Page 9 of If My Wishes Came True
“Have you had any relationships since then?”
“Nothing serious. Scott isn’t the first guy who felt conflicted about me not wanting kids. So for the past three years, I’ve decided to keep my relationships casual. But you know what? Casual datingsucks, and I’m about ready to give up on that, too.” I finish the last of my drink.
When my new friend frowns, I continue.
“I’m not saying that because I want anyone to feel sorry for me,” I go on. “I don’t need a relationship to be happy—especially now that I’m painting again. I’m starting to see a life that could be fulfilling, traveling the world and making art.”
Vanessa nods, and smiles sympathetically. But I’m not sure she believes what I’m saying.
I’m not sure I believe it myself.
When I wake up the next morning, before I even open my eyes, I’m smiling. I stretch out luxuriously in my bed and revel in this happiness that feels much too foreign.
I paintedyesterday. And on top of that, I made a new friend. Maybe it’s no coincidence. Maybe this city is where I stop running. Where things finally start falling into?—
Okay, let’s not get carried away.
I should know better than to believe things happen for a reason. Best to enjoy the moment and not expect too much from it.
I have a leisurely Saturday ahead of me before Tati Marie’s birthday party tonight, and I know exactly what I want to do with it. I throw on shorts and a t-shirt, make myself a smoothie to drink on the go, and get in my car. Twenty minutes later, I’m walking into the largest art supply store in Chicago.
My first thought is that I want to buy everything I see. But it turns out, I nearly have to. I’m starting from scratch, so I needpaints, brushes, a palette, a palette knife, canvases, and Gesso, among many other things. And an easel, of course. I buy so much stuff that the shop owner offers to help me carry it to my car. I politely decline with a bright smile, even though I could use the help. But he’s already hit on me twice, and I’m not interested. Besides that, I’m pretty stubborn about doing things myself. I have been since high school.
When I was a junior, I qualified for an individual cheerleading competition in Columbus. As I was packing up my mom’s car, I noticed she had a flat tire. I asked my dad to help me put on the spare, but he said he had to get Christy to school on time, so she wouldn’t miss her English Lit class.
My mom was no help at all. She was sick with the flu, and didn’t know a thing about tires. So I called Vic McCabe, a classmate I’d been on a few dates with. He said he’d be happy to change the tire…ifI had sex with him. I was a virgin, then, and all we’d ever done was kiss. I broke up with him on the spot, but he still tried to negotiate for a blow job.
Devastated, I sat on the hood of the car and cried. Then our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Rosen, walked up to ask what was wrong. I’d never spoken to her before. She told me she’d learned how to do all sorts of things since her husband had died. But instead of changing the tire for me, she instructed me and supervised as I did it myself.
It was a lesson I never forgot.
It takes me two trips to load everything into my trunk. But it’s such a long walk to get from where I park in my building’s garage to the elevator, I decide to see if I can carry everythingat once. I’ve got multiple bags hanging from the crook of each elbow, canvases under my arms, and a portable easel strapped over my shoulder. It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible. Kind of like getting through grad school with dyslexia.
On the twentieth floor, I prop the elevator door open with my foot as I transfer my purchases into the hallway. I’m loading myself up like a pack mule again, when I hear my name.
“Jenna,” he says softly.
It’s not a question, even though we only met once, and briefly. I’m facing away from him with my unwashed hair pulled back, but he knows it’s me—just like there’s no doubt in my mind that the man standing behind me is tall, and handsome, and sun-kissed, with a curious gleam in his eyes. The buttery sound of his voice gives me goosebumps.
“Hi, Charlie,” I say when I turn around to meet his gaze.
Yikes. He’s even more handsome than I remember.
I lose myself in his coffee-colored eyes, and the familiar way they’re smiling at me. In the way his quiet presence eases the tension in my body, and makes my heart beat slow and steady. It’s like the world’s moving at half-speed until?—
The bottom of one of my bags rips open, and tubes of oil paint tumble down to the floor. There are paintbrushes everywhere. Startled, I look down, and another bag slides off my wrist, its contents rolling in various directions as the easel starts slipping off my shoulder.
I’m mortified. Why do I have to keep making a fool out of myself in front of this ridiculously handsome man?
But Charlie seems unfazed. “Let me help,” he says with aneasy grin. Out of habit, I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but clearly that’s not the case. As he’s kneeling to collect my runaway supplies, I almost lose my grip on one of the canvases.
“I think I’ve got everything,” Charlie tells me as he stands up. He’s got paintbrushes in the pockets of his jeans, a palette tucked under one arm, and a very full bag he’s hugging close to his chest.
“Thank you so much,” I say, both embarrassed and relieved. “I’m sorry to keep you from wherever you were going.”
Charlie lets out a sheepish laugh as we walk down the hall to my apartment. “I actually wasn’t going anywhere. I went to get coffee this morning, and I locked myself out. I’m waiting for someone with the master key, but since it’s Saturday, they might be a while.”
“Oh,” I say after setting down my things and putting my key in the door. “Did you want to come in? While you’re waiting?”
