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One piece, dubbedBlue Woman, is easily life size. Drawn on a six-by-three-foot paper scroll, theBlue Womanhides behind messy strands and a large sweater. Without question, the term blue depicts her mood. And I don’t know why, but Ifeelher pain, her despair. So much it has me on the cusp of tears.
As if he senses my mood shift, Devlyn leans into me more. Gives me more heat and weight. Soothes the sting with his natural balm. Dropping his chin, his breath heats the skin of my earlobe and just beneath. “On to the most embarrassing moment of the night,” Devlyn says, and I shiver.
He rests his free hand on my forearm and gives it a slight squeeze. For a split second, I stare down as if imagining things. The lingering sensation of his breath on my skin. The warmth of his hand on my arm. It isn’t weird or uncomfortable, but it is different. New.
Without second thought, I lay my hand over his. Allow his warmth to blanket my skin and seep into my veins. Let my heart pound viciously, my lungs inhale erratically, and my nerve endings light on fire.
This feels more like holding hands. Forming an entirely new bond. A connection miles past the friendship line. Because friends don’t hold hands. Not unless they are drunk or exhausted or injured. And I am none of the above.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I say, voice unsteady as I peer up at him. Eyes on mine, he swallows and nods.
I tighten my hold on our connection, close my eyes for two breaths and savor how perfect this feels. Then I let him lead the way.
Ten steps and several rapid heartbeats later, we stand in front of a collage of pencil drawings. Two on larger pieces of stock, five on smaller pieces and surrounding the two larger.
I step closer to the images and Devlyn steps with me, not relinquishing my arm. My eyes graze over the first smaller drawing. Fingers, the top of a hand, a wrist and forearm, the start of a bicep. The limb feminine, soft, shaded, intimate. I swallow as heat blooms in my cheeks. A sudden sense of voyeurism hits the center of my chest. As if I am invading an intimate moment.
Taking a deep breath, I shift my gaze to the next small piece. The supple curve of a shoulder and border of the throat. Extra shading to emphasize the collarbone and subtle dip of the hollow spot at the base of the throat.
Jesus. Is it hot in here?
How does he make simple body parts, parts we see on people every day, so striking? Something you can’t not take pause to stare at, to absorb, to get lost in. Something that makes your pulse race and your breath catch.
The next is the profile of a neck and jaw. I assume the muse for all the pieces is the same due to the feminine depiction. I want to ask Devlyn who she is. If she is the person who has him scared to move forward. To open himself to another.
But I don’t ask. I fear his answer. Fear whoever this woman is, he will never move past her.
The last two smaller pieces depict a shadowed profile of her face and a pair of eyes. The eyes tug at something inside me, beg me to open my mouth and ask questions. Dark irises with the occasional shimmer resembling stars.
My eyes narrow as I step closer. Study the irises more critically. The occasional shimmer in the darkness makes me think of my sister-in-law, Peyton. How she calls my brother starlight. Because of his eyes. The same eyes that match my own.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
My heart rattles in my rib cage. Bangs in the hopes of escape. And I do my best to settle the irrational thoughts and emotions surging inside. I don’tknowthis is me, and should not assume as much. For all I know, these drawings are years old. Depictions of the woman that broke his heart. Someone he once loved, but who is no longer in his life. Someone other than me.
I try to collect myself. Calm my racing heart. Normalize my breathing. Not stiffen my arm looped in his. Focus on the rest of the images—the two larger ones I have yet to see. All while not letting on the path my mind has taken.
When I shift my gaze, when I take in the last two pieces, I stop breathing all over again.
Confused. I am so damn confused.
One is the back of a woman. Light wavy strands down her back. The edge of her profile on display as she looks off to the side. The second… it is the same woman. In a meadow. A meadow strikingly similar to the one painted inside Petal and Vine.
I don’t know what to think. What to say. How to feel. How to function.
Devlyn leans into me, his breath warm on my ear as his body presses into mine. I might have a heart attack in the middle of this gallery. “What do you think?” he whisper-asks.
What do I think?What a loaded question.
My eyes roam the drawings as I ponder how to answer his simple yet complex question. A question so heavy, I’m not sure if there is a right answer. Right or wrong, I think Devlyn feels much deeper for me than he realizes. Either that or he refuses to accept how he feels.
“I… uh…” I close my eyes and swallow. How do I act myself, act as if everything is still the same, after seeing these? How do I go on pretending we are just friends? Because this—these drawings—screams more than friendship. This is passion and longing and heartache. Beauty and fantasy and hunger. These aren’t just depictions of an elegant woman, they are intimacy and affection and hope. A desperate cry for more. Of what, I can’t be sure.
No doubt they took weeks to draw. Weeks. Our friendship was only weeks old.
What rattles me most is that Devlynchosethis collection to display tonight. Purposely selected these drawings for hundreds to see. Is all but silently telling everyone we are more than friends. That I don’t just occupy his thoughts, but also his heart.
Friends don’t draw provocative, intimate angles of another friend’s body. Friends don’t focus on eyes and lips and freckles. Friends don’t invite friends to see how much they think and feel and desire the other. Lovers do.
