Draw Me In (3 page)

CHAPTER
THREE

“
Harry, your decaf vanilla latte is
up.
”
I scooted the mug across the bar. The ceramic clattered against the saucer
underneath like the rattle of a china cabinet upon opening its warped doors. I loved
that we still used actual mugs for our in-store patrons. One of the perks of
working at an independently-owned coffeehouse. The other was the free drinks,
obviously. And the third was the permanent coffee aroma that seeped in and out
of my pores, breathing all its own from my skin, my hair. I chose to look at
that as a positive instead of the smelly negative it masqueraded as and focused
on the tons of money I was saving in perfume. Who needed Chanel No. 5? I had
Coffee Shop 46th Avenue.

“
And what do we have today, my dearest
Julie?
”
A pair of round spectacles resembling owl eyes peered out over a newspaper at
the table closest to the bar.

“
You
’
ll have to come take a look for
yourself.
”
I slid the mug closer toward Harry as he made his way up to the counter, bamboo
cane in hand as an extension of his arm. He half-hobbled, half-walked the way
those windup toys do in jerky, plastic movements. I wasn
’
t sure why, but it made me feel sorry
for him.

The
usual morning rush at the
Bean There,
Drank That
coffeehouse had finally died down and now it was just our
regulars at their favorite tables and couches. Harry Lombard was a retired
professor from NYU, and while I knew he owned a fairly large apartment in Upper
Manhattan, I often teased him about paying me rent for his well-worn spot on
the blue velvet chair closest to my workstation.

“
Oh, you
’
ve outdone yourself with this one,
”
Harry commented, angling his cup
toward his face as he nodded in appreciation. Yesterday I had perfected the art
of frothy star-shaped latte drawings; today it was the fleur de lis.
“
So tell me, when are you heading
back?
”

It
had been eight months since my last trip to Florence, and I didn
’
t have another one on the schedule as
of yet. My calendar was a blank grid of empty, eventless boxes. There was
nothing to anticipate, other than my monthly visit from Aunt Flo. Not something
to really look forward to.

“
Nothing planned yet, but I love that
you know Florence
’
s
symbol, Harry. That
’
s
why you
’
re
my favorite customer.
”
I gave him a toothy grin and a wink, not at all flirting because he was easily
three times my age and that wasn
’
t
my style, but because this was the sort of relationship we had. Harry was a
fellow lover of all things Italian. I appreciated that camaraderie.

“
I thought you loved me because of the
hefty tips I leave.
”

“
Yeah,
”
I laughed, nudging the empty plastic
tip jar with my nail like a dog that scoots his food dish closer in the hopes
of gaining another treat.
“
Those
don
’
t
hurt, either.
”

Three
crisp ones fluttered into the canister.

I
made at least a dozen more fleur de lis foam creations before my morning shift
was over and it was time to head to Anatomic Drawing 201 over on campus. With
my messenger bag cutting fabric lines into my shoulder, I shoved my weight
against the coffeehouse door, the bells chiming as it slammed back into place,
announcing my exit like the applause after the curtain falls. Any more latte
artwork would have to wait until tomorrow. That act was over. Now it was time
for scene two of my day, and the main characters would be graphite and paper.

It
was a hot afternoon in the city; a tangible heat, heavy with the weight of
humidity. The bangs I
’
d
recently lopped off stuck to my forehead and perspiration glued them into
place. I tried adjusting my bag a million different ways, but there was no
avoiding the inevitable sweat stain that crossed diagonally over my peach tank
top, a sash that could
’
ve
read,
“
Perspiration
Queen 2013.
”
In a New York minute I
’
d
quickly become quite an impressively hot mess.

“
Hold up, Jules!
”
an unmistakable deep voice rang out
through the air from over a block away. Ian
’
s feet fell in loud footsteps on the
pavement as he raced to catch up to me, a stride both anxious and eager. He
quickened his pace and I slowed mine.
“
Wait
up!
”

Ian
was wearing a tight heather gray tee that hugged his upper body like spray
paint.

“
Where are you headed?
”
I asked, angling to face him as we
continued walking side by side down the congested streets.

“
Class.
”

“
You don
’
t usually have class right now, do
you?
”

We
stepped out into the intersection amid the yellow taxicabs that flanked us on
either side like we were suddenly swimming in a sea of disoriented goldfish.

“
Not my class,
your
class.
”

My
grape chewing gum shot out of my mouth so fast it landed in the purple coif of
the elderly lady crossing in front of us. I ignored it, hoping she wouldn
’
t notice. At least it was the same
color as her violet helmet of camouflage.
“
Get
out, Ian!
”
With a balled up fist, I slammed a hand into his chest.
“
You are
not
our model for today.
”

“
Not just any model.
”
His light brows shot up playfully
into his hairline.
“
Your
nude
model.
”

“
For the love of everything holy, you
can
not
be our model, Ian.
”
My stomach dropped out.
“
I can
’
t draw you! That is all kinds of
wrong! Incestuous even!
”

“
I agree, there is absolutely no way
you can recreate this perfection.
”
He fanned a hand up and down the length of his tall body, a wand highlighting
his frame.
“
But
you are the best sketch artist I know, so I
’
m sure you
’
ll come close.
”

“
God, Ian!
”
Sweat pooled in my armpits and I
wasn
’
t
sure if it was from the actual late spring heat or the thought of drawing my
roommate with no clothes on. Probably a little of both. Definitely a little of
both.
“
I
can
’
t
see you naked!
”

“
Love, you
’
ve seen me naked hundreds of times.
”
Ian draped an arm coolly across my
sticky shoulder.

“
Yes, I
’
ve seen you naked. But I
’
ve never
studied
you naked, Ian.
”
My insides stung like they were grimacing painfully.
“
There
’
s a difference.
”

“
Aren
’
t you the one always saying how
beautiful the male body is? I
’
ve
seen your sketchpads, Jules. You can
’
t
fool me. You love a hot nakey man almost as much as I do.
”
Ian raked his fingers through his
golden hair, which had grown to nearly his shoulders over the last few months.
Man, was he
so
sexy, and man, did he
so
like men. It sort of killed me and
sort of made me relieved, because I honestly think it would be intimidating to
be with someone as good looking as Ian.

“
Wait.
”
My roommate stopped dead in his
tracks. His feet were anchors dropped onto the gritty city sidewalk, his legs
the taut chain.
“
Don
’
t tell me you
’
re all suits and ties now since that
run-in at the museum with that gorgeous man you haven
’
t stopped talking about. You
’
ve been converted, Jules!
”

“
No I haven
’
t,
”
I laughed nervously as I leaned my
shoulder into his side to throw him off balance.
“
I can appreciate the male body in all
forms, both clothed and unclothed.
”

We
rounded 26
^th
street in a horseshoe toward campus.

“
Well, good to hear because you
’
ll get to appreciate a whole lotta me
in about ten minutes.
”

“
Is the AC broken in here? Hell, it
has to be a thousand degrees.
”
The girl next to me cooled her face with a makeshift fan she
’
d torn from her notepad. The ample
cleavage that spilled from the deep scoop of collar was dewy with sweat.

“
Totally agree,
”
another student at my left
concurred.

We
were in class and yes, it was hot, but I didn
’
t think a faulty air conditioning
unit was to blame. I think my smoldering roommate likely had more to do with
it.

“
Shhh, that
’
s my roommate,
”
I murmured under my breath. Ian
heard me. I could clearly see the corners of his lips tip upward. Even with his
back to me (I
’
d
selected my seat in the studio quite strategically today), his expression
couldn
’
t
be sheltered.

“
Your roommate? Can you give him my
number?
”
Fan-girl fluttered her cheeks again and slid a piece of scratch paper my
direction. Her phone number was scrawled across it with the blocky penmanship
of a four-year-old.

“
Sure, I can, but he probably won
’
t use it. He
’
s not looking for a relationship.
”
Or for a female.

“
Good,
”
she smirked haughtily. Thick clumps
of mascara crinkled around her much-too-made-up eyes. I wasn
’
t sure why she had spiders for
eyelashes, but maybe she had some kind of arachnid fetish. I couldn
’
t judge her for that. We all had our
quirks, I completely got that.
“
Neither
am I. Sounds like a perfect fit.
”

“
Not really,
”
I laughed, but stowed her number
away in my bag just to end the conversation, almost feeling the disappointment
I knew she
’
d
experience in never getting that call.

So
far I
’
d
only gotten to Ian
’
s
trapezoids and I really wanted to at least highlight the taper of his narrow
waist that looked so good from this perspective with the warm glow of light
rippling down it in contoured waves. Ian had been a competitive swimmer back in
high school, and while he no longer kept up with the sport, his body maintained
that sleek, toned physique regardless.

“
Ten more minutes, class,
”
Professor Seyforth sang out. She
waltzed around the room with her fingers steepled up to her mouth and her
glasses slid low on her button nose. I loved how her Bohemian dress swam around
her legs as she wove in and out of each row, admiring her class
’
s work with appropriately placed oohs
and ahhs. When you pictured an art teacher, Professor Seyforth was exactly what
came to mind.
“
And
how
’
s
our model doing? Ian, you hanging in there?
”