JT’s eyes move over me, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, worrying that spot until I’m good and distracted. We’re very good with our clothes off and getting out of here and getting naked sounds like a brilliant way to end this conversation.
“What about your career, then? You can’t tell me that you want to spend your life teaching paint-and-sip to guys like me that are all thumbs and can’t draw a straight line. That means you have to figure out a way to make a living from selling your own paintings, right? Which probably requires talking to people about what you do.”
I groan inside. Apparently we’re doing this, whether I want to or not.
“Being a professional artist is rarely about making a living. Supplementing your income is a given for almost everyone. I can’t imagine being able to paint full time because either the work sells itself or it doesn’t. Art is personal, it’s something people buy if it’s the right fit for them, and if it isn’t, you can’t convince someone otherwise, no matter how much you talk about it.”
“So you’re leaving it all up to chance,” JT says flatly. “That’s your sales plan?”
“I’m doing what works for me. In my career. And for my art.”
“Either that or you’re hiding,” he says. I send him a droll look. He shrugs a shoulder. “Just calling it like I see it. Because it doesn’t make sense to me. Shying away from who you are and what you want, and acting like it’s not important, even when it is.”
I barely have a chance to process what he’s said when the Fenton award creeps into my mind, like a flickering neon sign that says: he’s right and you know it.
Because the Fenton is something I do want—truly and deeply. The Fenton is also a private, guarded, desperate hope, one I’m still not ready to own no matter how hard JT pushes. The last thing I need is to let another man in on my dreams, only to have him ruin whatever confidence I had.
“Hiding isn’t the same as protecting yourself,” I reply. JT nods once, but still doesn’t look like he buys it, so I try again. “A few months ago, I put in for this very prestigious artist-in-residency program, one I’ve been working up the courage to apply for. And when I told my ex that I finally applied, do you know what he said? That I shouldn’t get my hopes up because my work probably isn’t good enough to speak for itself.”
“Is this same guy you caught doing another woman in your studio?”
“The one and only.”
JT shakes his head at me. “You need to fuck that noise, Anya. Because he’s an asshole. You deserve better, okay? Better than someone who talks down to you about your work or who doesn’t believe in you one hundred percent. And you sure as fuck deserved better than being cheated on.”
I brush off his words with a shrug.
“The point is, I’m good with a little armor when it comes to my art. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, though. Even Martin,” I say. “And people cheat. It’s no big deal, that’s just how it goes.”
“Some people do think it’s a big deal. They actually believe in commitment.”
I snort a little. “Well, apparently every guy I’ve been with doesn’t believe in it.”
It’s true. I’ve yet to have a relationship where cheating wasn’t part of the story with them. It’s never eaten at me much, but I chalk that up to the live-and-let-live mantra I grew up with. As a kid, I was always surrounded by people at my parents’ ranch who were wandering souls—and not just in terms of where they lived, but in who they slept with, too. I learned early that love isn’t forever, it’s just what you do until you don’t. Even if I like monogamy—for as long as it lasts—I also know it isn’t something to count on.
This last go around with Martin, though, is the first time I lost sight of that concept. I may have been able to pack up and move on like always but that probably has more to do with how few belongings I have. Martin was the first man whose cheating surprised me. With all the others, part of me almost expected it. But I’d gotten too comfortable and too vulnerable with Martin, and that’s something I know has to change if I want to be stronger for my own sake.
And that doesn’t change no matter how tempting the man sitting across from me is. JT might be saying all the right things and acting like he’s different, but he isn’t for me—not for good, anyway. He’s my escape, and a chance to reboot my libido before I’m off to whatever is next for me.
I make a show of cleaning up our table, twisting in my chair to see if there is a trash can nearby.
“Are you done? I’m stuffed. We should get going.”
JT doesn’t move. He stays put, motionless until I finally look his way.
“You don’t want to talk about this,” he says quietly.
Irritation rises up in a rush. No, I don’t want to talk about this. What is so difficult for him to understand about that? All I want right now is to get back to the sexy, stress-free relationship we both said is all we can handle right now.
“What an astute observation,” I deadpan. “Did you learn those sharp investigative skills in Marshal school? Maybe in Stating the Obvious 101?”
“No,” JT counters. “I don’t need any specialized fucking training to look at the woman I’m with and see that she’s holding something back. I can also see when she needs to be reminded that any man who’s lucky enough to be with her shouldn’t talk shit about her passions or make her feel like she’s not good enough. Ever.”
Then he leans forward and latches his hands onto the arms of the rickety plastic chair I’m sitting in, and yanks me toward him. My chair bumps across the asphalt until our knees touch. I look at him wide-eyed, stunned by what he just did.
JT leans in even closer, dropping his voice a notch.
“I fucking see you, Anya. I know what you look like when you’re stripped down and bare, getting what you need. I know how you look when you feel good and you don’t want it to end. And I’d do whatever it takes to make sure you feel like that all the goddamn time.”
Everything inside of me is on high alert and I want to say something snarky or cutting, but my heart is twisting and my cheeks are burning, so I can’t think beyond how uncomfortable this feels.
“Hear me when I say this,” JT says, then pauses for a beat. “You deserve everything. Always.”
I close my eyes. His words are doing things I don’t want them to, things I can’t allow in because they’re too tempting—and yet it’s awful to think I might never hear them again.
11
JT
When I pull into the driveway and cut the engine, I glance in the rearview mirror and study the Greenes’ house behind me. The outside porch lights are on, and the shades are drawn back in the front room, making it easy to see that the lights are on inside, too. The whole thing looks a lot like an invitation, which it probably is.
Anya said as much when I dropped her off after dinner, even though we spent the entire drive back to the paint-and-sip store in awkward silence. When I pulled up next to her car, I was pretty sure she was going to leave without saying a word, but instead she turned my way before getting out and smiled a little.