The plan he was referring to was something I’d never do. It was hard enough wrapping my arms around Ethan’s neck to see how he’d react. I couldn’t imagine straddling him as Jorge had suggested. Let alone licking his ear and telling him to take me there on the couch. It just wasn’t my style.
“I panicked!” I grabbed Lil and I’s plates, walking over to join them, knowing I was about to be dragged to filth for being a big, fat chicken.
“You two need to bone already.” Lil sat in the seat beside Jorge, her platinum blond curls bouncing as she did. “Enough is enough already. You’re crazy about him, and he has eyes for you. Just talk to him!”
I retreated to the kitchen for reinforcements, reemerging with my wine goblet. “He only sees us as friends, guys. He’s made that abundantly clear.”
Testing the waters with touch was as far as I’d go. Everyone knew talking about taking things further always made things weird going forward if it wasn’t mutual, and I didn’t want to lose our friendship.
Jorge groaned dramatically while Lil let loose an epic eye roll. “I’ve been on this Earth for eighty years. I know a man in love when I see it.”
I knew she was wrong. Ethan was a great friend, but he wasn’t in love with me. If he were, he wouldn't do everything in his power to keep me at arm's length. He gave me side hugs for crying out loud - the same one’s you’d give your Great Aunt Joan whose watermelon boobs made not copping a feel impossible.
“Try again.” Jorge shot me a sympathetic look. “One more shot, babygirl. Go to his place and make him a nice dinner. Maybe he needs to be on his own turf for the sparks to fly.”
I shook my head. “Never been.” At first it was a little weird that we always went somewhere, but eventually I figured he was either ultra private or lived with his parents. I didn’t care either way. It wasn’t my business.
“Well, invite yourself over! Chop! Chop!” Jorge clapped with each chop for emphasis.
“I don’t know. He probably thinks I’m too young.”
He’d just had his thirty-first birthday; I was twenty-two. He was a seasoned professional that traveled the world; I was a grad student who hadn’t traveled further than New York City.
“Oh, hush it!” Lil flung a hunk of spinach at me, the green blob sticking to my cheek with a splat. “Stop being a prude!”
“Really, dude?” I wiped the hot, cheesy goop from my skin. She was lucky it had cooled, otherwise I would’ve had a serious burn. “Did you have to go for the face?”
Lil tossed a napkin over with a laugh. “Just getting you primed and ready. God willing, you’ll have a lot worse things shooting at your face soon.”
Ethan
Wake up. Work out. Shower. Studio. Run. Shower. Sleep.
That had been my routine since I found a rhythm, interrupted only by scheduled outings or trips. A little chaos was needed to keep up appearances. The life of a hermit would stick out in my building of gossips.
And the last thing I needed was people talking.
But an ordinary Friday was going out with a bang, literally, a storm unleashing hell on the city. Rain furiously pounded the floor-to-ceiling windows as I worked, the occasional boom of thunder making my skin prickle.
Thunderstorms were bad enough on the ground, but perched high in the sky in the penthouse, I found myself anticipating a lightning strike straight through the window.
The belly of the brush did its magic while I kept an eye on the storm and another on the canvas, bringing the image in my head to life with each stroke. Black, blues, and grays streaked together, giving the background an anger the squall outside could only hope to achieve.
But no amount of clouds did the storm inside justice, so I called it quits before I ended up painting Armageddon.
A quick dip in water freed the brush of the darkness, a pop of pear bringing it back to life. There were a few more details to finish and the latest piece would be ready. I just had to find the perfect venue for its unveiling. It was my most personal to date, so not just any gallery would do. Distance was needed with the latest reveal happening right in the city. The move would hopefully throw off the trail of the motherfuckers that were wading through hell and high water trying to sniff me out.
Some thought Ever was a man; others thought it was a woman. So-called experts wrote op-eds about it in the papers nitpicking every painting for gender cues, while critics bitterly argued over the artist’s training. Regular folk just shut up and enjoyed the show. What was better than a bunch of rich people bickering and blowing money, anyway? All while the artist openly mocked them.
But some weren’t happy with that. They wanted more. It was the risk of Ever. People couldn’t be satisfied with the mystery. It wasn’t enough. They had to know, even if it ruined it all.
Wonder was as dead as imagination. It wasn’t hard to see why the arts were falling out of favor in schools. People weren’t creative anymore. They were too impatient to sit back and wait for magic to happen. They had to dissect things and spoil the fun.
Worse, the hunger wasn’t just an inconvenience. Pursuers were risking my safety. I had at least two fanatics on my radar, ones who regularly posted rambling love letters to me online. One of which that threatened to murder romantic rivals.
The thunder rolled on as I crafted a stem, each new leaf bringing hope to the painting, the turbulence in the backdrop a distant memory.
Another dip in the water and the green disappeared, replaced by a deep plum. A few dots finished the center of the piece, and
