Page 43 of Jagged Line Paradise

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m telling you that it’s not.” His nostrils flare and his jaw ticks in defensiveness.

“It’salwaysabout him, Andrés. It doesn’t matter what spin you try to put on the story, it’s always about him. People want to know, don’t they? They want to hear every sordid detail of what he did, how he did it, and how much he enjoyed it.”

“They want to hear thetruth.They want to hear your story.”

“No, they don’t!” I yell at him, then clamp my hand over my mouth. I didn’t mean to shout at him, but hell, he’s pushing my buttons. I don’t like this angry side of me he’s drawn out.

I grip the strap of my hobo bag across my body with both hands and stalk forward, walking faster than before, determined to get to the community center as quickly as possible. I just want to teach my class, enjoy my students’ art, and pretend he’s not here—that he never came back…that he doesn’t exist.

He catches up to me with half as many strides and the tension between us has peaked. But thank goodness he doesn’t say a word—I don’t know why he doesn’t, but I’m so thankful for his silence. The spiders in my mind creep forward, just a little, but it’s enough to threaten complete darkness.

I don’t ever want him to see me cry.

We make it to the community center in silence and we’re hit with a blast of cool air as we enter. I say hey to Margie at the front desk and she gives me a sideways look about the man in the suit behind me. I just tell her he’s my guest today and offer nothing else. I fast-walk straight ahead down the hallway and don’t stop until I reach the art room, all the way at the end on the right.

I sigh a breath of relief as I walk into the art room. It’s a space that brings me joy and makes me feel at home. The community center received a donation from an anonymous donor a few years back, and they were able to renovate a few rooms and fully stock this space.

Every art supply I could ever imagine needing is here. It’s a safe haven for my mind, and I come here sometimes to do my paintings when I’m uninspired elsewhere. In this room, I’m free from my mom, my pain, my past…except, now, my past has just walked in behind me.

I flip on the lights and cross to the wooden desk by the far wall, unslinging my bag from over my shoulder and dropping it on top. I open the cupboard behind the desk and pull out the painter’s smock I made from an old flannel men’s shirt I found at the thrift store. I sewed giant pockets into the front to hold all my supplies while I’m teaching and working. It’s plenty long enough to cover all my clothing since I usually wear shorts anyway. I keep the long sleeves of it rolled up because it feels too confining—fabric over my forearms in our desert climate just feels so unnatural. Rightfully, the flannel smock is spattered with old paint of various colors and I love that—each dried smudge of paint is like a photograph, a memory of all that I’ve created.

As I button it over my clothing, I peek at Andrés from the corner of my eye. I can’t help but wonder why he’s still here, but he is. My curiosity speaks to me and I know that wondering is pointless. Whatever the reason is, it will only lead to heartache, that much I’m sure.

Still, that curiosity drives me to watch him in hope of clarity—not that I expect it will ever come from this enigma of a man who looks like my past but threatens my peace. He walks the circle of easels set up in the center of the large room. Behind each is a stool for the students to sit on while they’re working.

He stops at one of the easels, swipes a finger over the brushes sticking soft-side up from the attached can. “How often do you teach here?” he asks, and his tone is neutral, not demanding, not angry.

I pause, but then speak softly. “A couple of times a week. I may as well be volunteering for as little as they pay me for it.” I chuckle a little, awkwardly.

“You do it for fun then?”

“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

“Good.” He nods, his brow creased as though he’s just realizing I’ve had a whole life without him since he left.

“You should probably take off your jacket,” I blurt out. My heart is pounding. I wish I could understand why he makes me so nervous.

“What?”

I turn and open the cupboard again. “If you’re going to be here, you’re going to paint. You can’t just lurk in the corner and scare off my students.” There’s another painting smock inside the cupboard, but it’s small, not something that would fit Andrés. I close the cupboard and cross the room to the small lost and found box sitting by the door. “I have a full class today.” I pick up the box and carry it back across the room, setting it on the desk. “Only twelve smocks for twelve students. But maybe there’s something here you can put on over your shirt.”

He hesitates, watching me, and his raised eyebrows tell me he’s going to push back. But then he tilts his head and his expression softens—which feels odd to say because his face is all sharp lines and hard edges—and he surprises me.

“Fair enough.” He slowly moves around the circle of easels, coming to stand in front of the desk. He slips his jacket off his shoulders, revealing a crisp white button-down beneath. It’s tailored perfectly to his frustratingly god-like form, with his broad chest and strong shoulders. “Where can I put this?” he asks, holding up his jacket.

Holywow.

He is one hundred percent man now—there is no teenage boy left in him. That equally makes me mournful and unexpectedly turned-on. I remind myself that his looks aren’t the essence of him, even if they do scream sex-god.

“Here.” I reach out to take the jacket from him and turn to hang it in the cupboard. As I raise it to place it on the hook, which is level with my eyes, I catch the scent of him from the fabric. It’s a mixture of the heady musk of a man who just walked a mile in the desert sun and fresh citrus.

My knees threaten to buckle beneath me as I place his jacket on the hook. The smell sparks the vivid imagery of a sunset on the bluff and his lips on the skin of my bare shoulder. It’s the memory I’ve worked so hard to suppress over the years, squashing it down every time my heart forced it to my mind. But the smell connects me to it so strongly that I can feel the ache of years of suppression over my heart.

The scent grows stronger as I delay—it’s stronger because he’s closer. When I finally place it on the hook and turn around, I find him standing right in front of me, only inches away. I hold my breath as my eyes find the small bare spot of chest where he’s opened the top two buttons of his collar. He’s removed his silk tie and is holding it out to me.

“This is my favorite tie,” he says with a grin.

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