Page 89 of Come Back to Bed
“You’re just saying that because my dad’s your bong buddy.”
“We did not use a bong.”
I shake my head. “Do you have any idea how many times the power got turned off when I was growing up, because they forgot to pay the utility bill? I always did my homework at the library after school because I never knew if I’d be able to use the internet at home. But, you know…We always had fresh eggs and homemade soap and high quality art supplies, so I didn’t have much to complain about.”
“I’ve heard much worse stories.”
“I know. I’m not even complaining about my childhood. It was great. It’s just weird being more responsible than your parents.”
“They don’t exactly seem irresponsible to me. They’re just a little flaky…I know you don’t want to talk about your job, but…”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“About quitting?”
“Not yet. I’m ready to take a good look at my finances and figure out how to make the transition. It’s not going to be easy going from working for one of the most successful artists in New York to starting out on my own again. I’m not young and foolish anymore. It was fun when I first moved to New York, but I was a broke-ass idiot. I just need to take baby steps.”
He nods. “It’s not so scary here in the woods, though, is it?” he says, looking around at the trees and squeezing my hand.
“It is at night when you’re a little girl.”
“Then don’t go out alone at night.”
He looks down at me, like being with him is the answer to everything, and maybe it is. I’m about to throw him down and put my mouth on his mouth, when he says: “I have to tell you something. I saw your sketchbook. When you had the flu. Those drawings of us? They’re really beautiful.”
“Oh…” Amazingly, I don’t burst into flames or run away screaming. “I’m glad you think so.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever inspired anyone to draw before.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. But you have inspired me. A lot.”
I stop in front of a tree, lean back against it and pull Matt towards me. He rests one hand above my head against the tree trunk, pushes my hair behind one ear, and leans down to kiss me soft and slow. I can taste Vermont maple syrup on his lips and tongue, and I could stand here kissing him until it snows. It doesn’t matter if we’re in bed or a laundry room or a crowded subway train or a forest—when Matt McGovern kisses me, I’m exactly where I need to be.
“I want you to have the painting,” I tell him, “when we get home.”
“Really?Into the Woodsis mine?”
“Yes. If you want it. You’ve definitely earned it.”
I may not be able to tell him that he has my heart, so completely, but I can give him this.
“I want it,” he says. “I’ve always wanted it.”
