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“Where is Mr. Perfect?” He asks, taking a few steps away from the window. “Saving kids from a burning orphanage?”
I laugh because really, Chase isn’t too far off from the truth. “He runs a non-profit baseball league for under-privileged kids. He started it in college—gets local businesses and corporations to sponsor teams in exchange for community service work.”
“Boston Batters?”
“Yup. That’s him.” I’m not surprised he’s heard of it, Patrick’s endeavor has been covered by a few local papers. “He and his business partner/cousin coach and sponsor a team. He has a game every Sunday morning.”
“Jesus.” Chase laughs. “Why isn’t he your boyfriend?”
The question digs in my chest, making it ache. I force a smile and shrug. “I’m not girlfriend material for a guy like Patrick.” While I can’t deny we’re sexually compatible, I can’t help but believe that’s where it ends between us. I’m good enough to fuck but not much else.
Story of my life.
Chase cocks his head and give me a look. “Who keeps lying to you, Cari?” Before I can respond, he sets the subject aside. “So,” he says, tipping his chin at a stack of canvases leaned against the wall to his left. “Are these the pieces?”
I nod, suddenly nervous. “I still don’t know why you want to look at my work,” I say shaking her head. “They’re hardly more than doodles.”
He made another sound, moving the canvases so he could look at each of them individually. I watch him pace and hunker, lean in close and move away, looking at each of them from different angles and perspectives. “They’re good,” he says without bothering to look at me. “You’ve got a great eye. Your use of color is impeccable. Steady hand. Details are impressive. They’re… good.”
They’re good. He’s said it twice now. So why does he sound disappointed?
I look at the paintings in front of me. The first is a landscape of the harbor outside my window. The other two are still-lifes. The first, a cheesy fruit bowl set-up I did years ago, the second, a bouquet of tulips I bought on a whim at a farmer’s market. This morning, I thought they were perfect. The best paintings I had that showcased my range and ability as an artist. Now, I see what Chase sees. They’re safe. Lifeless. Technically sound but lacking in soul.
“What made you pick these pieces?” he says, turning to look at me over his shoulder.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I just thought—”
“What are these?” Turning, he zeros in on a thick stack of canvases I keep covered.
Panic squeezes my chest and pushes me to my feet. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t want to—”
He cuts me off again, this time by whipping the drop cloth off the stack of paintings I keep hidden. Sinking down, my ass hits the bed and I close my mouth. It’s too late now.
These are the paintings I don’t show anyone. The paintings I wake up in the middle of the night to work on. The ones I do in secret. The paintings I work on with the door closed. The ones no one knows about. Watching Chase flip through the stack, I feel exposed. Like he’s seeing me naked.
After several long minutes, he finally pulls one free of the stack and leans it against the wall, next to the fruit bowl still-life. They look like they were painted by two entirely different artists. I stare at it. Bold colors. Broad strokes. Vague and yet the image it portrays pulls at me. It’s of Patrick, the way he looked the night we met. His perfect profile caught in the glow of a red light while he drove me home.
He puts it back and pulls out another. This one shows Patrick sitting on our couch, his image capture in the refection of the living room mirror. Another one. Patrick leaning against the kitchen counter, draining a bottle of water after one of his early morning runs. It didn’t matter which canvas Chase pulled from the stack. They’re all of Patrick. Painted in a dozen different ways, from a dozen different memories.
Chase doesn’t ask me why I’ve hidden them away. He already knows. Anyone who looks at them would know. This is where my soul is. My heart. What I really want. Who I really am.
I feel unbalanced. Obsessed. Like who I really am is someone I should be apologizing for.
“I want them.” His back is to me and I’m not sure I hear him correctly.
“Excuse me?”
“For the charity show I’m putting together with Mandy,” he says, finally looking at me. “I want to show them.”
Forty-one
Patrick
Declan calls a timeout before making his way toward where I’m standing on the first baseline. “What the fuck is he doing here?” he says as soon as he’s close enough to speak without being overheard. Things have been a bit stiff between us, which is understandable considering we’d been in each other’s faces last night. Seeing Cari’s ex-boyfriend in the bleachers at our junior league baseball game is as weird as it was aggravating. Weird and aggravating enough to make Declan forget he’s pissed off at me. At least for a minute or two.
“Which one are you talking about?” I say, aiming a glare over Declan’s shoulder. The fact that he isn’t alone only adds to my irritation. “James or the guy sitting next to him?” James, the douchewad who cheated on her and then had the balls to put hands on her after she broke up with him over it is sitting at the top of the stack, drinking a beer and watching the game. Next to him is Travis, the other douchewad—the one she went out with a few nights ago. I wish I could say the fact that they seem to know each other is a surprise but it isn’t. They’re basically the same person for fuck’s sake. Both of them are wearing brand-new jeans they probably bought for the occasion and a bright orange T-shirt with the LH&H logo on it… “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Declan says, shooting a quick look over his shoulder.