Page 89 of Just Say (Hell) No
He stared at her, and she stared back. He said, “I’m missing something. What?”
“Nothing.” She pulled out milk from the fridge, grabbed a beer at the same time, and handed it to him.
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ It’s something. What? I didn’t call enough? I know I didn’t. Thirteen-hour time difference. Training. PR stuff. Team stuff. I shouldn’t assume you want to spend the day with me? You said you didn’t have to work, and, yeh, I assumed. Of course I assumed.”
She sighed, poured her milk, and turned to face him. “I want to spend time with you. I guess I thought you’d ask me, that’s all.”
“Ask you what?” He searched his memory, but couldn’t come up with anything. Whether she’d waited for him? She’d bloody wellbetterhave waited for him. That wasn’t all right to say? Bugger that. He was going to say it anyway.
There was a faint flush rising into her cheeks. That didn’t look like a good sign. “Maybe whatI’vebeen doing?” she asked. “How it’s going?”
“Oh.” He exhaled with relief and went for the bottle opener. “Geez. You had me scared. I thoughtyouwere pregnant for a second there, or telling me you’d met somebody else, somebody who didn’t keep running off on you.” Sounded good. Casual. Like he hadn’t actually felt that stab of fear, piercing too deep. “So it’s not that. Then what? Assume I’m an arrogant bastard and set me right. Wait. You just did. How’s the painting been going, then? Been immortalizing any Chihuahuas?”
The second he said it, he knew it was wrong again, because she’d stiffened. He set the beer bottle down, searched his mind for the right thing, and gave it up. He was never going to say the right thing, so he’d go with what he had. “I told you the flowers were amazing,” he said. “You toldmeyou had to paint dogs, because that was what people would buy, but when I walked through the door today, I saw those blue flowers, and I remembered that, yeh, you’re amazing and talented. How’s that?”
Her shoulders had relaxed, at least. “Better,” she said. “And youdidsay all that. I guess I wondered if you meant it after all, when you didn’t ask about it while you were gone.”
“You don’t need to wonder about that,” he said. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. Let’s go look at what you’ve done, then. If it’s Pookie and Precious, I’ll do my best to admire the technique. I’ll still think it’s a waste of talent, and I won’t hide it well enough. But show me anyway.”
“It’s not Pookie and Precious.” Her hand was turning the mug on the counter, like she had all those weeks ago in a café. Short, unpainted nails, small, square hands. A few flecks of paint on them, too. Orange and red and yellow, nothing like a dachshund and a Chihuahua being married under an arbor of pink roses. She said, not looking at him, “I haven’t worked on them at all, and I should have.”
“Never mind,” he said. “If you’ve been doing something better—never mind them. It’s good for what’s-her-name, Savannah, to have to wait anyway. You’ll make her appreciate it more.”
“You say that,” she said, finally looking up at him, “but you do exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
“That’s because I’m lucky enough to be doing exactly the job I want to. Are we going to stand around and have a yarn about this, or are you going to show me? Because I don’t think this is about me at all. I think you’re stalling.”
Her mouth tightened, her eyes flashed, and he smiled and said, “That’s better. I’m not waiting anymore. I’m going to see for myself. Come if you like, or stay here and have a sulk, but either way, I’m looking.”
He headed up the staircase, his beer in his hand and Nyree and Cat following behind, and thought,Hope it’s not something rubbish, because she’s going to know if I’m lying.He didn’t open her door, though, when he’d got there. Whatever he’d said, this was hers to show or not.
She took a deep breath, and then she pushed the door open.
Both windows were open, but the smell of paint lingered underneath. Her mattress wasn’t on the floor anymore, and the bed was covered by a complicated spread, all reds and Oriental style, like a Persian carpet. Speaking of which, therewasa Persian carpet on the wood floor. Old and threadbare, but glowing all the same. Her paintings hung on the wall, and the little tables around the room held a variety of… things. A bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a collection of crockery, the physical objects blending into the art and back again until you almost couldn’t tell which was which.
There was no cloth over the oversized canvas on the easel, not this time. The painting was finished. And looking into it wasfallingin, like a funhouse mirror. Like the effect of the room times ten.
A wall and a half of her room, and that was all. No windows. Nothing but interior. The walls more yellow than orange in her rendering, saturated with color, glowing with warmth, like the sun was coming in from somewhere, strong as in Western Australia. Or as in Northland. Rich red oriental-patterned coverlet on the bed, red carpet on the floor. Paintings and objects, texture and color. Every detail rendered exquisitely, but no question, this wasn’t any photo. This was apainting.
Making you want to live in her room, in her heart, in her life, to climb inside all that richness and heat and heart.Making you—not just see it. Making youfeelit.
She said, “It’s boring, isn’t it? It’s weird to paint a room. I know I need to do people instead. I never want to, though, even though I should paint you, because nobody could be better, like the model you always wished you could get in Life Drawing class but never did. I wanted to do this, though. It’s all I could see, but nobody wants to look at a room. Unless it’s Van Gogh’s bedroom in Arles, but I’m not Van Gogh.”
He said, “Stop. Stop talking.”
She said, “Right. Never mind.” Her voice came out tight, not like Nyree at all. “You asked, at least. You were interested. Thanks.”
He turned to her, finally, and said, “Didn’t I say to stop talking? Nyree.Stop.I’m not telling you what I think because I can’t think how to say it. And I can’t stop looking, either.”
“Oh,” she said. “You… can’t?”
He laughed, and her head jerked back. He had to hold her, then, didn’t he? He had to pull her into him, and to keep looking at her painting from over her head, because she didn’t even reach his shoulder. That was all right, though. That was perfect, because she packed so much into that body of hers. All the emotion. All the vision. All thelife.He said, “It’s you, that’s all. This painting is everything you are, and I want to live in that world.”
“You do? Really?”
“No,” he said, still smiling. “I’m lying. Of course I really do. It’s awesome. You have to know it’s awesome.”
“It’s decorative,” she said.
