Page 7 of The Cost of Love

I want to say I don’t know him to trust him, but I let it go. Instead, I decide to chide him a little. “You look like you eat plain chicken and broccoli every day of your life.”

I bet his fridge is packed full of meal plans created by some personal trainer to help him keep up his physique. Even if I had the money, I would probably be bigger than I am with the amount of food I would consume.

He laughs, clearly okay with a little bit of teasing. “I’m going to take that as a compliment, even though I am insulted that you think I don’t have taste buds.”

“Depends,” I say, smiling, “what do you consider to be seasoning?”

If he says salt and pepper, I’m hanging up.

“My favorites are cumin and paprika. I love Mediterranean food. But I have a cupboard full of every kind you could think of.”

I nod my head in approval, and then remember he can’t see me.

“That’s impressive.”

“Just wait until I cook for you then.” The timbre of his voice is low and sexy.

He says the words like the food will be so good, my panties will drop. Honestly, that would be the result if what he made was delicious. But this is also more talk about the future.

“You have a lot of dates planned for us.”

“I’m hopeful,” he says.

I want to question why, but the whoosh of air being pushed through the tunnel at the sounds of an approaching train brings me back to reality.

“Sorry, gotta go, text me the address.” Before he can say anything else, I hang up and move into line to get on.

It’s better to end on that note than find myself disappointed before we even go on the date.

Chapter 4

Alex

The phone disconnects, and I am left with the overwhelming feeling of anticipation. Tonight I get to see her. Tonight, I get to know if the spark I felt between us could be something real. I should go to sleep so I can be in the best shape for our date, but the urge to paint her has me walking into my studio. Everywhere in my home, boxes sit waiting to be unpacked, but on Day One, I set up the easel and supplies.

I slide a clean canvas on and step back to look at it for inspiration.

I could do just her face, exactly as I remember it. But with the fact that she has a body meant for a Renaissance painting, it would be unjust to leave that out.

It would be amazing to paint her naked one day. Flowing cream fabric wrapped around her mahogany skin. Full and rolling belly sitting perched under her enormous chest. She would sit for me and be the muse to my creation, centered around her beauty.

Grabbing a piece of charcoal, I trace out the shape of her as well as I can remember it. It’s her face that will be the hardest to nail. Her round cheeks and plump mouth are easy to recall. As is the almond shape of her eyes. But the way her chin sits, or the shape of her forehead, is hazy in my memory.

With an outline complete, I pick out the colors I will need and begin.

Lost in the process of strokes becoming art, I focus on the steady movement of my hand. It won’t be something I can complete today, but even with the little amount I can do, I find the peace that painting gives me.

The stress of tomorrow fades away as my mind focuses on keeping steady. I always lose myself in this. The only time I am not Alexander Whitmore, but just Alex. Just me. Only rewarded for what I can create using my two hands. Only judged by what I do alone.

I get to break apart my feelings and watch as the pieces come together as art. I get so involved in moving through the freedom that painting gives me that I don’t hear the door opening until it’s too late.

“My god, Alexander, what is that?”

I stop at the sound of my mother’s voice ringing clearly out into the room. Without even looking at her, I know that disapproval is etched into her maintained face, ruining the effects of her Botox. The unfinished work that shows a plus-sized Black woman lounging in a chaise is not exactly what she would consider art, and the shrillness in her voice makes that evidently clear.

Putting the brush down, I turn and face whatever she has to say.

“Hello, mother.” Wiping my hands on my apron does little to clear the sin of me enjoying myself, but it gives me time to gather my thoughts. While I do, she steps into the room and stares at what I have completed.