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“Yeah.” I fake a laugh. “I drank too much last night.”
No, I didn’t. I was high. And Ididmean everything I said. It’s just I would’ve never dared say that if I were sober.
But I can’t look at Lu, can’t even look at Pushkin.
“Right.” She sounds almost disappointed, then picks up her purse and keys and opens the front door.
“I really liked last night,” she blurts and shuts the door behind her.
It was bad enough before, but now, there’s a slideshow of explicit images in my head—my hands pulling her panties off, revealing the parts of Lu I want to see again. And kiss. And taste.
She’s bare down there, with a little landing strip. Yes, it’s confirmed. My body stirs to life at the memory faster than after an electric shock.
And yes, that oral scene was in her latest chapter. Except John Temple wasn’t drunk or high. He was sober and confident, made Emily Aberdeen ride him afterward, and the next day gave her an encore.
Finally, I understand the idea of hormones riling up.
Heard the expression “live in the moment”? Yeah, it wasn’t about my life. My teenage hormones were overridden by my desperation to get out of the hole that was the group home and find the future no one told me I could have. I didn’t have the energy for girls when every day was a struggle to escape bullying.
Now I want to slow down. Since I met Lu, I want to cherish every day. She was worth the wait.
The hormones? Holy hell do I have a hard time keeping them in check.
I’m obsessively replaying the previous evening in my mind, getting hard in the process, getting anxious about her bringing it up later, and wondering if she even enjoyed it, because my memory is hazy.
My eyes stop on the closed door to Lu’s room.
Don’t.
I feel bad about doing any more spying, but I need to set the facts straight—the paintings mentioned in her novel. Especially after last night.
My heart starts pounding in my chest as I come up to her door and twist the door knob.
The first thing that hits me is her scent. It’s so much stronger in her room. A mix of her peach shampoo and candles set up on the floor, her sweet perfume and chemicals—paint thinner, acrylics, and gesso that she primes her canvasses with.
I take my time studying everything around me.
The shelf I built for her is fully stacked and a mess. My Lu is walking chaos. There are clothes on the bed and the chair.
Her light-blue panties are on the floor. I make a move to pick them up then stop myself.
There are more canvases than I remember from last time.
The almost-finished giant gothic one is against the wall. It’s gorgeous and haunting, with a villainous regal couple in the center, ravens and skulls, a dark eerie sky and a castle in the background.
There’s a new large canvas against the opposite wall, the blue sky and white clouds, and a stork carrying a teddy bear amidst the military jets that shower the warheads down onto the viewer.
Stacks of smaller canvases lean against the walls here and there.
I pull aside the drape that hides one of them and freeze, looking at the first one.
You don’t always recognize yourself in artistic form, but Lu is too good.
Me. I’m staring at myself.
I pull it aside and look at another one.
My face. With glasses. A black hoodie over my head.
