Page 43 of Anyone But the Superstar

Em watches me reapply Mike’s sunscreen with a look of fascination, before walking me out of Mission Control’s back room and down into the lobby.

We say goodbye before I take a deep breath and prepare for the onslaught of Texas’ afternoon heat.

But it isn’t the sun that blinds me.

There, leaning against a new, shiny, black Land Rover, is the reason I’m grateful for my phone’s unlimited texting – Felix Jones.

Unfortunately, there isn’t a blue, ruffled apron in sight.

12

LIZ

‘Dinner is fucked.’

My hand pauses over my sketch as I turn to my disgruntled, movie-star roommate in the kitchen. Something I’ve been actively tryingnotto do since I sat on the couch and began drawing Mike Hunt.

Two days ago, after Felix saved Mike and me from the melting walk back to the condo, and I threw myself at him in an impromptu hug – making a sandwich out of poor Mike – I retreated to my room, thinking that space would be the best thing for my hero roommate. My plan was to hole up in my room and lose my thoughts in art.

Specifically, my superfluous, roommate-centric thoughts.

And yet.

My thoughts proved themselves dirty when, startled out of a mental art fog by Felix knocking on my door to tell me dinner was ready, I found myself further shocked by what I’d drawn.

Felix.

Naked, except for a blue, ruffled apron.

My sudden inspiration is frustrating on multiple levels. Ihaven’t felt moved to draw from my imagination since leaving New York. I’m rarely not drawing, something that used to vex my father a great deal, but it was always from pictures, arranged still lifes or land and urban scapes.

When I was younger, after I had my after-school snack, I’d hole up in my bedroom, sitting on the window seat, and sketch out fantasy worlds. The people walking outside through Central Park would transform into characters, making my sketch pad an impromptu picture-book telling fantastical stories. Happy stories.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do that.

So, while it’s a relief to know that my ability to create from my imagination hasn’t left me for good, my current muse is wrecking hell on my common sense.

As in, it’s common sense not to get worked up over your celebrity roommate/co-worker. Especially as I have other things to focus on beside his bulging biceps. Like a half-sister to introduce myself to.

A forlorn sigh escapes as I glance from sketch book to real-life model. I never would have thought I’d be grateful for erectile dysfunction, and yet here I am, disappointed but thankful I can’t act on my inconvenient imaginations even if I wanted to.

The sad victim of ED throws his hands in the air like a forlorn housewife. ‘The avocados are hard.’ His face is the definition of toddler-tantrum over poor produce selection.

It takes all I have not to laugh.

Hair on end, Felix moves around the small kitchen, his movements unnecessarily aggressive.

Almost without thinking, I flip the page on my sketch book, my hands making quick movements across the paper?—

His hands as he grabs an apple.

His shoulders as he rips a banana from the bunch.

His expression as he tosses them in a paper bag along with the offending avocados.

The line of his spine as he stands, hands on hips, staring daggers at the counter.

‘Meow.’ Mike, probably perturbed at having his modeling ignored, splays his legs out – his favorite way to warm his nether regions in sunlight.

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