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And if he doesn’t know who I am…then I can be anyone I want to be.
Someone who is not the haunting girl in his drawing. I don’t have to be Riley Johnson — the worthless, grotesque girl that no longer belongs anywhere.
I swallow, and then smile at the stranger. “Daisy,” I tell him, “Daisy Buchanan.”
His brown eyes light up with recognition. “The Great Gatsby?”
So, he’s not just an artist, but he recognizes classic literature too? Mr. Tall, dark and handsome is now ten times hotter. I simply shrug and wait for him to give me his name.
He surprises me when he finally introduces himself. “You can call me Jay then,” he says, in his deep riveting voice. “Jay Gatsby.”
My heart does a somersault in my chest. “You’re kidding, right?”
“If you can be Daisy, why can’t I be Jay?”
Point taken. His lips twitch with a secretive smile. “So, Jay,” I start, calling him by his obvious fake name. “How did you get into art?”
A muscle ticks along his chiseled jaw. “Someone suggested I use art as a medium to clear my thoughts. I find that it works.”
“You’re really good at it.”
He gives me a half-shrug, and he seems almost awkward at my praise. “Not really.”
“Why did you draw me?”
He answers my question with one of his own. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Confused, I squint at him. “Sorry, what?”
He nods, as if my confusion has somehow answered his question. “You don’t remember me.” This time his words are a statement instead of a question. There’s a note of chagrin in his voice. “We met last year, last summer specifically.”
I must still look confused, because Jay releases a disappointed sigh and then elaborates. “I was the guy from the alley.” He shows me his hand, before clenching his fist. His knuckles are rough, and I see a few silver scars on the back of his hand. A hand that speaks of experience.
“You went to buy some meds for me and bandaged my hand,” Jay continues.
I have a light-bulb moment and gasp in realization. “I knew you felt familiar!” I breathe, eyes round in surprise. “But I just couldn’t wrap my finger around it. We met in a whole different state, so I really didn’t think I’d ever see you again. And it was really dark that night; I couldn’t see you well.”
I pause, my gaze sweeping over his face. I can see him better now; every inch of his hard, sculptured face. A strong nose, perfect symmetrical eyebrows, smooth lips and dark eyes that are narrowed on me. “I can’t believe you still recognized me though,” I tell him.
He doesn’t comment on my bewilderment. Jay adjusts his glasses and then runs his hand over his head. His hair is short, buzz-cut to his scalp, marine-style. I think it suits him well. “What happened that night? You seemed to have been in a rush.”
Oh, yeah…that night. It seems almost forever ago.
“I was in the city, filming a few cameo scenes for a TV show. I was trapped in a hotel room with my mother for a week, and honestly, I desperately needed a break from her. So, I kinda…ran away. I mean, I climbed out the window while she was sleeping. I had seen a poster earlier that day, that there was going to be a firework show. So I escaped to go watch them. When my mom found out I was missing, she called the security people. I was running away from them.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
I shrug, my hand unconsciously moving to my left knee. “Not really.”
My mother had yelled at me for being irresponsible. I rub my knee over my jeans, remembering just how angry she was. Not because I escaped, but because I had scratched my knees up while doing so. She almost had a stroke when she saw those scrapes marring what used to be my perfectly unblemished skin.
“So, is that why you drew me? Because you recognized me from the alley?”
“That’s partly the reason,” he says, before trailing off. His eyes shift over my face. “Your hair is shorter than before.”
His random comment suddenly makes me feel self-conscious. Is my short hair weird? It’s no longer choppy as it was when I first cut it so carelessly. My hand comes up, and I touch my shoulder-length hair. It has grown a bit over the last couple of months and I had cut the split ends last week, keeping it even and pretty.
Jay’s hand reaches out toward me, as if to touch my hair, but then he realizes what he’s about to do. He snatches his hand back, just before his fingertips could touch the wayward strands of my hair.
