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From the moment I laid eyes on her, with every re-creation of her image, I say without a shadow of doubt… Shelly is the one.
And recognizing this simple fact terrifies me more than anything.
THIRTEEN
SHELLY
I have never sweated so profuselyin my life. And it’s sixty degrees outside.
Devlyn picked me up for the art exhibition minutes ago. When he sent me the event details, I offered to drive myself, in case he needed to be there earlier. He insisted on arriving at my door almost two hours before the event and chauffeuring me to the exhibition.
It only took one deep breath for me to cave. To give in to his persistence. Let him take control of the evening.
Devlyn in control is one of the reasons my pores are mini waterfalls.
Please don’t let me have sweat stains under my pits.I mentally put my hands in prayer position.Please.
The drive to Sarasota—the gallery near the college Devlyn attended—isn’t far, but it’s not right around the corner. The distance and the fact I don’t know my way around Sarasota is another reason I let Devlyn drive.
The event starts at four and runs until six. Then, we have dinner reservations at a restaurant near the gallery. Dinner. Reservations. As in a premeditated meal at a nice establishment.
God, this feels like a date. An expensive date.
With Devlyn, it is hard to know. My new rule with him is to never assume. Assumptions get me nowhere. After movie night the other day, and falling asleep on his couch, he seems different. More open. Closer. But assuming we are anything but friends may shut him down.
So, unless he mutters the worddate, I will keep repeating… This. Is. Not. A. Date.
On the way, Devlyn talks more about his time at college. I lean in closer and listen with rapt attention. His willingness to share has me on the edge of my seat. Although our friendship has shifted, taken on a new persona, I don’t often get this side of Devlyn. The more personal side. A deeper look into his past. Small glimpses into his life, into the way he sees the world. I soak up each new story he shares and pray it won’t be the last.
My college years centered around lectures and term papers and parties. Devlyn’s focused on honing his current craft, finding love in new mediums, and immersing himself in everything art related. Polar opposite lives; his ten times more fascinating.
We hit the peak of the Skyway Bridge and I stare at the bright-yellow stay cables. Blink at the strobe effect they cause as we pass at highway speed. As with all bridges, this one has history. It wasn’t always this mammoth bridge supported by massive cement pillars. The old metal bridge… it had a tragic ending. It was before my time, but I remember the stories my family shared anytime we drove over the new bridge and the local history lessons taught in school.
Are Devlyn and I headed that direction? Tragedy. Not like Romeo and Juliet's tragedy. Love that deep makes me uneasy, but not fully. With tragedy, I mean more like an ending where neither of us comes out happy.
Please, don’t let that be our trajectory. A one-way road of devastation.
After the other night, after waking up in his arms, I’d like to think not. But presuming anything with Devlyn is dangerous and foolhardy. A nonrefundable ticket to heartache.
I try to forget the cold shoulder moments. The instances he shut down and said the word friends for the thousandth time. Instead, I focus on the days he has shown me tenderness. Spoken sentiments friends don’t exchange. Stared at my lips or neck or body with more interest than a friend.
Would it shock me if he said I read too much into any of it? No. I may be outgoing and perceptive with friends and family, but when it comes to romance, all that awareness goes out the window. It’s difficult to not read between the lines with rose-colored glasses. Especially when he looks at me as if I am his world, as if I am his next breath. To say it confuses me is an understatement.
“Almost there,” he says, interrupting my inner tirade.
“Are you excited?”
A smile brightens his face—the one I love more than I should—and I have my answer. “Yes and no.”
When he doesn’t expand on his answer, I mentally reach across the console and shake him. “Care to elaborate?”
I love Devlyn’s mysterious nature. His solemnity and zen. He sees the world like no one I’ve known. Sees it in black and white, but also brilliant colors. Finds the beauty in all people and places and life. Depicts emotion as if it walks among us. Adds zeal to everything he touches with the flick of a brush.
And I breathe it all in.
He guides us off the interstate and my eyes zero in on the city. Most of the Bay Area cities have similar vibes and one uniquely their own. Yes, it is another coastal city with beaches and nightlife and shops, but it feels different here. More alive. Maybe because this place is new to me. Or maybe because the history of the city is different. Either way, I love the vibe.
“Seeing my work in a gallery never gets old. I don’t create to have it on display, but people seeing my art opens up doors. The opportunity to sell more pieces or create custom originals.”
