Page 63 of Doctorshipped
Is that a compliment or an insult? Is he saying he doesn’t like makeup, or that I look good without it, or is he just concerned for my skin integrity, in a strictly medical sense? No one has ever given me such mixed and confusing signals in my life.
After a ride home in a pair of scrubs I had to roll up one hundred times to make fit, a quick change of clothes, and a wash of my face (note to Ella Mae: makeup doesn’t hold up in water fights), Fiona and I pull into the Rec Center parking lot. She’s nearly bouncing out of her seat with excitement.
“Have you ever painted anything before?” I ask.
“I took a few art classes, and you know, there’s always art in school.”
“Good. Well, just know this isn’t a contest. It’s for fun.”
Who could have possibly guessed what that fun was about to look like. If only I had been a little forewarned, I might have brought a blindfold or a paper bag.
Leave it to our seniors.
Fiona and I follow a few hand drawn signs with the wordsPaint Nighton them, directing us toward one of the smaller classrooms at the end of the hallway. When I pop open one of the double doors, my eyes immediately latch onto Brooks. And, as must be the theme of the night, he’s shirtless and sitting on a barstool in the center of the room.
His eyes meet mine and he just shakes his head.
I mouth “What in the world?” to him while gesturing up and down my torso, waving my hand from my shoulders to my waist.
He shakes his head again and his lips twist into a resigned smirk.
Now, for those of you who are wondering, which I’m sure you really aren't, Brooks is a fireman. And he’s pretty typical of most men in that profession. Whenever he’s not on a fire, I’m pretty sure he’s working out at Ironman levels of intensity. His body shows all the signs of his hard work.
And, while I appreciate the beauty of the male form, standing here looking at a shirtless Brooks does nothing for me. No flutters erupt around my abdomen. I don’t blush. I don’t even feel weird looking at him. He’s like a brother to me—an awkwardly embarrassed, sweet brother who somehow has no shirt on for paint night.
The fact that seeing him shirtless does nothing for me is beyond disturbing. Not that I want to have some odd reaction to Brooks. I don’t. That’s for sure. But, why does Grant bring up all those feelings and responses, while Brooks may as well be Memaw in a robe and curlers up there?
I’m suddenly reminded of my junior paint-night buddy when Fiona nudges my side with her elbow, her mouth popped open and her eyes glued to the center of the room.
“Why doesn’t Brooks have a shirt on? I thought this was a girls only paint night,” she asks.
“My thoughts exactly,” I tell her. “Wait here. And look at … anything … anything but Brooks, okay?”
Fiona giggles, but she does what I ask her to do.
I walk over to Brooks who can hardly hold my eye contact. “How did they rope you into this?” I ask, and by they, we all know I mean the three seniors who seem to always be behind the shenanigans in this town: Memaw, Esther, and Mabel.
“Don’t ask. And please, don’t tell. Anyone. Ever. Jayme, you can’t tell anyone. I will never live this down.” He’s smiling that easy, winsome smile of his, but he’s also shaking his head.
I chuckle. I mean, Brooks is a grown man in his late twenties. He can say no. But, I know better, really I do. You don't simply say no to the seniors in our town.
“Brooks, your naked torso will be displayed on the wall of every senior’s living room in town. How do you expect to keep this secret? Besides, all my friends are here. I can’t control the first thing they’re obviously going to tell their husbands when they get home with a painting of you half-dressed.”
I try not to smile. I can’t help myself.
Brooks groans.
“This is not going to remain under wraps,” I say. Then I realize how that sounds under the circumstances and add, “Wrong choice of words? I mean, you’re not under wraps are you?”
I can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of me at his predicament. Brooks blushes, but he still chuckles at my joke. He’s such a good sport.
“Maybe a T-shirt would be a good idea,” I suggest.
“You think I took my T-shirt off willingly?”
He scrubs a hand down his face.
“The three of them surrounded me and said this was meant to be an art class. If art students in Italy draw nudes, I need to at least take my shirt off, according to their logic. I can only thank heaven that they didn’t go on with that whole line ofwhen in Romereasoning, or I could be up here in nothing but my skivvies. Mabel reached out and undid the top button of my shirt before I even knew what was happening. I obviously took over from there. I didn’t need the trauma of being undressed by someone old enough to be my grandma!”
