Page 169 of Into These Eyes
Curiosity wins. Outside his door, I bring my hand up to knock, then lower it. I shouldn’t have to knock, right? We love each other. We’ve even shared a bed. I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable if he walked into my room without knocking.
Steeling myself, I turn the knob, slip inside and close the door. When I turn around, I’m surprised to find the room empty. Frowning, I take a few steps forward until I’m standing besidethe bed, wondering if he went back out to the pool while I was washing up.
As I turn to leave, a large notepad on the desk catches my eye. Stopping beside the office chair, I stare at what lies before me.
There’s nothing written on the front of the pad It’s old and worn, with loose pages sticking out here and there that aren’t neatly tucked in with the others. One pokes out far enough for me to catch what looks like eyelashes.
Gently, I slide it free and find myself staring into my own disembodied eyes. Only this time, instead of graphite, the irises are a stunning green with hints of copper framing the pupil.
And they’re gazing up at me with desire, the accuracy so astounding I could be looking in a mirror.
Stunned, and overcome with curiosity, I run my fingertips over the battered cover before I flip it open.
Another set of my disembodied eyes stare out at me, the sketch only in the early stages, but already I see deep happiness gazing back. I don’t need to look at the date in the corner to know this is what Gavin saw at the pool when Anika took him down, when he was looking at me. This is why he disappeared inside.
Tears prick at my real eyes. He’d seen me, seen the joy in my heart, and apparently, he’d had to capture it forever.
Welling with emotion, I move the loose sheet of paper aside.
And gasp.
Again, my disembodied eyes stare out from the page. Another complete sketch, the green and copper of my irises stunning against the graphite surrounding them.
And the look that bleeds from the page is unmistakeably love. What he must see when I look at him. It’s extraordinary.
How he can capture emotion with no facial features apart from the eyes and eyebrows, I don’t know. But he does. I can see right through those windows, right beneath the surface.
He’s an incredibly talented artist. Why doesn’t he know that? Why hide?
With one hand over my mouth, I turn page after page of nothing but my eyes, discovering what he’s seen in them from the moment we met, but in reverse.
There’s desire, compassion, forgiveness, hope, confusion, sorrow. A plethora of emotions leading all the way back to his first drawings.
Hate.
The glaring eyes take me right back to that courtroom, to the darkness I directed at a young man who had done nothing but find my mother dying on the nature-strip, then offered her the only comfort he could.
My heart breaks.
Tears tickle my jawline, and I swipe them away before turning those hateful eyes over.
My breath catches.
These eyes are different. They’re mine, but they’re not. They look at me with a mixture of love and happiness. Like the sketch on his letter, it’s not quite right. Frowning, I study the drawing, noting the date. Ten years after he was locked away.
I let out a silent puff of air. So, he hadn’t stopped trying to get it right after the final letter he sent me.
I can’t stop the sob that escapes my throat. The thought of him locked away, drawing all of these, hoping he’d see something in me other than hate.
And now he has.
Here I was thinking he had a secret, but these sketches prove that he’s been honest with me all along.
“Jamie?”
I whirl around, startled out of my thoughts, ashamed that I’ve been caught looking at something he obviously keeps private. I swallow the sobs and choke out, “I’m sorry.”
He strides forward, but he’s not angry. When he reaches me, he brushes the tears from my cheeks, his eyes soft with concern.
