturbed and sometimes I’d peek at everyone’s leftover mess.

Usually, I would wait for the cleaning crew to leave, and then I’d put on my headphones, listen to music…and dance.

It was so liberating. I was alone, in my favorite place, and nobody could see me or touch me. I felt more at home at the office than I did at my own place.

I felt safer there. I felt like I belonged.

Marty had eventually found out about my pastime from the security footage.

He insisted I shouldn’t be up at the office by myself, that it wasn’t safe, that I was always too distracted with my head in the clouds. He told me to be careful in case someone tried to approach me, but I never listened to him.

Besides, he may have been right about that in our old office, but the newer one had much better security.

I had good reason to feel safe there.

Whenever I had a bad day, when I’d get sad thinking of Maggie or would feel bitter about my wretched parents and sad upbringing, I’d feel my anxiety worsen.

I knew I needed to let loose in some way, so I’d put my headphones in, turn the music all the way up, and dance my heart out.

I had done this for years. It felt as liberating as screaming out loud or jumping off a cliff. It was one of the few times I felt free and my soul wasn’t crushed by the burden of my mistakes.

Eyes closed, I’d move my body and feel the music. In that moment, I was able to forgive myself, forget the pain, and tell myself everything would be all right.

Dancing at the end of a bad day was one of the best ways to cope.

I had been doing it for a while now; I always made sure I was alone in the office.

Therefore, the last thing I expected was to open my eyes and find Amos right in front of me, his face a mix of stupor and amusement.

“Ahhhhhhh!” The scream I let out surprised even me—I felt paralyzed by the shock of seeing him and didn’t think I was able to emit any sound. He raised his hands up in surrender, trying to tell me through his alarmed eyes and moving lips that he wasn’t there to harm me.

I took my headphones off, my cheeks heated with embarrassment. I was mortified. I had been busted during my reckless, crazy dancing.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Why was it that every single time I was around him my confidence would vanish? Why did I always manage to act like an embarrassed teenager? It was as if Amos’ eyes were able to strip me of all the external layers I’d been building up for years.

Around him, I opened up like a lotus flower.

“What are you doing here on a Friday night?” he asked.

I ignored his question. What was I doing there on a Friday night? It was obvious that I had no life, no plans in sight for the night.

“What are you doing here on a Friday night?” I retorted, almost wanting to ask why he wasn’t out with his girlfriend.

He let out a breath, and his eyes grew softer.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I realized I forgot my phone and had to come get it.”

“I didn’t mean to scream at you.”

He nodded and I gave him a half-smile. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and then images of the two of us in Seattle the previous week flashed across my eyes—our flirting, my invitation, his rejection…my want, my need for him.

The stupid yearning I had for something that was never going to happen.

The memory of his lips, of his kiss sent my heart into overdrive, and I was overcome by a fresh wave of embarrassment.

Childishly, I ran away, ignoring him as he kept calling my name. I ran to my desk and grabbed my things, shoving them in my bag quick as a thief running from the police. I put my jacket on, left my cubicle, and ran without paying any attention to where I was going. My nose smashed against Amos’ chest just as I made it to the elevator.

“What the hell!” I yelled out in frustration.

“Lena, stop. I need to talk to you. Stop running away from me.”

Yes, I knew I was being stupid, but…

The stairs.

I was going to make a run for it. I couldn’t face him. I didn’t want to have to explain. I couldn’t even look into his eyes. Unfortunately, he grabbed me by my arms, holding me in place. I stared at his large hand on my arm, avoiding his gaze. I felt uncomfortable enough with him scrutinizing me so closely.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said in a tone of voice so low and soft, for a moment I thought I must have imagined it. Then he repeated the words, a little bit louder this time. “I won’t tell anyone, Lena. Your secret is safe with me.”

“You’re lying,” I replied, disgruntled. “You’ll tell everyone what a nutjob I am.”

“No, I won’t,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. I looked up and locked eyes with him. Amos was on the verge of losing that sliver of seriousness that was keeping him from bursting into laughter. He pressed his lips together, but a half-guffaw still came out. I narrowed my eyes at him and tried to get out of his hold, but he wouldn’t let me go.

“I won’t tell anyone, Lena, even though…”

“Even though what?” I asked in a suspicious tone.

“Even though that was some funny shit, I have to admit.”

I let out a frustrated groan.

“Let me go, Amos.” I was mad—at myself, mostly—and I thought my voice would reflect that. Instead, it came out like a plea. He inhaled sharply through his nose and let his hands fall to his sides.

“Wait, before you go, there’s something I need to say.”

I had been ready to walk away, but his words anchored me in place. What did he need to tell me?

“What is it?” I asked.

His eyes danced across my face as if he wanted to memorize every line of it. His lips shifted into a humorless, straight line.

“I’m sorry about Saturday night.”

A warm ache spread in the middle of my chest, my heart lodged in my throat.

Did he feel it, too? Did he feel the same way I felt?

“I realize…I realize I wasn’t honest with you. I led you on, and for that I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” The one syllable I was able to form was loaded with disappointment. I had obviously been hoping for something different, but really, what did I expect? Did I think he was suddenly going to break up with his girlfriend because we’d been flirting for an hour at some drunken party?

This isn’t you, Lena, I thought to myself. It wasn’t. I didn’t pine over guys, much less guys who belonged to other women.

“Are we okay? I’m sorry if I behaved like an ass Saturday night. I would like to be your friend. That’s all I ask,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and giving me a small shrug.

His face…I couldn’t stop looking at it. I wanted to capture his expression and draw it, the worry and hope mixed with beauty…his strange, unusual beauty…his brown eyes that sometimes seemed to turn into a brownish green…his cheekbones, straight nose, and full lips that gave him such a distinguished look.

His face was so unique and remarkable. I didn’t want to stop looking at him.

But then my brain registered what he’d just said.

Friends. He wants to be friends.

I don’t do friends.

“Sure,” I mumbled. He gave me a sincere, radiant smile, but I couldn’t quite reciprocate it. I backed away from him, staring at him wide-eyed, as if I had just come face-to-face with an alien.

No one shocked me the way he did.

I thought he’d say something else. Instead, he remained quiet.

“I’m going to leave now,” I said, and he nodded.

I made a beeline for the elevator, but before the doors opened and I could get in, he grabbed one of my hands and held it.

My breath hitched and my poor, stupid heart started galloping in my chest, excited at the prospect of what could happen, while my brain reminded me this was wrong and I needed to get away from him.

He was much too tempting, and I didn’t know if I could resist this temptation.

The feel of his hand holding mine prompted a jolt of electricity that coursed through my body; the knot in my throat grew bigger, and tears filled my eyes. In that moment I realized we could never be friends, because just the touch of his hand made me crave more of him.

All of him.

I wanted all of him.

Tears spilled across my cheeks and I was thankful I was still facing the elevator as it meant he couldn’t see them.

“Lena, if you ever want to talk to me…if you ever want to tell me about Japan, about the reason behind your tattoo, I’m here for you.”

The doors of the elevator opened. I tugged my hand away and stepped in without ever turning his way.

After Lena left, I walked back to her cubicle to turn the lights off and noticed she’d left her notebook on her desk. It was the same one she’d had during the trip to Seattle, the one she sketched her ideas in.

It was black and leather-bound, with one of those thin straps to keep the mark. I flipped through the pages and found all kinds of images. There were some inspired by her own characters, and others inspired by comics and characters she loved.

I found myself flipping through more and more pages.

There was a blank section in the middle, and after that, there were more sketches.

There were several pages dedicated to Rika Ishikawa’s manga Aiko, the one she’d been talking about in the car.

I had read the comic book—well, parts of it—once upon a time. It was about two girls with the same name who ended up living together after a mix-up with the apartment agency.

One of them was a musician, while the other was an aspiring writer.

Together, they went through every possible life-changing experience, including the tragic loss of one of the characters’ boyfriend. The manga had been suspended for years now, and no one had any idea how or when the story was ever going to reach its conclusion.

Lena’s drawings didn’t seem to ring a bell. I didn’t recognize the storyline I was reading. A quick search on my phone to reread the highlights of the plot made me realize many of the pages in the notebook were not mere reproductions of Aiko’s pages.

Lena was writing Aiko fanfiction, and from the looks of it, she was determined to write an ending for the unfinished comic book.

Impulse took over.

The fingers of my right hand twitched, all too eager to start. I couldn’t help it.

Drawing was the best way I knew how to express myself.

I considered this my way to tell her I was sorry.

I had told her as much and she’d listened to me, but I wasn’t sure if she was ready to forgive me.

I placed the notebook down on the desk and pulled out the chair. I sat down, ignoring the voice in my head that told me I had no business meddling with her things and that I should go home.

Before I could even think about what I was doing, the pen touched the paper and I started drawing in Lena’s notebook.