Page 2 of Bottle Rocket
She loved her job, but it wasn’t exciting. She wanted to be excited about something. About lots of somethings.
Still-life painting probably wouldn’t be it, but she was determined to try. If this attempt was a failure … well, she was on to the next thing—pottery-making or quilting or flight simulation.
In the past, her summers had been a time for getting lesson plans in order for the coming school year, recovering from burnout, and trying, unsuccessfully, to make her ex-husband happy. Last summer, she’d been neck deep in divorce papers and too sad and exhausted to leave her condo.
Even though it was hard, even though it went against every fiber of her introverted being, she was putting herself out there this summer. She was not going to spend another three months moping on the couch. She was going to do something for herself for once. Not her ex. Not the five-year-olds in her classroom. Not her wonderful siblings.
Her.
The room at the community center was empty of people, but easels and chairs were set up in a semi-circle around a raised platform. That platform must have been where the still-life objects would go. The class description had been accompanied by an image of a picnic basket full of watermelon, cherries, apples, and patriotic pinwheels. It wasn’t exactly her aesthetic, but she figured her painting wouldn’t be good enough to hang anywhere anyway.
A man bustled into the classroom with a large cushion in his hand. “Oh, hello. Are you here for the drawing class?” he asked. He was close to her age and had a very friendly voice.
“Yes.”
“Sweet. Grab an easel and make yourself comfortable. We’ll start here in a few minutes. I’m the teacher, by the way. Dean Humphries.”
“Hi. I’m Rosie.”
He nodded, dropped the cushion in the center of the platform, and hurried off. Within a few minutes, more people filed into the room. Most seemed to know each other, which sent anxiety spiraling through her. She hated being the odd one out, which madejoiningexisting groups or teams very difficult.
Dean came back in and greeted the class. He was handsome. Soulful eyes, sharp nose, a thin cleft lip scar, golden stubble. It wouldn’t be a hardship to listen and watch him for the next hour.
When she had told her younger sister, Sasha, about the Summer of Rosie, Sasha had said that one of her new hobbies should be getting laid. Rosie had laughed at the time but hadn’t taken it seriously. Now, when she spotted attractive men, that joke felt like a pebble in her shoe—small but distracting. A sex life—apassionatesex life—that would be worth celebrating.
Maybe great sex could be the climax of the Summer of Rosie.Ha.Too bad she would never have the nerve to go out and get some.
Dean explained that the art utensils they would need were at the back of the class and students could take their pick. Then he said, “Before I get our model, I’d like to remind everyone to treat him with the utmost respect. I’m going to pass around the class etiquette contract. Please read it, sign it, and pass it back.”
Rosie sat up straight. A sudden dread filled her chest. She grabbed her phone out of her pocket to check if she was in the wrong room.
She reread the description on the events page for the community center, but nothing there seemed awry. Dean was passing out copies of the contract and pens.
Rosie leaned over to her neighbor, showed her the phone, and said, “Is this the still-life painting class?”
The woman beside her squinted at the phone before saying, “No. That’s tomorrow and is a beginner class. See, June thirtieth in the description? Today is June twenty-ninth. This class is Intermediate Figure Drawing. We draw a different nude model every week.”
“Oh shit.”
This was what happened when her week wasn’t dictated by a kindergarten classroom. She couldn’t keep her Mondays straight from her Tuesdays or Wednesdays or Thursdays.
Now she had a dilemma. She could stick this out, try to draw a nude person, and move on to the Summer of Rosie: Take #7. Or she could leave immediately. The class was free, and the whole purpose of her little experiments this summer was to experience new things. Find passion in life. Fill the hole where her marriage used to be. On the other hand, this class would be way out of her depth, and, because she was an amateur artist, she suspected it would be insensitive to stay.
Before she could make her move, she was handed a contract to sign, and Dean, who had stepped out, reentered the classroom with a dark-headed man in tow. She couldn’t see the other guy clearly through Dean, but the hem of a navy silk robe fluttered around his shins.
Dean spoke quietly to the model for a few seconds before stepping out of the way to collect the contracts. Without hesitation, the model took off his robe. Rosie felt rude looking at the man straight on. She also felt rude leaving too abruptly. What if he thought she was offended by his nakedness?
She would have to sneak out. Maybe she could claim to need a bathroom break and not come back.
In her peripheral vision, she caught a smattering of black, delicate tattoos across the model’s pale chest, arms, and hands. He had nice hands. He sat down on the cushion and leaned back, his whole body on display. She blushed, reacting to the weird situation and her own embarrassment. Her gaze snapped up to his face because that seemed the safest place to look.
It was not.
Her vision wavered, the room going blurry.
It was like her mind was separate from her body, because she absolutely did not mean to stand up and send her chair scraping back on the tile floor. The racket was overwhelming, but it took an extended beat for the noise to fully reach her.
Every muscle in her body wound tight. She was hot. It was hot, right? Too hot.
