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“I know.”
“Seems I can’t help myself when it comes to you.”
She twists on the bench, props a leg up on the seat, her knee grazing my thigh as she faces me head-on. “Like that.” She jabs my arm with a finger. “You sound as if you can’t stay away from me. But one false move on my part and you go cold. Feels like I can’t win.”
Unfortunately, she is right. No sense in denying it. No matter how many times I remind myself Shelly and I are only friends, the voice in my head, the one I stomp down often, laughs and calls me a fool for believing such hypocrisy. The number of hours I think of Shelly… I am a moron if I believe we will remain strictly friends.
But I keep that to myself.
“Sorry,” I say, hypnotized by her sparkly blues. “I’m too selfish for my own good. And yours.”
She opens her mouth, ready to respond, but my phone rings and cuts her off. Her lips form a tight line before she smiles and twists to face the lake.
Immediately, I hate the lack of eye contact. Hate that she shifted away.
I pull my phone from my back pocket—the number not in my contacts—and answer. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon. May I speak with Devlyn Templar, please?”
“This is he.”
The woman on the other end goes into a well-rehearsed spiel. For a moment, I zone out. Don’t listen to a word she says. Until I hear her say, “We’d like to feature some of your work in the exhibition. I realize it’s last minute. My apologies. Another artist gave us your information and, after seeing your pieces online, we’d love to showcase your work with other local artists.”
“You’ve piqued my interest. When is the exhibition again?”
“Saturday. In a few days. If the notice is too short, I understand.”
“Count me in.”
“Wonderful,” she says with jubilance. “Can I send details to the email listed on your website?”
“Yes, that’d be perfect.”
“Thank you, Mr. Templar. We’ll see you on Saturday.”
I disconnect the call and stow the phone in my pocket. Last-minute calls for exhibitions are few and far between, but they happen. When the email hits, I will read up on the exhibition. Whether or not there is a set theme. Either way, I know which pieces I will show.
And I would like if Shelly saw them.
“Do you have plans Saturday?”
She studies the lake without a word. Takes a deep breath. Tightens her grip on the edge of the bench seat. Then meets my gaze. Left then right, left then right. Her eyes dart between mine. Seeking, hunting, searching for clues or answers to a question she has yet to speak aloud. Feels as if I know the question, but I refuse to give it a voice. I won’t jeopardize time with her. I need every second she grants me.
Clamping down on her lips, she shrugs. “I work a few hours in the morning. Other than that, no. Why?”
Inviting Shelly to the exhibition with me sounds like a date. A legit date. Unlike thefriendnon-dateswe share more often than not, there is no avoiding implications with this. No matter which way I spin it, asking her will suggest we are more than friends. Call me cruel or self-centered or destructive, I don’t care. I want Shelly there. At my side. On my arm. To see my art on display. To decipher what she sees and feels. To watch her gravitate toward each piece. To decipher how she sees what I see.
Our friendship is still in the infantile stage, yet she consumes much of my day.
I ache for and detest how she rattles my heart. How she makes my breaths uneven. How she spins a tornado in my head. Each day, I wake up with Shelly as my first thought. It gives me life and scares me to death.
“Was just invited to display some of my work at an exhibition.” I pause for two breaths. “And I’d love it if you came.”
Shit.Should not have used the wordlove. Maybe she will bypass it or think of it in the general sense and nothing more. Hopefully.
“I’d like that, thank you.” Her toothy smile is infectious. As is the way it lights up her eyes. Like a visual hug.
God, I want to conquer my demons, my insecurities. For me. For her. For us.
