Authors: Liz Reinhardt
There are candles flickering everywhere. Jazzy holiday music fills the air, and I realize it’s not coming from a sound system. There’s a live band in full swing. A long buffet table with sumptuous silver and gold tablecloths is piled high with every kind of delicious food imaginable and more booze than your average local bar has on hand.
“Sadie Jellico, you gorgeous thing, come over here and give me a hug! What did you bring? Are these
macaroons
? You angel!”
Mr. Jeffers—I have to remind myself to call him ‘Peter’—makes a fuss over my macaroon plate and pulls me into an enthusiastic hug. I can tell from his loopy smile he probably started drinking long before this shindig got underway.
A tall, dark, very, very handsome man comes up behind him and winks at me.
“Peter, this must be Sadie Jellico, the student you told me about?” His voice is rich and warm, and when Mr. Jeffers turns to look at him, I notice a flush of pleasure on his cheeks. “It’s uncanny how much she looks like the girl in the port—”
“The one and only,” Peter interrupts, shaking his head at him and frowning slightly. He pulls me closer so we can hear each other over the band. “Sadie, this is my partner, Warren. Warren, Sadie.”
I reach a hand out to shake, and his grip is firm and confident. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Warren.”
“Peter can’t stop gushing about you.” Warren’s smile is all good-humored charm. “I have a few people I have to introduce you to. I hear you’re graduating this spring?”
I nod. “Yes. From Kensington.”
“I don’t want to spring this on you, but I know some people here tonight are actively looking to fill spots for a pretty nice variety of paid art internships. Once they realize you’re here, they’re going to hunt you down and try to scoop you up. Feel free to hear them out, then tell them that you’ll get back to them
after
you get a chance to enjoy a night of partying.”
I’m struck dumb at the incredible opportunity that flutters into my lap. If I can get a toehold in the NYC art scene, I can get a lead on serious career opportunities. I can help Mom and Ella, make sure the basement is finished so Georgia can move in, which guarantees she and the baby will be taken care of. I can have the best of both worlds: achieving everything my loved ones expect of me, but getting to actually be around them in the meantime.
“Thank you. Very much. I’d love to talk to your friends,” I say, stumbling over my words.
“May I ask, are those macaroons?” Warren points to the plate in my hands.
“My great grandmother’s recipe, apparently given to her by Satan in exchange for her soul.” Warren and Peter erupt into laughter. “My mother cooked them. She’s incredible in the kitchen.”
“Now I have to try these mystical delicacies.”
Warren reaches for a macaroon, and Peter does too. I watch them take a bite, and the pure ecstasy on their faces would be impossible to fake.
“These may be Satan’s recipe, but they’re straight from heaven,” Warren says around a moan. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to invite me to your mother’s house so I can sample more of her cooking. A good recipe is one thing. To pull off a confection like this, you need to be a true artist in the kitchen.”
And, just like that, I can picture it so clearly. Peter and Warren coming to Mom’s house, Mom being a little flustered at first because they’re so polished and refined—she honestly buys into the idea that she’s tacky. But I know there would be this moment where Mom would tell a hilarious dirty joke or smack one of our guests with a dishrag and put him to work helping her keep the sauce from scorching—and it would be nonstop laughter and conversation from there on out.
Is what plays out in my head a reflection of what my reality might be like if I stay in Vernon?
That possibilities running through my brain only get clearer when Warren actually drags me over to meet some of his witty, earnest friends, who listen to him and Peter gush about me like they’re truly interested. I get five business cards with personal phone numbers and email addresses scribbled on them, and my future has never felt more wide open.
Someone passes me a glass of champagne, and I drink it a little quicker than I mean to. I get asked to dance by a very cute guy with funky glasses and great shoes. Once we’re on the dance floor, I realize just how packed it is. In fact, there are tons of other people moving with the music, and it’s amazing to be able to let go and move with the crazy, happy, hopping crowd. I wind up with another glass of champagne that I drink before I think about the fact that I haven’t eaten yet.
I’m humming a happy Christmas carol to myself and snacking on a plate of cheese and crackers when the door flies open, and I see the familiar swirl of another snow storm blowing around outside.
And then Trent stalks in, snow covered and so gorgeous he makes my pulse riot.
I wait, breath held, to see if Rosa is behind him, but he closes the door tightly and gives Peter a wary smile when he jogs over to greet him.
“You made it! Warren, get your butt over here
right now
. Trent made it.”
There’s a murmuring through the crowd, like a celebrity just decided to grace us with his presence. I I know it must make Trent completely uncomfortable. I’d love to catch his eye and give him a look of sympathy; except there are the rustlings of a thousand butterfly wings in my stomach when I look at him.
His face is flushed from the cold, his dark tousled from his helmet. His eyes, when they finally zero in on me, burn like they’re lit by some internal furnace.
All of a sudden I’m right back in my apartment, my heart singing because I know Trent’s come to save me, to bring me home. I’m on my back in his bed, my body pressed under his as his hands explore every inch of my skin like he’s cherishing me. I’m back in the hush of the night of this first Christmas after my extended family unit shattered, feeling as whole as it’s possible for me to feel because he’s right there with me, stripping away every vulnerability and laying me bare.
Loving me with an intensity I was too afraid to face.
I’m not afraid anymore. I’m ready for fight for him and never let go.
If he’ll let me. If it’s not too late.
I hold my breath, close my eyes, and
wish.
“Trent!” Warren catches Trent in a bear hug. “Our young man of mystery! Can I grab you a drink? You’re going to need something strong, my friend. Peter has been dragging people in to see your paintings all night, and the commissions are going to come rolling in. All you have to do is say the word.”
Trent and I are having a hard time pulling our eyes away from each other.
“That’s really cool of you guys, but I’m not sure—”
“There’s a curator from the Whitney here. They’re doing an exhibit on contemporary American portraiture, and they want you, Trent. Your work is blowing people away.”
Wait.
What?
The Whitney? Trent is being approached for his portraiture? I had no idea he’d even been painting portraits.
Because I’ve been asking the wrong questions.
But I can’t make that right now, no matter how badly I want to.
Trent is whisked away, and I get asked back out on the dance floor, so I go. But I can’t stop following him with my eyes, watching as he talks to one fawning artist or gallery owner or business person after another. He looks sheepish, and his smile it tight, almost forced. Eventually I get twirled and dipped by an enthusiastic dance partner, and in that blip I lose sight of Trent.
The party is still in full swing, the lights bright, the music jumping, the laughter and good times lending an electric energy to the entire place. I find Peter and ask if I can use the restroom.
“There’s a line for the powder room. You can use the guest bathroom, upstairs, sharp left, third door on the right.”
He gives me a quick smile, and then someone shouts out that he’s standing under the mistletoe. I make my way up the stairs to the sound of laughter and cheers as Warren swoops in for a kiss.
The cool quiet of the hallway gives my brain a chance to stop whirring. When I step out of the huge, gorgeous, all marble bathroom, I realize I’m not ready to go back into the crush just yet. My plan is just to sit for a second on one of the low benches set up along the wall, but a sound from one of the rooms peaks my curiosity.
This isn’t my house, and I know better than to sneak around, but I do it without thinking.
And my snooping leads me to Trent.
He’s reclined in a wingback chair in the sitting room section of a massive guest bedroom. There’s a glass of something in his hand, and he’s staring into it absently.
We haven’t spoken since I ran into him standing in the hall at the Triple C with Rosa, and I’m shaking with nerves. At the same time, some instinctual gut feeling has me putting one foot in front of the other, drawing me straight to his side.
There’s no one I’d rather be with, but I can’t shake the flutter of nerves that washes through me when I see him. It’s a crazy sensation, to be nervous and at ease with a person at the same time, and I guess that’s been a huge part of why pushing our relationship any further has been so damn terrifying for me.
“Hey.”
He looks up, startled, the glass almost slipping out of his fingers. I reach down to right it before it falls, and we wind up with our fingers loosely tangled. The slide of our skin is the smoothest friction, the kind of rush that tilts me off my equilibrium.
“Sadie.” He puts the glass on the table next to him and stands. “I just needed a break. Pete and Warren have been nothing but awesome, but I swear to God, they know every damn hipster snob in New York City. There’s only so much snarky fucking banter I can take.”
He puts a hand on my elbow, but this time it isn’t a caress. It’s his attempt to push me out of the room.
Shit. Well, I deserve it. Time to put on my big girl pants and stop running away when things get uncomfortable.
I take a deep breath. “Trent, please. I need to talk to you.”
He goes completely still. “Okay. That’s...that would be...yeah. I’d like that. Love that. But let’s, uh, go out…”
He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Oh, are you worried about the two of us being up here? I’m sure Peter and Warren won’t care. Peter’s the one who told me I could use the guest bathroom, and I don’t think it’s a problem if we just sit.”
“It’s not that. I mean, they know I come here when I need a minute. This isn’t my first party here. Peter and Warren’s friends are cool, but they tend to be...kind of intense for me.” He laughs lowly. “I guess years of being a loner have made big social gatherings this really specific kind of torture for me.”
“I totally get that.”
I want to tell Trent about how isolated I always felt back at college, how hard it was to make any real connections when it always felt like I left my heart back here, back home.
But before I can get a word out, he’s herding me to the door.
“Wait, Trent, I need to tell you something—”
“Okay, but there’s another room next door that’s got more seati—”
I suddenly stop short, almost tripping him. I put a hand to my throat, not sure my voice is actually going to work.
It does.
And I’m not sure if I’m asking him for help or thanking him or calling him out for what he’s done.
“Trent...”
I push past him and feel like I float in a daze back to the chair where he was sitting. I settle in the same exact spot where he sat and look up. Up at a very bold, incredible painting.
It’s me
.
It’s a nude. Of me.
It may not be obvious to anyone who hasn’t seen me naked that it’s me, but there’s no doubt.
My head is turned and my hair falls in front of my face, blurring my features. But the shape of my body, my skin tone, the cluster of freckles just off center on my left hip, the scar across my left shoulder from the time I dove into the lake and sliced my skin on a long, sharp branch under the water.
Trent was there the day I got hurt at the lake. He’s the one who ran like a maniac to the first aid stand.
The details I notice are things I would because,
of course
, I know my own skin. But how had Trent noticed every one of these tiny things so completely, so accurately that he could reproduce them in such exact detail?
“I’m—” He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Before you freak out, please listen. It was part of this bigger project, okay. It was supposed to be something else. I mean, that was my first thought. And then you and I—that was when we were...and you were in my head all the time, Sadie.”
He waits for me to say something, stop him, but I just stare and the words keep pouring out of his mouth as he shakes his head, stuttering through the twisted maze of a story.
“But I painted it from memory and thought it wasn’t...obvious, I guess. My God, I’m an idiot. And then it got into a local gallery, through Peter and some of the professors at Triple C and when I saw it hanging in the light, in the public, I wanted to rip it down, I swear to you. I felt like I was exposing something that was yours. And mine. At least had
been
mine for this tiny amount of time.”