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After about a half hour, they’re able to experiment on their own, asking me questions every five or ten minutes and at one point wanting me to paint the tree leaning over the cliff for them.
Since this isn’t an art class, I’m happy to help as much as they’d like. The point is for them to enjoy themselves. Not become good painters in three hours.
I spend most of my time paying attention to them since the middle-aged woman who lives in a cabin in the woods and the retired banker who moved out here two years ago both do fine on their own, mostly wanting my validation that they’re doing a great job.
Marcus wants more attention than he’s getting. He told me when he first arrived that he had the day off from work, which is why he’s able to attend today. He’d started to tell me about how well he’s been doing and that he bought a new boat when Caleb called me away.
Caleb didn’t have anything to say to me. He was simply giving me an out, which I appreciated.
Since we’ve gotten here, he’s consistently planted himself between me and Marcus. I can tell by his frown that it’s frustrating Marcus, although he’s kept it to himself thus far. My sense of fair play compels me to go over to check on his painting every half hour to give him a compliment and answer any questions he has. But when he tries to shift it into a chat, I politely move away to talk to someone else.
Overall, I’m pleased by how smoothly it’s all gone when it’s time to pack up and leave at five. We return to the community center and the group disperses. I’m congratulating myself on getting out of the situation without any awkward encounters with Marcus when he catches up to me as I’m leaving the supply room.
I thought he already left, but he hasn’t.
“Why are you being so standoffish today?” Marcus asks, way too close to me.
I tighten my lips. “I’ve been busy. I have to help everyone.”
“But it feels like I never get to see you anymore.”
“Oh well. It happens.” I glance down the hall and see Caleb approaching. He was waiting at the other door to the storage room, where I went in. It was my mistake in coming out the second door. “Excuse me.”
“Don’t you have a minute to chat? I was hoping we could get a drink.”
“No, thank you.” I have a forced smile on my face, and I’m trying to get around him so I can reach Caleb.
I feel trapped. Kind of panicky. My cheeks are flushed, but it’s from upset rather than embarrassment. I desperately want to get away from this man. He’s not a bad-looking guy—longish hair, thick lips, and a beefiness from working out all the time—but I find him incredibly unattractive, and he’s really crowding me right now.
“Back away,” Caleb mutters, soft but gritty. He’s about the same size as Marcus, but he conveys real strength and confidence rather than overblown machismo.
Marcus turns on Caleb, his eyebrows and lips forming slashes across his face. “Who the hell do you think you are? Her bodyguard?”
He thinks he’s being sarcastic. Maybe some kind of resentful joke.
Caleb meets his gaze evenly, as calm as Marcus is indignant. “Yes.”
Marcus blinks, clearly surprised.
“I do need to leave now,” I say, trying to smooth over the tension. Not because I don’t like Caleb stepping in but because I don’t want there to be a big scene. “I’ll see you later, Marcus.”
Caleb takes a step, easily blocking Marcus to let me get past him. Then he puts a hand on my back and guides me down the hall.
I’m shaky for no good reason. Just that I’m not all that fond of confrontation, and I’m not used to feeling helpless like that.
I wasn’t helpless. I could have called out for help, pushed Marcus away. But he hadn’t been aggressive, and I’m always afraid my past experiences may cause me to overreact.
I used to get felt up by strangers on the dance floors of clubs. I fucked in bathrooms and back alleys. Men I’d call boyfriends were sometimes rough with me if we were out of Caleb’s sight. I was nearly always too high or drunk to care.
Once, after a night of hard partying, Caleb found me in one of the bedrooms of a friend’s yacht. He’d tried to get me to go home earlier, but I’d refused. He’d picked me up to carry me the way he often did, but I’d screamed until my friend’s security staff stepped in and made Caleb wait outside. In the early morning, he discovered me in that room with a torn dress and tangled hair. I was bruised. There were hand marks on my throat. And I had—and still have—absolutely no memory of what happened to put me in that condition.
It should have been traumatic, life changing, but it blurred into the rest of the highs and lows of my life back then. Even after Caleb took me to the hospital to get checked out and treated, I wouldn’t let myself care.
Mostly I was angry with him for making a big deal about it.
No one ever touches me anymore. I haven’t dated since I got out of rehab, and I have no plans to start anytime soon.
I don’t like to feel crowded anymore.
