Page 104 of First Chance

On the farthest side are two double doors that open but don’t lead to a balcony; they’re flush against the side of the house with a small railing to keep someone from stepping out.

Sheer curtains frame the doors, and I can only imagine how they blow in the breeze when they’re open. It looks over the backyard and into the woods that surround the bear enclosures on the backside of the property.

This must have been his grandparents’ room. There’s still an art easel sitting empty in the corner.

My fingers dance across it as I move back toward the doorway, but then I spot the papers strewn across the desk. It’s not a regular desk at all, it’s a drawing desk. There’s a handle on the front to angle the top.

I shift some of the papers to spread them out, observing the sketches that have been drawn recently. A bear moving through the trees, the moon in the sky surrounded by stars, and a replica drawn in pencil of the old barn, just like the one I kept in the guesthouse.

There’s a close-up of a bear’s face, its sharp teeth exposed in its wide-open mouth, roaring in pain.

I marvel at the accuracy of the emotion in the eyes and the attention to detail as I drag it aside, revealing the next one.

My breath catches in my throat.

Suddenly, I’m staring into a pair of eyes that are a reflection of my own. Even in shades of gray, I can tell they belong to me.

The flick of eyeliner and the curl of the lashes are mine, but more impressive are the smile lines that I’ve considered getting Botoxed and the tiniest solar flare that circles my pupil at the center of my dark irises.

He didn’t only draw my eyes, the next sheet is a close-up of my smile. The next is another smile, but it’s my profile and that dimple above my cheekbone that won’t go away, no matter how much weight I lose.

I keep moving papers, finding outlines of my likeness, some shaded, some not. Some aren’t finished, and some have probably been worked on for hours.

I recognize the lines of my body that I’ve critiqued in themirror my entire life. Different variations of a silhouette that aren’t pornographic or voyeuristic, but rather beautiful interpretations of a body that I hate.

I’m already choked up seeing these pictures done by his hand, but when I dig my way through to the last one lying flat under all the others, I can’t believe my eyes.

A portrait of a beautiful, carefree woman, throwing her head back and laughing as if nothing could hold her back.

It’s me, but it doesn’t look anything like me.

Not the me that resides inside my head.

This woman is uninhibited… And, happy.

“You weren’t supposed to see those,” Lochlan’s voice startles me from the doorway.

I spin towards him, grasping the portrait to my chest. He’s pulled on jeans, but he’s still shirtless and barefoot, standing immobile, staring at me.

“I didn’t know you liked to draw.”

He doesn’t speak, his head dipped in… Shame?

“They’re really good,” I remark, encouraging some sort of response.

“Something I picked up in prison,” he says, avoiding eye contact completely.

“I’m sorry about the NEWS story.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s just a reminder of reality.”

“No, it’s not.” I take a step towards him, but he turns his head, avoiding me again. “I’m sorry that I’ve dragged you into this.”

I place the picture back down on his desk before I leave, silently begging him to say something, but he only stands utterly still, letting me go.

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen a photo of myself thatI didn’t criticize right away. That never happens,” I say over my shoulder after I enter the hallway. “Thank you, Lochlan.”

I go back to the guesthouse, and can’t get my thoughts to stray away from him. Imagining him drawing the delicate details of my face with such intent focus stirs heat in my belly.

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