Page 17 of Real Fake Husband

After my mother passed away, I couldn’t handle visiting her grave without Matilda by my side. I could go with him and tell Matilda that I’m going to be a bit late to the diner. She’d understand the reason.

He seems surprised at my offer. “That’s not necessary. I can handle it. Just give me five minutes to shower, and I’ll drive you.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

I’m at a loss for words, not expecting his courtesy.

I can handle being in a car with him for a few minutes.

While he showers, I finish getting ready.

I grab my art bag and sift through the supplies I made sure to pack with me when I left my place. Because I need the money, I’m subletting my apartment to a friend of a friend who’s visiting NYC for the month. I also know this will make it difficult for me to capitulate to Callum and flee back to my own four walls. I have a suspicion that the moment will come when even $750,000 is not enough to bear his presence. My place is a shoebox-sized studio apartment with the living room, bedroom, and kitchen combined into single room, and while I wanted to make sure my guest had enough room for her stuff, I’m now extra glad I brought all my drawing supplies.

Drawing calms me down, and I feel as though I’m going to be doing alotof drawing over the next month.

Before my mom got sick, I used to draw and sketch every single day. Whenever I finished a drawing, she would find a spot on the wall to display it. But then I needed to work to support both of us and drawing went on the back burner.

If I can get through this next month and receive my inheritance, I’ll be able to take some classes again. I can draw more regularly and maybe build up my portfolio. A few years ago, I attempted to sell my art on ArtGal, the largest and most popular online platform, representing thousands of artists, however, my work hours were too much to keep up with it.

I hear the shower turn off, and I reach down to grab my messenger bag. When I do, it tips over and my red sketchbook spills out.

Shit. I must have left it open.

It falls open to one page.

Boy, am I glad that Callum isn’t around so he can’t see the sketch of all the nude bodies.

People are my favorite drawing subjects. I love studying the human body and trying to recreate it on the page. I’ve attended many nude art classes over the years. It was one of my favorite experiences in school, every Thursday from 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.

The models the school hired fluctuated: sometimes it was a male, sometimes it was a female. I had a favorite one—the “jiggly girl”: a pregnant woman, maybe around twenty-six, and completely uninhibited. You could just tell how much fun she had by her whole attitude. She would come rushing in, tear her clothes off, get in the middle of the hall—the tables were always arranged in a circle—jump up and down to loosen herself up, and her tits would jiggle. She had super-thick thighs, and a “give no fucks” attitude. Once she was all jiggled out, she’d proceed to offer original and not always the easiest of poses. She made it a point to always ask us if we had certain positions we wanted her to do, and she’d also warn us if she couldn’t hold a certain position too long. “Guys, you have about ten seconds to finish up.” That was such a breath of fresh air compared to other models who wouldn’t interact at all. It was wonderful and somehow magical to draw her nude body, eternalizing the various stages and changes of her pregnancy onto paper week by week, drawing the way her belly and breasts grew. At the end of the class, she was the only model who would walk around and take a look at what we’d drawn, and it wasn’t unusual for her to go home with several drawings some of us had gifted her.

I used to think I was pretty good—until thatstupidarticle from the douche critic had come out three years ago.

I shove the red book into my bag just as Callum comes down the hall.

I don’t want him to see my drawings.

Callum is dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. It’s a simple outfit. I must have seen it on other guys a dozen times. It’s got to be the tightness of them. They cling to his body damn well, letting me view every thick muscle.

I think about his bare chest, about the heart tattoo, and my fingers twitch.

I want to touch him.

But more than that, I want todrawhim.

Not going to happen, Josie.

You willnotdraw him—he won’t go for it.Put it out of your head.

He’d just make fun of me for being nosy and wanting to see his naked body. The jerk.

6

CAL

Josie is quiet on the drive.

We take my BMW instead of my Harley because it’s raining like crazy out. She’s wearing a pair of tight black pants and another pink shirt. Her hair hangs in loose waves around her face, and I’m disappointed when she pulls it up into a bun. When she does that, she reminds me of the old Josephine, the one in school who used to tie her tousled frizzy hair back and raise her hand, ready to give the teacher the right answer.

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