Beautiful Failure (18 page)

And up until recently, it’s worked.

With no shame, I lie back against the sidewalk and stare up at the sky, thinking—for the first time in my life, that Leah could’ve been wrong...

––––––––

“I
s she drunk?” “I don’t think so...” “How long has she been laying here like this?”

I hear voices above me and blink my eyes open.

“Are you alright?” The store owner grabs my hands and helps me to sit up. “Do I need to call someone to get you?”

“No, thank you.” I look at my watch. It’s only five o’ clock.

“Well...You can
sit
here, but I can’t allow you to sleep here. I don’t allow bums on my property.”

“I’m not a
bum
.” I roll my eyes and stand up. “I paid for something in your store a few hours ago.” I take a step back because he reeks of liquor.

“Be gone in an hour or I’ll call the cops.” He waves at me dismissively before walking inside. 

I decide to call Carter. He’s the only person I think I can handle being around right now.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

What the hell am I doing?

“Emerald,” he says. “Out early?”

I ignore his question. “What are you doing?”

“Making dinner.”

“At five in the afternoon?”

“It’s an intricate meal.”

Silence.

“Emerald?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you out early?”

“Something like that...” I want to ask if he made enough dinner for two, but the words won’t come out.

“Would you like to come over and join me?”

I nod as if he can see me, and I sense him smiling over the line.

“Where are you?”

“Steve’s Quality Shop. It’s a couple miles down from Folsom Street.”

“I’m on my way.”

An hour later he pulls into the parking lot and helps me into his car. As if he knows that something is wrong, he cups my face and stares into my eyes, silently asking me to say something, but I can’t.

I’m too fucked up right now and I need to sort my own shit out before saying a word about it.

Clasping my hand, he whispers, “It’ll be okay,” before driving off into the sunset. 

As much as I want to block out today and think about something else—
anything
else, I can’t run from Leah her “advice.”

“You don’t need friends, Em. You’ve got me! And I’ll be here forever—for-fucking-ever!”
she said when I told her I was the only person in my gym class without a running buddy.

“You have to always fuck with a purpose, okay?”
She scolded as I vomited over the toilet, after I’d cried to her about literally feeling sick about sleeping with one of the men she’d introduced me to.
“It was for money...Not because you liked him. Never fuck someone just because you like him. It’ll never end well.”

“Em, Em, Em...”
She popped a bottle of champagne the weekend after I turned sixteen.
“I know I promised I would take you to the pier this weekend, but I was talking to Vincent earlier and...He’s paying for me to take you to New York! Make sure you bring your ID because you and I are going to party every night next week! And you’re going to try coke at least, once! ”

“Emerald?” Carter interrupts my memory reel, and I realize he’s standing outside my door with his hand outstretched. “Did you want to come inside or sit in the car?”

“Why are we at a CVS?”

“I need to get a corkscrew for our bottle.”

“You’re going to serve me
wine
?” I scoff. “You know what? Just take me home after you buy it.”

He pulls me out of the car and wraps an arm around my waist. “It’s not for wine. It’s for
sparkling cider
.”

“Are you still going to take me home after you buy it?”

He doesn’t answer. He smiles and escorts me inside.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks as he grabs a hand basket.

“Not really...”

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or am I technically still a
stranger
?”

“You were upgraded from stranger status weeks ago...”

“Does that make me your
friend
?”

“One of very few,” I say, and he kisses me.

He grabs two bottles of sparkling cider and a corkscrew, and on the way up to the counter I snag a box of condoms from an endcap.

He looks down at me and raises his eyebrow, letting a slow smile spread across his face.

I blush and turn away from him. I’m not taking no for an answer today.

When we approach the register there isn’t a cashier in sight. We both call out “Hello” and look down the aisles, but no one answers. 

“I’ll be back.” He sighs. “I left my wallet in the car anyway.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I grab everything off the counter—stuffing it all into my purse, and walk out of the store.

Before I can get inside his car, he grabs my shoulders and spins me around. “Your mother didn’t teach you that it’s
wrong
to steal?”

“My mother apparently didn’t teach me shit...”

He must sense that I’m being genuine and not my normal sarcastic self because he looks at me a long time before pressing his lips against my forehead and whispering, “Good to see you finally opening up.”

He reaches around me and pulls the car door open. Then he goes into the store for a few seconds.

“You went back and
paid
for everything didn’t you?” I look over at him as he slides behind the wheel.

“I did.”

“Why? They would’ve never known the stuff was gone. I would’ve paid them back tomorrow.”

“Southern born and raised.
Honesty
is a natural thing.”

I roll my eyes and try not to smile as he pulls off.

He places his hand on my knee—caressing it as he drives around the outskirts of Blythe.

The car coasts to a small condo building that sits on the edge of a massive lake. When he cuts the engine off, I take off my seatbelt and move to open the door, but I stop myself.

“Whenever you get tired of doing this Prince Charming routine, let me know.” I sit back and wait for him to let me out.

I don’t mention it, but I’ve grown to like this habit of his. I’ve been watching a lot of Old Hollywood films lately, and I’ve noticed that all the men hold the doors open for the leading lady wherever she goes. It didn’t hit me until CVS today, but Carter hardly ever lets me do anything for myself when we’re together, and he has
never
let me pay for dinner when he picks me up from work.

The one time I paid the diner’s waitress anyway—beating him to it and rushing outside right after, he pressed me against his car and gave me double the amount, saying, “Don’t ever do that again,” before kissing me senseless.

“I think I need to take you to a doctor to get your incessant daydreaming checked out.” Carter smiles and unlocks the door to his apartment. “You might be having
seizures
.”

“Ha ha.” I step past him and my jaw drops as I walk inside.

His apartment looks completely out of place for the South. It looks like it belongs in a beautiful brownstone in New York, or in an architectural magazine.

With stark white walls, round columns that drop down from the ceiling, and massive easel paintings that stand freely in the living room, I almost feel like I’m standing in a museum.

I walk over to where a giant canvas is propped against the wall—noticing that the brushes on the window sill are still wet.

The picture—one of a deserted lake at sunset, is unfinished, but I can already tell that that the final product will be amazing.

“You paint?” I ask.

“Occasionally.” He sets his keys on the counter.

“You did a really good job defining the reeds around the water. I almost thought you used acrylic, but...I’ve never personally known anyone who could get oil paints to behave this well. It’s amazing.”

“You write
and
paint?”

“I haven’t painted since I flunked out of school.”

He stares at me, and I can tell he wants to ask me more but he holds back. “Are you ready for dinner?”

I nod and walk over to the breakfast bar where he’s pulled out a stool for me. Before I can take a seat, he swoops me into his arms and kisses me—placing me onto the seat himself.

“Do you eat lasagna, Emerald?”

“It’s my favorite.”

“You cook it a lot at home?”

“Hell no. I can’t cook.” I laugh. “And my mom couldn’t either. Whenever we had a taste for lasagna or anything Italian she would order from this place called Rizzoli’s. She wouldn’t let me eat it out of the box though. She’d take it out and put it on real plates so she could pretend like she made it.”

“We’re allowed to share personal stories now?” He smiles and pulls a pan out of the oven. “My mom was disappointed that I turned out to be a boy because she already had three other ones.” He hands me a fork. “She taught me how to cook something new every Saturday because she wanted to pass her recipes down to someone in the family.”

“She died?”

He shakes his head and sets a full plate in front of me. “No, she’s still alive. She just always likes to look ahead.”

“Something her and my mother have in common.” I mutter and quickly stuff a roll into my mouth. I’m starting to say a lot more things out loud lately and I don’t like it.

I pick up a fork and take a bite of the lasagna, completely taken aback by how fucking good it is. The sauce is the perfect mix of tart and sweet and the cheese has to be organic. It has to be.

“This is really,
really
good.” I’m devouring it, not looking up at him. This is a far cry from the country-fried foods my grandparents specialize in and it honestly reminds me of home.

“I made an entire pan,” he says. “If you would like, I can wrap up the rest of it for you to take home.” He sits across from me.

“Funny. Don’t let this go to your head, but this is probably the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”

“
Probably
?”

I blush and eat another forkful.

“What type of pictures did you paint in college?”

“Abstracts mostly, but I did a few stills for assignment.”

He puts his fork down and leans forward. “What type of stills?”

“The usual—classroom objects, buildings, and trees. Lots and lots of trees.”

“No models?”

I shake my head. “That was the next class I would’ve enrolled in...”

“I see.” He reaches over the bar and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “If I said I wanted to paint a picture of you would you let me?”

“Yes...”

“Does it matter what
type
of picture it is?”

I can feel my cheeks burning. “No...”

“Interesting.” He moves his hand away from my hair and takes a sip from his glass. “Good to know.”

I look down at my plate and continue eating, scolding myself for letting him see how he makes me feel.

When I look up again, he’s still eyeing me—smiling at me.

“Something funny?”

“Are you sure you don’t want the rest of the pan?”

“No thank you.” I lie.

His lips curve into an even sexier smile and he takes my plate away, placing it into the sink.

“How long have you been painting?” I stand up and walk over to the unfinished canvas—trying to calm the butterflies that are currently fluttering around in my stomach.

“Years.”

“Are you being vague on purpose?”

“No.” He takes his place next to me. “I’ve been painting all my life, but I started to take it seriously once I hurt myself playing football.” He sighs. “I tore my ACL and couldn’t recover quickly enough, so I turned towards art as an outlet.”

“You played football in college?”

He nods and cups my chin in his hands. “Is this going to be a one sided relationship?”

“Who said this was a
relationship
?”

Instead of firing back, he presses his lips against mine. Gripping my hips, he kisses me harder and harder, refusing to let me take a breath. Just when I feel like I need to force myself to step back and breathe, he pulls away from me and stares into my eyes.

I’m panting and trying to come up with a few smart words to say, but all I can do is stare back.

Clasping my hand, he leads me into a small sunroom that looks over the condo’s lake. There’s a cream colored chaise on one side of the room and a standing blank canvas on the other.

“Still willing to let me paint you?” he whispers into my ear, sending tingles up and down my spine.

“Yes.” I ignore how fast my heart is racing.

He walks me over to the chaise and faces me, sliding a hand against my cheek. “I need it to be a
nude
painting.” His eyes are dark. “Are you fine with that?”

I hesitate and try to regain some of the control. “I take my clothes off at work every day. Why wouldn’t I be fine with it?”

“You never get
completely
naked, and you know none of those of men are going to take things too far with you.” He closes what little space is left between us and looks deep into my eyes. “That won’t be the case tonight—whether you agree to let me paint you or not...Yes or no?”

I nod even though I’m beyond nervous for some reason.

He presses a finger against my lips. “Can you agree to keep these shut while I work?”

I nod again.

He steps back and looks at me for a few seconds—letting his eyes shift over my body from head to toe. Without saying a word, he grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head.

I move my hand to the zipper on my jeans, but he grabs my wrist and holds it still.

“Let me.” He lowers his head to my neck and kisses my skin as he unfastens my pants. After they fall into a wrinkled puddle, he bites me gently.

I’m trembling for some reason I can’t explain and he’s not making it any better with the way he’s looking at me.

“I never thought you’d be the shy type.” He slides a hand behind my back and unclasps my bra.

“I’m
not
the shy type.” I practically stutter.

He smiles and trails his hands down to my waist, slowly unfastening the velvet bows of my favorite panties. The second they hit the floor, he draws my bottom lip into his mouth and bites it, forcing me to murmur, to tremble even more.