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This needs to end. For good. There’s no more I can give him. There’s no more I can deny God. There’s no more I can sin before I’m bound to hell for my disobedience and treachery.
I head to the art studio because I know him that well. He likes to draw. He’s sketched me before—just my face—but I marveled at all the intricate details he managed to capture. Sometimes he’ll come to my cabin after being at the studio and those paint-covered hands will glide down my body in wicked ways. He’s so talented too. You can almost feel his love and his passion for what he creates. He’s a visionary. He—
Sacrifice. The things we sacrifice for God.
I enter the art studio, making sure to check over my shoulder to ensure that nobody’s watching. When the coast is clear, I slink in and find Noah exactly where I thought he would be. It’s hot outside, and the studio doesn’t have air conditioning, so he’s gloriously shirtless as he paints. His teeth are playing with his lip piercing, pulling and twisting it in concentration as his brush strokes the canvas.
Something in him that calls to me must call to him because he turns as if he can sense I’m here without seeing me. He smirks—beautiful and tinged with mischief—as he sets his brush down. “Hey, handsome.”
“What are you drawing?” I ask absentmindedly, stepping up and reaching for his canvas, but I pull back because I’m afraid of ruining it.
“You’re telling me you can’t make it out?” he chuckles, intertwining his fingers with mine as he pulls me closer. “It’s you.”
And now that he’s said it, I can see it. It’s me—naked—spread out on a cloud of white, grey, and dark yellow streaks. He’s managed to capture every inch of my body perfectly, so subtle too, and lifelike. I almost glow right off the page, and my breath is taken away.
Is this how he sees me? Almost like a work of art? Perfect lines and angles and softness that I can’t see in myself?
“It’s…amazing,” I gasp softly, unable to hide my smile. “Noah…”
“Well, I had an amazing inspiration. Don’t worry, no one’s going to see it. I keep all my paintings locked up when I leave,” he assures me. He winds his arms around my waist from behind and kisses the back of my neck. “Fuck, how is it that I miss you already?”
I’m so lost in the beauty that is in front of me that I barely have time to react as Noah reaches for my chin and tips my head back so he can brush his lips against mine. I shudder but remember myself. I came in here for a reason.
I rip my lips away. “We can’t.”
“What…” he backs up and spins me on my heels. “Why?”
“You heard Father Matteo’s homily,” I croak, swallowing dryly. “Sometimes, we need to sacrifice things for God.”
“No,” he murmurs, cocking his head to the side as he frowns. “That’s not what I heard.”
“It’s what he meant,” I say adamantly and, because I know I can’t control myself around him, I give him some space. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
And then the curtain drops. All of Noah’s exquisite vulnerability and openness fade quickly. In its place is nothing but that repressed anger and apathy. His jaw is clenched tight as he nods. “Fine.”
I raise my brows in shock. “Fine?”
“Fuck. What do you want me to say, Jarred? I…I told you things about me,” he says, fists clenching and unclenching angrily at his sides. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m not worth anything. I…I need to know my worth.”
He did say that. I feel like shit. Noah did confide in me. He told me about the way his parents treat him, and the disinterest they have in him. He opened up to me and showed me his biggest insecurity, and I’ve just thrown it back in his face.
“Noah, baby, it’s not about that,” I plead, reaching for his hand. “It’s not about you—”
He yanks his hand away harshly. “I was very clear with you. You had to be all in or nothing could come of this.”
“Noah, I’m sorry,” I whisper feeling tears in my heart start to form, the pain of sacrifice looming high above me, the consequences of my sins rearing their ugly heads.
“You shouldn’t be. I feel sorry for you,” he states, more calmly this time and with a hint of pitying remorse. “I’m sorry you have to hide. I’m sorry that you can’t give yourself what you want. I’m sorry that you seem to hate yourself.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “That’s…that’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” he questions, shaking his head in exasperation. He rips off his beanie and runs his hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his familiar action. “What your dad did to you was hell. I don’t expect you to magically forget what happened to you, but I wish that I could make you see how right this is between us. I can’t. Only you can do that.”
“I…” I’m at a loss for words. I don’t want his pity. I don’t want his remorse. I don’t want his unfiltered analysis of my own mind. “You don’t get it.”
“Maybe I don’t,” he says with a soft shrug. He fiddles with the beanie in his hands, uncharacteristically vulnerable with weak eyes that won’t meet mine. “I like being with you but not like this. I don’t think I deserve to be your sin.”
I swallow harshly. I don’t like him like this. I don’t want him to think there’s anything wrong with him, even though God knows there is. Our depravity will bite us in the ass, but I want to wipe that look off his face. So, I gather more courage. I leave God in the background, something that comes so easily when I’m with Noah. “When I’m with you, I can forget all of that. I can let myself enjoy what we do together.”
