Page 34 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
More phone cameras trained on them. Dean decided to smile and puff out his chest, the better to show off the sentiment on his T-shirt—to counteract the embarrassment, of course.
“Just to clarify, my dearest Jacqueline, the last thing I want from you is a mere booty call, and I plan to show you next time we go out when I bring flowers and leave our buddy Pierre at home. What do you say?”
She didn’t stop laughing. She only gave him a thumbs-up. A thumbs-up. God, his roommates were going to eat this story up in juicy little bites. The teasing would be merciless. But he’d had worse at school. He decided to be philosophical about it. At least she’d said yes. He leaned back as more people gathered around them to video the circus.
“How about I text you about our next date, then?” he asked, smiling for the cameras. “Assuming you ever stop laughing. If you keep going, you might end up floating into the sky like in that one scene inMary Poppins.”
Another thumbs-up appeared as she grabbed her sides, tears streaming down her face. Was it reallythatfunny? Maybe she needed to de-stress after the stress of her recent loss. He forked up some poached lobster and plopped it into his mouth, waving to the expanding crowd edging in around them.
“Just another picnic in Paris, folks,” he shouted to them.
Pierre called out to the crowd with “Bonjour! Un plan cul est rigolo!” punctuated by a humorous squawk.
“Oh, what the hell.”
He grabbed on to his dream girl and began to laugh.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Sawyer’s phone was playing his Offenbach’sOrpheus in the Underworldringtone again and again, signaling a barrage of texts.
Who in the hell could be texting him like that? Of course, his phone was face down on the table—smart one, Sawyer—and his hands were streaked with the oil paint on his palette—apricot, ultramarine, gold, and brown. He glanced at his painter’s rag on the tarp and faced every artist’s quandary: was the barrage important enough for him to clean his hands and stop painting?
He could tune out anything when painting. He’d always had that gift. Perhaps because it was the only place he felt completely immersed other than when he read a book. While curious, he decided it wasn’t worth it. If it was his parents, he didn’t care. If it was one of his roommates, they could text someone else. He was painting for Nanine’s.
“Hey!” Kyle shouted from his room. “If I wanted to attend the symphony, I would have gotten tickets.”
Roommates. “I’m painting!” he shouted back.
“I’m working!” Then a thud sounded somewhere, the door creaked open, and heavy footsteps grew closer. “Dude, you should have silenced your phone.”
He waved his hand dispassionately, studying the canvas. The women Nanine wanted for her painting—all Belle Epoque in their vibrant, lush gowns—weren’t coming alive. He couldn’t capture their vitality, theirjoie de vivre, and he was terrified he never would. He’d continue to fail and, in doing so, let down Nanine, his roommates, and mostly himself.
“Dammit!” He gave into the artistic urge to draw a gigantic black X across his canvas and felt part of his soul die.
“Jesus, Sawyer!” Kyle froze in picking up his ringing phone. “You ruined a perfectly good painting.”
He wanted to throw aside his paintbrushes and destroy things—so unlike the reserved college professor he was known to be. “It’s not coming together. The women might as well be carved wooden ducks you’d buy at a flea market and use for doorstoppers. I can’t get the painting right. Everything I try looks flat.”
The outburst of frustration felt good, and then he tumbled to the bottom of the well. The hurt was like quicksand, taking him down. He was a failure at the one thing he loved more than anything, and he didn’t know how he was going to keep painting with the knowledge he could never paint what he had in his head. What was the point in trying if he’d never get it right? But what was the point of breathing if he stopped answering art’s passionate call?
Kyle shifted his weight and set the phone down, his concentration absolute. Sawyer knew this look. He himself had given it to plenty of college students, those who’d come to him during his open hours and had a meltdown in his office about their grade, the direction of their major, their very life path.
“Sorry for my outburst,” he muttered, setting down his paintbrush on the palette and picking up the rag to wipe his trembling hands. “I forgot to take my adult pill today, but I will after I clean up. I promise. And I’ll silence my phone when I’m working from now on. It won’t happen again.”
Kyle walked over and put his hand on his shoulder. “Since when did I start looking like your parents? Sawyer, this is me. You don’t have to get all contrite and shit for giving in to frustration or having a human moment. I know you’re struggling with the painting. Why don’t you tell me what you think might help you paint women who you don’t think look like wooden duck doorstoppers? By the way, I’ll make sure to return the ones I got you for Christmas.”
His mouth wanted to smile, but he wasn’t ready to give himself a pass yet. “I don’t know what I need. That’s the problem.”
“Would going out and checking out real women work?” Kyle shoved him lightly in a clear bid to lighten him up. “Or you could ask one of our friends to pose? I’d pay you a hundred bucks to ask Thea, Brooke, and Madison to dress up like belles of the ball for you.”
That image deserved an artistic snort. “I cannot imagine the sitting session. No one would stay still.”
Kyle’s jaw relaxed. “Maybe we could hire some women to pose. There are tons of wannabe models and actresses in Paris, and I’m sure we could find a costume shop. Or Brooke would know someone, right?”
Ever the fixer, Kyle, and also a great friend. “We don’t have enough room for three women to pose up here.”
“Which is why I’m begging the real estate agent to fast-track the paperwork for our new digs—”
