Page 45 of Blank Canvas

After years of letting heartbreak rule my heart, I decide it’s finally time to push all the negativity aside and bask in this woman. Indulge in the way she makes me feel. Give over to my heart and ignore the hushed voices of warning in the back of my head.

The more we talk, the more I let loose. Shelly pumps life into my veins. Makes me laugh more and lean in closer. Makes me smile so much my cheeks sting. She is the light I have missed all these years. A light I never want extinguished.

When our meals arrive, we eat and talk and enjoy the evening. Worry evades me and I give merit to the idea of Shelly being more than a friend. For a minute. Only a minute.

Four and a half years have passed since I relished the company of a woman. Let it swallow me whole and never let go. When Kelsey ditched me for frat boys and thecollege experience, I shut down. Closed myself off from emotion and intimacy and anything that would hurt me further. I became numb. To everything.

With Shelly, I never want to let go. Never want to spend a day without seeing her or speaking with her or knowing her. Is this healthy? Probably not. No form of addiction is. But Shelly… her brand of drug is exactly what I need. What I never knew I needed.

As our plates empty, the server comes with a tray of desserts. Shelly ogles them with wide eyes and her lips trapped between her teeth. Much as I’d like to trap her lips with my own, now is not the time. Instead, I agree on her choice of dessert, a thick slice of chocolate ganache cake with fresh whipped cream and berries, to share.

All I will say about dessert… I have a new love for chocolate cake that has nothing to do with the taste and everything to do with watching Shelly eat it.

Oh, how I wish to be that cake. Sweet and warm on her tongue. Eliciting the most provocative sounds.

After I settle the bill, we walk to the car, arms hooked at the elbow. The drive to Shelly’s apartment is a blur of quiet music, good conversation, and our arms a breath apart. Hushed as we are together, our talks flow with more ease now. As if we have known each other for years and not months. And I want more.

More of her. More time. More of whatever she will let me have. Moreus.

I park in the guest spot near her building and walk her to the door. The cool November night grows hot and thick and edgy. There has always been this unspoken familiarity between us. An energy that brings us closer. Since day one, I fought the sensation with every molecule I control. Little by little, I’ve slowly let it take over.

“Would you like to come in for coffee or tea?”

At her question, that stupid voice in the back of my head speaks up. Tells me to say no. Tells me to get in the car and drive home. To leave and not take another step toward her front door.

I hate this voice. Hate that it still creeps in and tries to sway my life in one direction or another. Tries to keep me from moving forward and moving on. Eerie as it is, I hate this voice even more because it suddenly sounds like my mother. Full of acid and judgment.

Tonight has been perfect. More than perfect. If I leave now, will it end perfect? Or will I wake up in a cloud of regret? Miserable from not doing whatIwant versus listening to theno one will ever love youvoice in my head.

I am not ready for tonight to end. The more I have Shelly in my world, the more I want to exist in her bubble. Breathe her in. Share my life. Make her mine.

A new voice storms forward and tramples the doubt. The voice of selfishness. Soft and lovable and coaxing. She whispers,“Go inside. Spend more time with her.”And without a second thought, the selfish part wins.

“I’d like that.”

A timid smile pushes up her flush cheeks. Shelly unlocks the door and steps aside to let me in. The apartment is small but quaint. Enough for one person. Cozy enough to entertain guests. The vibe and appearance simple, but very much Shelly.

Ivory walls with occasional family photos and framed print art. Soft-pink sheer curtains accent standard blinds. A beige sofa with throw pillows to add a pop of color and a knitted blanket slung over the back. An ivory-shaded lamp on a side table farthest from the door. A rectangular, cherrywood table sits between the couch and a small entertainment center with a television, DVD player, and streaming device. Fuchsia and taffy and blush flowering buds in a vase on the table.

“Make yourself at home,” she says as she hangs her purse on a hook behind the door. “Coffee or tea?”

“Tea. Please.”

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

Shelly walks to the left, past a small dining space, and into a kitchen big enough for just her. The dining has a small, round table with two chairs. Another vase, this one smaller, with the same array of flowers rests at the heart. A chandelier fixture that doesn’t match Shelly’s style, and probably what comes standard with the apartment, hangs above the table. The kitchen, from my position in the living room, has stainless steel appliances, oak cabinets, and dark countertops. The kitchen appears to be the darkest part of the entire space.

I sit on the sofa, run my fingertips over the fabric, the throw pillow and blanket. Soft. But not as soft as Shelly. So much of her is woven into this small place. Although it isn’t vast, it casts a warm energy. An energy I recognize any time Shelly and I exist in the same space.

While I wait, I breathe it all in. Fill my lungs with her floral and patchouli scent. Fill my heart with her kindness and radiance. After tonight, everything will be different. Everything. Yes, inviting her into my home was huge. Sitting beside her in my living room was heart stopping. Falling asleep curled up beside her was unreal. Waking up with her wrapped in my arms was life altering. But tonight… it feels… more.

“Hope you like chamomile.”

I open my eyes as she rounds the couch and hands me a mug. “Chamomile is perfect.” Because I need something to calm the buzz swirling in my head and beneath my diaphragm. Going from zero to one hundred may be exhilarating in a car, but with my heart…

We sip our tea and sit in silence a moment. A silence vastly different than any other we have shared. Why? Because it’s in her home. Her most sacred space. And for the first time in minutes, I realize just how close we are. That her knee brushes my lower thigh. Her lips a mere foot away.

She sets her mug on the table and I mirror the action. Was I this nervous when she came to my house? No, not to this degree. Sure, I was hyperaware of Shelly the second she set foot in my home, but her presence soothed me otherwise. Maybe it’s the size of the space. How, in her apartment, I feel like I am on top of her.

---