So yes, I understand completely what he means about going insane, because I'm right there with him, teetering on the edge of something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"You've been painting," he observes, nodding at a small paint stain on my wrist I missed.
"A little." I'm suddenly shy about the canvas waiting in the car.
"You mentioned wanting to be an art therapist once. Do you still think about that?"
"It's stupid. I never finished school, I can't afford—"
"It's not stupid." His voice is firm. "You have a passion, Jenna. And a big heart. It seems to me like it would be right up your alley."
God… the way he looks at me, like I'm someone important and worthwhile, makes me believe him.
"Are you really happy working at the pool hall?"
The question stuns me. I've never really stopped to think about it. Am I happy there? I love hanging with Liza when it's quiet, and that's about it. I do like some of our regulars, but most customers are jerks. People have no respect for a pool hall barmaid. The tips are shit. And the work… it's never-ending. It's exhausting. I'm only twenty-five, but I feel like I'm eighty sometimes.
No, I'm not happy working at the pool hall. I kinda hate it.
It's what I should admit to him, but of course, I don't say a word. His question remains unanswered as our attention is redirected to our server.
"How is everything?" she asks, all smiles.
"Everything is great," Caine tells her. "Delicious."
Yes, everything is great. My life is falling apart at the seams. But the scallops are delightful.
Following dinner, Caine walks me to the town car. I’m not sure where the driver has gone, but Caine is apparently driving me home.
He doesn't hold my hand, doesn't try to get too close. The cool evening air feels good against my flushed skin as we make our way there quietly.
"Thank you," I tell him as we reach the car. "For dinner, for everything. This was really nice."
He pauses in that slow way of his, studying my face in the dim parking lot light. "Thank you for coming."
"Actually..." I feel suddenly nervous, like a schoolgirl with a crush. "I haven't given you your gift yet."
He smiles.
Honestly, this painting has been a huge pain in my rear tonight. First, I lugged it out of the town car, and there I was standing awkwardly by the restaurant entrance with this huge package when Caine spotted me, laughing at my expense. I told him it was an after-dinner surprise for him, and he took it off my hands, seemingly intrigued, and brought it to his SUV.
I reach into his car and pull out the wrapped canvas he's been anxiously waiting to see. My hands shake slightly as I hand it to him.
"I painted this for you. It's just... a thank you. For everything you've done for us."
He tears away the brown paper carefully, reverently, and when he sees the abstract close-up of the eight ball rack I've painted, his whole face changes. His green eyes go soft, and for a moment, he just stares at it without speaking.
"Jenna..." His voice is barely a whisper. "This is... no one has ever..."
I suddenly feel a little ill at ease, my stomachfluttering with nervous energy as I watch him study the painting. The way his eyes have gone soft, the reverent silence—it's more intense than I expected. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I can feel heat creeping up my neck.
This feels too intimate somehow, too personal. I painted this for him in a moment of gratitude, but standing here watching his reaction, seeing the raw emotion flickering across his handsome features, it feels like I've revealed something I shouldn't have. Something that crosses a line I didn't even realize I was approaching. "It's nothing…"
"This is amazing. How did you do this? What medium is this? I assumed you were talented, but this… this is fantastic," he goes on. "And I'm not just saying that to be nice."
I smile. "It's mixed media: acrylic, pastels, ink and cut-up magazines."
He shakes his head, his gaze still locked on the canvas. "Amazing."
