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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday, June 11
(but so early, it hardly counts really)
A flashof lightning and a clap of thunder collide in the wee hours of the morning, jolting me from sleep. Outside the storm escalates and the wind rocks the camper back and forth a tiny inch as it blows. I slide out of bed and fumble through a drawer to snag a T-shirt and slip it over my head. The way it falls down nearly to my knees, I know I’ve found one of Connor’s. It smells like him, and I can’t help but smile. After cleaning up the pile of sodden clothes on the floor, I dig out my cell phone and check for weather advisories. Surely, some sort of evacuation notice would be issued if any serious storms are predicted. Outside the window near the small banquette, I can see lights on in a few other camps nearby. So, apparently, we’re safe. For now.
I push open the fridge and take out a bottle of juice. The soft yellow appliance light illuminates Connor’s sketch pad left in a dark corner of the bench seat by the table. I pick it up and flick on the flashlight of my phone. Turning on the overhead light would wake Connor and, after his fitful night last night, I want him to rest.
I flip to the last page and what I see astonishes me. The sketch is undoubtedly me. Pencil lines mesh together in what looks more like a painting than a sketch. The artwork is exquisite. I study my face the way Connor sees it. My eyes are closed in sleep, my hands tucked under my face. I’m smiling slightly, but there’s a worried little crease at my brow that leads me to believe that even when I sleep, I’m never really at ease.
Flipping the page, I see myself nude standing in a waterfall, or is it a shower? God, but he’s been kind to the shape of my body. My breasts are fuller than I would have drawn them, my hips curvier. My ass is perfect. Is this how he sees me? It’s quite a departure from the way I view myself, and I’m slightly embarrassed. I never realized how much he admired and desired me. My Inner Sex Goddess has awakened and is dumping buckets of dampness between my legs. Connor Rose, the most beautiful man on this planet, thinksI’mbeautiful.
I flip a few more pages and see sketches of lions. Faces of them from every angle. Incomplete designs, partial faces, only lion eyes. I examine pages of them, realizing they are his tattoo. He drew it. It’s totally amazing.
I flip a few more pages and see the face of another woman. She is most assuredlynotme. Her eyes captivate me the most. They’re set slightly further apart than on most faces and are narrowed, giving her an almost menacing gaze. She looks at something far in the distance. A lock of hair is drawn as if it were flying across her face in the wind.
I flip back to the picture of me in the shower. I’m looking straight into my own eyes. So are the lions. But she’s not.
There are more sketches of her. Dozens of them. She’s lying on a bed, wrapped in a tangle of sheets. She’s reading. She’s outside with a flower of some sort. Most of them are of her nude. She’s gorgeous. The sketches are all just pencil, blacks and whites and grays. But I get the sense she was blond, with light eyes. She’s got high cheekbones, perfectly shaped brows and full lips. Her breasts are huge.
But I keep coming back to the last sketch of her. Her full face, nothing more. Her hand lifted and resting on top of her head. Elegant and thin. Dark, mean eyes that look convicting somehow. I cock my head to the side and wonder how a woman so beautiful could look so angry. And who is this person to Connor?
“Shana,” I hear Connor’s voice say from the entrance into the little bedroom area. I snap the sketchbook closed and fumble to turn off my phone’s light.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I stumble over my own voice. “I’m sorry.”
Connor walks slowly to the table, picks up the sketchbook. He glances down before he hands it back to me. “Go ahead. Look.”
I shake my head, feeling as though I’m being punished for my invasion of his privacy. “I didn’t mean to upset you or to pry, I just wanted to see the sketch of me in the park and …”
Connor tosses the sketchbook back onto the table. It slides off and back into its place in the shadows of the banquette. “Did you see it?”
I nod slowly, hoping the flashes of lightning will illuminate his face enough for me to discern what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, but it doesn’t. I have seriously overstepped here. I panic searching for a way to make it right again. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing except fear. A terrible fear that I’ve ruined everything. Again.
“What did you think?” he asks, his voice still giving nothing away.
“You’re an incredible artist. The tattoo, you drew that, didn’t you? The lion?”
He nods slowly and sits in the passenger seat in the front of the RV. It’s turned to face the living space now instead of out ahead through the dash. He’s still naked. Still stunning. His fingers rake back his long hair from his face. I can’t see his expression through the veil of darkness, but I know he’s looking intently at me. He expects me to say something, to ask the questions that burn in my throat, but I can’t. Even I know what I did was a violation, and I have no right to know.
“You can ask,” he says softly. “But there are things I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
“Are you still seeing her?” Anxiety and insecurity invade my lungs and force the words out in a rush. I pray his answer is no. I want to be the only woman in his life. I’m not equipped to compete with anyone else. I’d lose.
“No.” His answer is quick and I let out a relieved rush of air from my lungs.
“She’s beautiful,” I tread delicately. My knees tremble. I feel like I’m confessing to every sin in my life and I’ve been found guilty wanting for excuse. “I’m so sorry if I upset you. Please forgive me, Connor.”
“You didn’t upset me, Lainey Bird.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but something about hearing his little nickname for me puts my heart a bit more at ease. “If there’s something you want to know, ask now. I don’t know when I’ll be able to make you this offer again.”
I stand there for several long minutes, trying to think of what I really want to know. “What is she to you, Connor? A lover? A girlfriend?”
“Shana was my wife.”
Every bit of air is instantly sucked from the room. A vacuum has been created in its wake, and is immediately filled with doubts and fears and questions too numerous to be identified. My heart begins to pound. No matter how intimate we’ve been with one another, I am forced to face the reality that I really know almost nothing about this man, and he knows almost nothing about me. We are nothing more than friendly strangers keeping our secrets hidden — letting each other only fall for the parts of us we want to be seen.
I let his words roll through my mind, trying to put them together.Shana was my wife.Was? She’s not anymore.
