Page 8 of The Man I Love

Normally Samantha was upstairs in bed at this time, talking with Tristan until they both drifted to sleep from exhaustion. But tonight, Sam felt oddly detached as she reached across the counter, grabbed the beer, and thrusted the offered bottle toward her lips. “Thanks,” she whispered after a healthy chug.

Something had changed tonight, and she could feel it in her bones. Like atmospheric pressure or realignment of the planets. Something had shifted, and it both scared and excited her at the same time. She turned toward the window, hoping to glimpse the moon, instinctively knowing it must be full, but found her roommate Peter’s stained-glass sculptures in the window instead. Its brilliant shards reflected all the colors of the rainbow, playing and dancing against the walls in the living room. “Where’s Peter?” she asked, realizing it had been quite some time since he’d left that evening.

Margaret made a face, took another bottle from the fridge, then slid it across the counter toward Edward. “Shit,” she whispered. “I was supposed to meet him. Shit, shit, shit!”

Edward picked up the bottle, seemingly amused as he watched Margaret scurry into the living room with her phone. She plopped on the overstuffed chair, then fired off a series of texts, presumably to their other roommate.

Edward turned to Samantha, his hip pressed lazily into the counter. “Who’s Peter?”

Samantha glanced toward the living room, where she could see Margaret’s brow furrow. “Our other roommate,” she replied.

“Three of you live here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sam answered.

“And you’re all artists?”

“Yep,” Margaret interjected, putting her phone on the coffee table to include herself in the conversation.

“Painter,” he said to Margaret, “Sculptor,” he said to Samantha, plopping down beside Margaret on the oversized chair, “and what about Peter?”

“He’s our glass man.” Margaret jutted her chin toward the corner of the room, where Peter’s stained glass shone like a prism reflecting the city lights below. Light danced with every color of the rainbow, illuminating the walls as though he’d captured the colors of the city and released them in this tiny apartment. Yellows, blues, greens, moving in and out, almost like breath.

Edward smothered his hand over his mouth, assessing the apartment before he finally spoke again. “It’s beautiful.”

For the first time, Sam looked around the room, seeing the space through someone else's eyes. She had to admit, it was magnificent. Yes, the apartment was old, but that’s exactly what gave it its charm. The concrete floors were stained and abused by the dozens of artists who’d come before them. Years of divots, holes, and paint, each telling its own story, gave it its charm.

The building, which was composed of three stories, was quite unique. There was the studio where they sat now, composed of their workspace, a small kitchen and a living room which they lovingly called ‘cozy.’ Upstairs were three tiny bedrooms with barely enough room to hold a full-sized bed and dresser for each of them. But it was the first floor—Mr. Covington’s brainchild—which made moving across the US worth it. The Gallery—a five hundred square foot space that would feature each artist for a whole six months once it opened.

It would be life changing yet scared the hell out of her at the same time.

Sam cleared her throat, determined not to think about work any longer as she sat across from them on the olive-colored couch. “What about you, Edward?” she asked. “What do you do?”

He turned to meet her stare, stacking his leather boots boldly onto the coffee table. “Actor,” he said confidently as he leaned deeply into the cushion.

“Broadway?” she asked.

“I’m between casts at the moment.” He picked up his bottle. “For now,” he took a sip, “I narrate audio books.”

The twinkle in his eye piqued her curiosity. “Anything I might know?”

“Do you listen to Romance?”

“Some.”

“Erotica?”

“Maybe.”

“Then no, you haven’t heard of me.” He wrinkled his nose. “But I like your style.” He put his feet on the ground, chuckled and winked, then pushed himself to stand and walked toward the kitchen.

“If you’re insinuating all she reads is smut, you're a bigger dick than I thought you were, Eddie,” Margaret said.

He pulled more beers from the fridge. “I’m only playing around,” he said. “But I’m flattered you’ve thought about my dick, Maggie, I really am.”

Sam almost choked on her drink, spitting the mouthful all over the coffee table.

Edward set the fresh bottles on the table and began pounding on her back. “You okay?”

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