Page 26 of Fractured Fear

“Tell me about your grandmother.”

With my mouth open and noodles falling, I choke. Coughing a few times, Zane pats my back and looks like he’s ready to perform the Heimlich which will only bring to light the fact that I’m not choking on food, just my own fucking spit.

“My Abuela? Uh. Sure. What do you want to know?”

“You two must have been pretty close for her to have left this place to you.”

Happy memories flood my consciousness. The moment must have reflected on my face because Zane’s eyes turn soft. “We were. My mom is a single parent, so Abuela would take me during summer break every year. My love of art came from her. One time we were in San Francisco at a figure drawing open studio?—”

“Figure drawing?”

“Yeah, drawing the human body. There’s a model in the middle of the room and everyone sits around with sketchbooks and draws what they see.”

Zane angles his body so he’s facing me with his arm resting along the back of my chair. “Like, nude models?”

“Yes.” I smile to myself. Nudity usually makes people uncomfortable, but in the art world a penis is just a penis. Just another part of the human body.

Zane doesn’t respond so I continue, “Anyway, this other artist kept critiquing my sketch and telling me that my proportions of the model’s body were off, that I was making his torso too long.”

“His?”

Snorting is not my norm, but nevertheless I snort at Zane’s disbelief. “Yes.His.” I chuckle softly and continue, “I was embarrassed and tried ignoring her, but she wouldn’t let up. Finally, Abuela snapped at the woman and told her to leave me alone and that I could draw however my sixteen-year-old mind chose to. Abuela was protective and encouraged me to create all the time no matter how shitty it turned out.”

“You were sixteen and drawing naked men?” Zane strikes me as the quiet type, but I think I have just shocked the quiet out of him.

“Pablo Picasso was drawing nude models at age nine.” I cross my arms and lean back.

“I don’t know if that makes it any better.”

“Nudity is part of being an artist. Plenty of artists started young.”

He tilts his head to the side and narrows his gaze, studying my face as if it has the answer that will end world hunger. “It’s not that. I don’t think I like the idea of you seeing another man naked.”

Is he…jealous?

No, that can’t be it. He probably just doesn't like the idea of a sixteen-year-old girl drawing an adult nude man. But I was mature for my age, I didn’t laugh uncomfortably or anything. I was just studying the human body and admiring its beauty just like any other artist would.

His attention strays from my face and glides down my body snagging on my chest. The heat behind his eyes could light the building on fire.

Shit. The handprint.

I lean forward and bring my elbow to the table blocking his view of my shirt.

“So. Tell me about yourself, Zane. I think I should probably get to know the man who paid for my lunch.”

Mimicking my position, Zane indulges my subject change. “What do you want to know?”

His green eyes connect with mine and it’s as if all the oxygen is sucked out of the room. My brain drains of all thought and all I can focus on are his green irises with little gold flecks in them. When we met the other day I didn’t notice the hint of gold, but with his close proximity I can’t help but take it in.

The stubble along his jaw looks like it would slightly scrape against my skin, but I would welcome the rough texture. Thesharpness of his cheekbones makes me swoon, and I imagine how I would cup his face in the palm of my hand before we…

Nope! Not going there. Can’t go there. Won’t go there.

What were we talking about?

Oh yeah. Him.

“Where did you grow up?”

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