“I'm not lying,” I said with a laugh, but she looked to me with a brow raised, as if she didn't believe me. I know she didn't.
Julie stood up, rolling her shoulders as she walked around the table. “I kind of lied to you before, about the hospital,” she told me.
“What about?”
“I don't really work there at night,” she said, turning around. She looked at me with a slight smile. “I am taking online classes to become a nurse, but the truth is, I only hang out up there to keep my mom company while she works,” she told me.
I raised a brow. “So, they're not training you?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I'm just an insomniac. I can't sleep much at night, so I hang out there and do my work at night,” she replied.
“Then why were you in my room?” I asked her, closing my notebooks, as I stared at her.
Julie turned around. “I met Ava as she was leaving, and she was talking to me. We had talked a while, and she asked me if I could check on you for her because you had nightmares sometimes, and she wanted to be sure that you were safe,” she said. “After I checked on you, I realized you were the guy that left me with my mess, and I wanted to know you better.”
“So, you lied so you wouldn't seem crazy?”
She smiled. “Kind of. I didn't want you to think I was just being forced to talk to you. I honestly wanted to know you,” she replied.
I found myself smiling, despite wanting to. Maybe I should have been more angry about her lying, but I couldn't find it in myself to be angry about that after she had just poured her heart and soul out to me.
“Why does Liam call you Sketch?” I asked her.
Julie grinned, walking to her bag. She reached inside of it, pulling out a sketchbook, and then came to my side on the couch. She sat down next to me, not leaving much room between us.
“My first love is drawing. I love sketching people, and Liam started calling me that. After that, I think it made everyone feel like they were really my friend when they called me Sketch too,” she said, opening her book.
I stared in amazement at her art as she handed me the book. I recognized instantly the pictures of Liam, and some of the children that came to the playroom. They were accurate, and real, filled with so much life, I thought they might leap from the page.
“I wish I could pursue art full time. I've looked at art classes, but there's not much success in what I want to do. My parents told me I should use nursing as a safety net, but that isn't really daring if you have something to fall back on. It feels like cheating for when I fail,” she replied.
She didn't know how much I understood. I wanted to drive around the US. I wanted to be broke, and find my way back to the road. I wanted to not know what was going to happen next.
I stopped at a page, and looked down at her sketch. I ran my fingers over the page, my hand feeling numb.
“That was just what I thought you might have looked like before. I wasn't trying to make fun of you or anything,” Julie said quickly.
I saw my own reflection staring back at me, half of my face scarred and burned, and the other half the guy I was before. My flesh smooth and flawless, my dark hair, and normal face.
It hurt.
I closed the book, and handed it back to her as I stood up. It hurt bad, and I didn't know how to stop it from hurting. I didn't know how to heal that pain I felt inside.
“I'm sorry,” she said, standing up behind me. “I didn't want you to feel bad about that. It was just a drawing.”
I lied. “I'm fine. Just shocked me, I guess,” I told her, turning around to smile.
Julie stared at me, and I saw her other half come out. There were two sides to Julie, I was beginning to realize. One was fiery, and determined. She refused to be walked on, and wouldn't take anyone's bull. She wasn't afraid to speak up and let her opinion be heard whether you liked it or not.
The other side was here now, staring at me. She was compassionate, and she was scared. I could see a girl that could share the most vulnerable of details about her life and look to you for approval. I saw a girl who worried if you were mad at her, and could stare at you with such a fear that you worried she might break if you touched her.
“That was stupid,” she said, turning around. I watched her take the picture and rip it from the book.
A better person would have protested, but I couldn't find my voice. I wanted the picture gone. It represented my life before, and those memories were what hurt. It was those memories I saw when I looked at what I was before.
She crumpled it up, and I listened to the picture crinkling in her hands as she walked into the kitchen and threw it away. When she walked in, I was suddenly aware of the tension that had grabbed us.
I had no idea how to release it either. Staring at her fearful face, I realized I had no idea how to calm her fears, or what to say to make her feel better.
Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I shouldn't ever figure her out enough to know what she needed and when she needed. I could never be what she needed, that was obvious. I would only hurt
