Rachel: We need to talk. Can you come over?
Rachel’s house belonged in an old movie. The white siding, black shutters, and wraparound porch reminded Nathan of some small-town drama with tense conversations in rocking chairs over lemonade. Large pink roses lined the foundation. When he stepped up to the front door, the tinkling sound of wind chimes floated toward him. It was the type of place you would expect a mayor to live, quietly opulent but also generic and inoffensive—a politician’s dream.
The door swung open. Rachel leaned against the frame with a cocktail in one hand, looking like she’d just rolled out of bed. Her light pink dress was a slightly longer version of his T-shirt. The thin fabric skimmed her body close enough to make out everything underneath. Curvy hips. Thick thighs. She wasn’t wearing makeup or shoes. Or a bra. He snatched his eyes back up to her face and cleared his throat.
She stepped back and waved him inside. “Do you want a drink? The kitchen is this way.”
“No, I’m good.”
She started walking like she didn’t hear him. He followed and let his eyes roam on the way. The house was bigger than it looked from outside. It was also aggressively clean. He hated that about his parents’ house. It always had to be photo ready. Growing up, there were never any toys left on the floor, or even a speck of dust left on a windowsill. He thought homes should have clutter and dust. Lived in, not maintained like a museum.
“This isn’t working,” Rachel announced as they reached the kitchen. His stomach plummeted. How often did he reach out to her now—five, six times a day? She probably thought he was obsessed.
Rachel poured a finger of bourbon into her glass. “You still haven’t finished anything, have you?”
Nathan’s heart settled back into his chest. “No, I haven’t.” He pictured the pile of false starts in his apartment. None of it felt honest. That was the only thing he knew he wanted. His name next to something true.
She slid the glass in his direction. “How do you usually get inspired?”
He swirled the bourbon around and watched the light filter through the liquid. “Read the Phoenix books again.”
“Right. But you were drawing before you read those. What inspired you then?”
Nathan hesitated. “Not much. I bought into that toxic, macho bullshit in boarding school. Paints were for girls. Real men didn’t know indigo from violet. I joined the wrestling team in high school, and I don’t even like sports. My coach hated me. And I was angry all the time. It came from that.”
One night, after losing a match, he’d picked up a chair and slammed it against the wall until it splintered. It felt good enough to scare him. “I quit the team, bought a sketch pad, and drew a bunch of raging, fucked-up shit that I burned as soon as it was finished.”
He took a drink and tried to clear it from his head. He hated going back there. He wasn’t that guy anymore, but he had been once, which meant that he could be again.
“I don’t want to have to be angry to make something real,” he said. These days, she was his only inspiration. Her laugh. Her smile. The dark glisten of her sweaty skin against his sheets. He could trace it all from memory onto his canvas.
Nathan drained his drink. She topped off her own glass, eyes moist with pity, like she’d discovered a limping puppy.
“Hey. It’s fine,” he said. “Ancient history.”
“Right. When’s the last time you saw an exhibit?” She snatched up the glass he just put down and returned it to the kitchen island.
Jesus, she was wound tight; the glass didn’t even have a chance to sweat. “Never.”
She stopped to stare at him. “Not even a museum?”
“No.” He paused, thinking back. “Maybe on a field trip once. But I’m pretty sure it was dinosaur fossils, that kind of thing.”
She set the glass on the island. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never been to MoMA? The Met? The Portrait Gallery? Nothing?”
“It’s not really my thing, Rachel.”
“How would you know? The walls of those places speak to you. It’s impossible not to be inspired.”
He disagreed. There wasn’t anything inspiring about random paint splotches dribbled on a canvas. But just talking about those places had her glowing. Visiting one would probably make her radiant. Two hundred miles from Oasis Springs, he’d be free to enjoy it, uninterrupted. “So, let’s go!” He threw out the suggestion, watering the faint hope of being alone with her until it sprouted and bloomed. “We can drive up to New York and you can show me around MoMA.”