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Then I slip into one of my nicer dresses–an olive-green butterfly sleeve ruffle trim wrap hem belted dress made of microsuede. A knock sounds on my door moments after I hang a delicate set of carved-wood earrings into my ears.
I rush to answer it, and Pyotr stands in the doorway once again, looking as dashing as ever in a mint-green button-down and jeans.
“Nice dress,” he praises, his eyes running down the fabric appreciatively.
I burn the compliment into my brain, reveling in the way it makes me giddy to know he likes my appearance. I shouldn’t care. I’ve never cared what a boy thought of my appearance before. But knowing Pyotr finds me attractive–or at least my choice of dress–validates something in me. Since our first day at Rosehill together, I've feared that he might be disappointed in marrying me because I’m not as attractive as he is.
“Come on in,” I offer, realizing I’m leaving him in the hall too long.
He flashes me a smile as he steps across the threshold and into my room for a second time in the same day. “Well, where’s this art book you carry everywhere?” he asks, cutting right to the chase.
“I should warn you, I’ve been carrying this sketchbook around for years now, so some of the art is less impressive than others.” Striding over to the elegant vanity, I open the drawer there. It’s what I planned on using as my drafting table if I found time to draw while we were here.
I pull out the fine Italian leather-bound book–a present Nicolo gave me for my birthday nearly five years ago now.
“Worried I’ll make fun of your drawings from your younger years?” Pyotr teases, accepting the book as I hold it out to him.
“I just honestly don’t know what drawings we might find in there. I’ve done a lot since I started sketching in it.”
Pyotr gestures to the bottom edge of my bed. “Mind if we sit here to look through it? We could try to squish onto the dressing chair, but I’m not sure we’d both fit.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” I gesture for him to take a seat, then settle in next to him. Bending my knees, I curl my feet up underneath me and lean my weight on a palm to look at my art over his shoulder. That way, he won’t automatically see any embarrassment I might feel over a less-than-impressive drawing.
Pyotr glances over his shoulder at me, flashing his teeth in a grin of anticipation, before opening the book. Many of the drawings are of people I know, people I see around campus, or specific scenes that capture my eye.
To my astonishment, he pauses on each one, thinking about it before moving on. Some, he lingers on more than others. Particularly portraits of my family–people he might recognize.
“These are incredible,” he says after several minutes of silence.
He pauses on a drawing of a stray cat that used to perch on the top of our garden wall at home to clean himself and sunbathe every day. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen the cat. I’ve wondered if it’s moved on or died since the day I drew the solitary little tabby.
“Your eye for the realistic details is amazing. Like the way you capture the curl of his paw here.”
Warmth fills me at his high praise. “Thanks. I love artists who can really capture the truth–not the ideal.”
He pauses again a few pages later on a drawing of Clara. It’s from the first year I met her, when she was four and just learning about Nicolo’s side of the family. I captured the moment she first met everyone–her so tiny compared to a roomful of adults. Her eyes were so big, taking us all in.
“The way you capture the expression on her face… how do you do that?” he asks, tracing his finger gently over her chubby cheeks and little chin.
“Shadow and light have a big part to do with it. That takes a lot of observation and study to understand where the shadows lie. How every curve and junction react to the light.” I lean a little closer, pointing out the shading along the far side of Clara’s face, how it gives her better dimension but also highlights how she tucked her ear to her shoulder in a bashful expression.
Electric energy crackles between us as Pyotr turns to look at me, and our faces come within inches of each other. We pause for a long moment, and I don’t dare to breathe. Then he shifts his attention back to the sketchbook.
Pyotr keeps going, only seeming to grow more intrigued by my art with every page he turns.
Then he lands on one I drew of him.
My heart skips a beat. I completely forgot I’d drawn him after the night we met.
“Wow,” he says, his chin jerking back in a physical demonstration of surprise.
“Now we’re getting into my work after a year at Rosehill College. You can definitely see how my technique is becoming more refined,” I explain. The drawing is quite detailed and captures the first moment our eyes met as I came down the stairs.
A drawing solely of his face, his gray eyes look out from the page, making direct, intense eye contact with me. Just like he did that night.
“You normally capture reality very well, but you’ve drawn me far more handsome than I really am,” he states. It’s not a criticism. Rather an observation.
But it makes me blush all the same. Partially because I disagree. “I draw what I see, and you’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. It was easy to draw you that way.”
