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I watch him enter a second-story apartment building, and I stare at the complex for five more minutes. I right my heart which already has fallen for Ashton Brooks.
* * *
Inspiration has struckme in the forty-five minutes it’s taken me to return from Ash’s place. Kate’s words have stuck with me about my charcoal sketch. I may not be able to share the sketch of Ash, his face giving away too much detail, but something begins to stew in my brain. At first, like most of my better ideas, I dismiss it right away, then the more my mind races back to it, I realize I don’t have to give Ash completely away to share the inspiration his spirit and soul gives to me.
I bypass every area of my apartment, taking the steps that lead to the second level of my loft and climbing the stairs to my art studio. I keep a mini fridge in this space because once I’m hit with an idea, I’m here. In the past, I’ve been known to get sick from dehydration because I lose track of time completely when I’m creating.
My art table is where I typically draw, unless I want a cozy place, and move to my living room. But tonight, I have a serious need to create something lasting. In my mind is the picture I’ll transfer onto paper. With my best quality sketching paper, that’s only used for the final product, I begin with the backdrop. I can see it clear as day, as though I’m still at the marina. It’s Ash, but not his face—he’s looking out at the water from the bow of the boat. He has one knee planted on the seating area and the other on the deck. His hands grip the edges at the top. His body is relaxed. It’s as though I’m reciting the alphabet, the image is coming so easily to me. Each stroke of my memory brings me closer to him. The street lights reflect from the outside of my loft and remind me of the shadows that play out in my memory, creating a clearer and sharper image.
When I’m done, I take a step back, setting it on my easel. This is how the public will look upon my drawing. I can’t get over the likeness of his body features which after just four days together, I have memorized.
Without thinking, I snap a quick picture, sending it straight to Kate. My eyes stay fixed on it. Already I’m coming up with another image my brain has locked away.
The phone begins to ring, and my eyes avert from the picture. No surprise, it’s Kate. Not even a text, but an actual phone call.
“Please tell me you want to sell that one. If you sent me another amazing piece that you’re hogging for yourself, I’m firing you.”
This sketch is more than a paycheck. This picture, or the set of them I will paint, is deeply personal, and I don’t want them to end up with someone who doesn’t appreciate them as anything more than an investment.
“I’m thinking if the price is right, I’ll part with it. As a matter of fact, I may have more. But, I’m selling a part of me with these sketches, and for that reason, they won’t be cheap.”
She lets out a squeal, then a sigh. I don’t need the money. I can hold onto the pictures. And she knows it.
“You’re a pain in my ass, Noah. Let me send this to a friend of mine. He can give me a starting cost, and from there, I’ll let you know.”
I end the phone call before she can ruin my mood and my creative process with it. Pulling out another heavy piece of paper, I begin with the strokes of my pencil, creating the railing that encloses my open bedroom, and the end table next to my bed. The sleeping silhouette of Ashton is turned away from me, the sheet covers everything below his waist. This picture is more intimate in nature, showcasing the muscles in his back. And the way his almost-black hair sticks up on its ends when he sleeps. The rumpled mess of blankets and sheets next to him suggests someone else was in bed with him at one point. Maybe the public will understand it’s me. I’m the lucky one that gets to wake up with Ashton.
Again, I shadow in the sections I remember, due to the shades of the windows being drawn, but some light had snuck its way into the loft. I finish with the finer touches, an artist’s version of an edit, and set it next to the last picture. I have no idea how much time has passed, and I decide to show this particular one to Ash before Kate, due to the intimate nature of it.
I look at the time on my phone. It’s five in the morning. I’ve been in my studio for eight hours straight. I missed a call from Ash at two a.m.
This is my process. I forget about the world, and when I turn to the sketches I created, I know it was well worth it. I don’t change, or wash the charcoal from my hands. I simply fall on my bed, uncertain what time I’ll wake. But with the images of Ash burned in my mind, I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
16
Ashton
“I was thinkingwe’d need to put out a missing person’s report on you,” Greg jokes when I open the door, having just said goodbye to Noah. “I take it you and the guy you’ve snuck off with the last couple of days are getting along?” he asks.
I’m a private person. I share with Tia and typically, that’s it. “Yeah, it’s going good, you could say.” I give him a little morsel of information as I beeline for my room.
“Yo! Ash! That’s all I get?” Greg shouts through the apartment.
“Yep,” I answer.
“At least come and play a game with me. Kicking your ass is better than playing the computer and kicking their ass. This way, I can see misery on your face.”
I don’t hate my roommates. I’ve just never let myself get invested. Maybe a product of my childhood. Even though we moved to a better area, the damage had been done, and I never gave any of myself again to people who could hurt me. Is Noah showing me that I can trust again?
I backtrack into the living room. “Yeah, I’d be as good as you if that’s all I ever did.” My retort earns me a slight smile and the middle finger.
“So, are you in?” he asks.
I have work to do. I wasn't lying, but an hour bonding with my roommate isn't a bad way to kill a little time. "Sure, but first, please tell me we have beer. If I have to hang out with your ugly ass for an hour, I'll need to consume copious amounts of alcohol."
"First off, I have a glorious ass." Greg's response is quick. "And second, I'll need to consume copious amounts of alcohol," he mocks. "Who the hell talks like that?"
"I do, for one. And you're an asshole, you know that?" I tease, walking into the kitchen to get to the fridge. "You want a beer too?” I ask.
