I Love My Hope (Nicole's Erotic Romance) (8 page)

“You all
have a good night,” he says, sitting on his stool.

I nod.
Mark holds the door open as he says, “Thanks. You too.”

It’s a
little chilly out, but not too bad. I zip up my jacket, and we both stuff our
hands in our jacket pockets as we walk together, side-by-side, heading north.

“That’s
really wild that you’re a painter, because I was just telling Amber I’m looking
for an artist to do the graphics for my app.”

“Really?
I’ve done a little graphic design, too. What kinds of things are you looking
for?”

“I want
the app to look distinctly different from the cleaner, more sanitized designs
I’m seeing.” He steps around to protect me from a group of loud teenagers who
could have run into me had he stayed put. We pass them in silence until we can
hear each other again, and he continues, “I’m not looking for clean lines and
bright colors. I want more
emotional
designs,
where you can really feel them.”

We glance
at each other. There is something about this little moment that does something
to me. I feel
possibilities
and it’s
a very foreign feeling.

I smile
to myself, aware of how many tears I cried, how many times I’ve taken a knife
to the canvases, releasing fury and frustration - how I’ve left those slashes
in as part of the aesthetic. Art is a perfect place to turn the unhealthy into
healthy. “My stuff is pretty emotional.”

“Is it?
Can I see it while I’m in town?”

“
Ack
! Now that is the number one most terrifying thing you
could have said to me.”

“Will you
marry me?”

I stare
at him. “Okay, the second most terrifying thing.”

He
laughs, and we keep walking. That was jarring. I steal a look at his profile.
Something is on his mind and I can see him weighing his words.

“Well…you’re
about to have a show, yes?”

 
“Yes.”

“Remember
what I said about it being easier to share honest things with a complete
stranger? Because really… who cares what I think?” He shoots a humble look my
way.

I do, I
want to say. Being around this man makes me feel calm and excited at the same
time. Looking at the ground moving backwards beneath my walking feet, I take a
deep breath. “Mark?

He hears
the seriousness and we stop walking. I don’t meet his eyes. I’m looking instead
at another dimension, at a place where I have more courage.

“Yes?”

“No one
has seen my latest paintings. The owner of the gallery saw them on my phone,
but live and in person? And see… when I show them to a whole room of people at
once during the exhibit opening, I’ll be able to hide in the crowd. But with
just
me and you, it
’s more intimate even than sex.
It’s… showing you
my heart
.”

I lock
eyes with him.

He
doesn’t move. We communicate without words. My feelings are plain as day, alive
on my face, vulnerable and open. If this man sees them anyway, then why hide?

He
reaches out for my hands and takes them both in his, the warmth feeling so good
to me. “If you look at it this way, it might help. But the decision is yours.”
He takes a breath. “We’re two strangers who may never see each other again.
There is nothing to lose because I can promise you that I would respect the
privilege. I don’t step on people’s hearts.”

“Can I
think on it?”

He
smiles. “Yes.”

He lets
go of my hands. I miss them the second they’re gone. We start walking again.
He’s looking at the buildings around us, taking in the sights, and I think we
must have gone past where he’s been, from his expression. I point to a store
and say, “That’s Duane Reade. It’s like your 7-11 stores.”

“
Ahh
… Looks like it’s a drug store, too?”

“Oh.
Aren’t 7-11’s drugstores? I’ve forgotten.”

“They’re
more convenience stores. So, you’ve been to California?”

I nod.
“My father played for the Lakers, so I was raised there for part of the time,
but Momma preferred New York.”

He’s
impressed. “Your father played for the Lakers?”

I smile
and nod.

“Oh,
watch out.” He points to broken glass on the ground, kicks it out of the way
like his boot is a broom.

“Thank
you.”

“What
does your father do now?”

“Lives in
regret,” I say, maybe quicker than I should have. “Oops. Sorry, Dad,” I call to
the direction of the west.

 
“Not on the best of terms, huh? Yeah. I
wasn’t either.” A cloud descends on him. “But then he died before I was able to
fix that.”

“I’m so
sorry! How?”

He says,
with difficulty, “Car accident. Two years ago.”

“Oh no.”
I reach out and slide my arm through his and hold it there as we walk. “You had
no chance to say goodbye.”

“No. I
didn’t. My mom’s devastated. It’ll take time, I guess.”

We walk
on, my arm through his. After a few steps I confide, “My mom died, too.”

He looks
over. “So you know, then.”

I shake
my head in disbelief. “No one prepares you for it. And no one gets it until
they go through it themselves.”

“No, they
really don’t. They say things like,
they’re
in a better place
. I hate that more than anything else.”

“Me, too.
It doesn’t help.”

“Because
it makes you feel selfish for thinking the better place is still alive so I can
tell him I love him.”

Understanding
twists grief throughout me. “I wish I could see her just once more. I’d tell
her how well I’m doing now. How much I miss her. How much I love her and can’t
believe I have to grow old without her.”

He nods
and leans so that my arm falls and he takes my hand in his, to hold it, our
fingers entwining like hair in a braid. He pulls our hands up to his lips and kisses
them in a comforting way, like he’s done it a million times. The charge I feel
from this little kiss is intense. I'm thrown by its sweet intimacy. As we walk,
and he looks at the sights, I realize that I can’t remember the last time I walked
down a street holding hands. It’s been three years since I’ve been in a
relationship and my casual sex-buddies and I don’t hold hands because we don’t
go places together. It would make things confusing.

But this
doesn’t feel confusing. It feels… right.

I take a
deep breath and say, “I’m going to ask you something crazy. Are you ready?”

He
glances to me with a warm smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I take in
a dramatic breath, the importance of what I’m about to say barely hidden behind
a nervous smile. “Okay. Here goes. Oh God… this is hard. Okay…”

He squeezes
my hand once, his eyes dancing. “Just say it.”

“I’m
trying! Okay. Would you… like to come back to my place and see… my heart?” I
used the word
heart
on purpose as a
joke, but it sounds weird and scary, not funny at all.

“You
sure?” The way he looks at me, feels like he is going to kiss me. I want him
to. I really want him to.

I get
very still. “Yes. I’m sure.”

He takes
my other hand, now holding both. We stand facing each other and the chemistry
is through the roof as I look up into his eyes.

“I’d love
that. Thank you for trusting me with this. Wow. I’m going to be the first one
to see your work.”

I feel like
a teenager, my heart racing. “I have to tell you…”

“What?”

“You
looking at me like that? It makes me feel good.”

He
laughs, brings both my hands up and kisses them. The butterflies have taken
over my insides and are having a party of grandiose proportions. I think he’s
waiting to kiss me, waiting for the right moment. The suspense is killing me!

I
whisper, “Umm…will you call a cab for us?”

He nods,
turns and lets go of my hands, stepping away to the edge of the sidewalk to
raise his arm to traffic. His profile is strong and beautiful. I want to trace
his nose with my finger and I’m jealous of the light from the lamppost for
beating me to it. My gaze drifts to the cab approaching and it occurs to me
that if my cabbie friend is driving it, I will be convinced that angels planned
this entire night. The headlights block my vision, and I lean forward in
anticipation. But when the cab stops in front of us, it’s not him. It’s just a
normal apathetic cabbie
who
’d rather be anywhere but
here
.

Maybe I can believe it, anyway.

Mark
holds the door open. “What’s making you smile?”

“Nothing,”
I lie.

He slides
in after me and doesn’t pry. I tell the driver my address and Mark reaches over
and takes my hand again. “Give me that.”

I laugh
and look at my hand nestling back into his. “This is all very weird.” I look
out the window and get silent.

He
squeezes my hand. “Hey. Don’t disappear.”

I laugh
nervously, glancing over to him. “You see everything, don’t you?”

“Is it
annoying?”

“No… I
like it.”

“Good.
Because I’m not meaning to do it.
I feel like I know you.”

“You do?
For me, it’s that it’s weird because it doesn’t feel weird… and yet it does.” I
laugh. “Forget I said that.”

“I
promise you I won’t.”

“Suit
yourself,” I tease, and look back out the window until we drive onto my street.

“It’s on
the right. You can park in front of that white car right there.” The driver
nods.

As Mark
pays for the cab, I say, “Okay, before we go in… my living room is my studio
and I do
not
hold back when I paint,
so it’s pretty much the opposite of some squeaky-clean, organized room you
could photograph for a magazine.”

“I’ve
been warned.”

He opens
the door and gets out, holds his hand out for me to grab onto. I use its
sturdiness to balance me as I climb out, worried what he’s going to think of my
home. As we walk to the door, I spin back around, my finger in the air. “And I
have dust-bunnies in the corners. I am not tidy.”

He
smiles, very amused. “Got it.”

I turn to
open the door, but spin around one more time, my palm out. “And I really need
to go to the grocery store, so all I have is wine and water.”

“Thank
God you’re telling me this.”

His flat
delivery sends me over the edge into laughing. I open the door and we go in.
But in the elevator, I announce, “I do have a very clean bathroom!”

“What a
relief.”

More
laughter from me, but still I mumble as I unlock my door, “I really wish I’d
gone to the grocery store. This is embarrassing. Okay, here we go!”

He steps
in after me and looks around the room I spend most of my waking hours in. He
points to the piles of unframed painted canvasses. I nod, crossing my arms
protectively around myself, taking in a deep breath of courage. I walk to stand
against a wall for support. As I watch him begin to look through my paintings,
for the first time in months I desperately want a cigarette. Do I have one
hidden somewhere? Is there an old pack in a jacket in my closet, maybe? Where’s
the nearest newspaper-stand? I could just tell him to wait while I go buy some…

“Wow.”
Mark whispers a few times. My heart is hammering fast. Then he freezes. “Oh my
God.”

“What?
What
?!
”

“Nicole.
This painting. I had a dream about this painting.”

I stare
at him, stunned. “What?”

He looks
over to me and turns around the painting that means the most to me. It’s the
first piece I painted after my wall broke down, the first one I painted here
that night I feel asleep on the floor. I frown at him, confused. He looks at it
again in disbelief, then back to me. “I swear to you, I dreamt this image right
before I came here to New York. Not this visit. The last one…a little over a
month ago?”

“That
exact painting? Are you sure?”

He stares
at it, nodding slowly. “I’m sure.”

I push
myself off the wall and walk to him. “You dreamt of my painting? How can that
be?”

He looks
at me, trying to understand too, what this means. “I’m positive. That’s why I
knew what I wanted for my interface. This is so wild, Nicole. I was supposed to
meet you and more than that, I think I am supposed to do this thing.” His words
gain speed, excited. “You know, the girl I told you I met here? She’s the one
who encouraged me try, and I was talking to her about it because the
inspiration was nagging at me.”

“It does
that.”

“Yeah!
And, to be totally honest, I was bragging to her about making this thing, but I
hadn’t really done any work on it yet. It was just an idea in my head when I
came here. And she said
there are so many
opportunities to be had. Why not try it?
And something about how she was so
optimistic, gave me hope.”