Page 170 of Into These Eyes
“Jamie? What is it?”
“I didn’t … I didn’t mean to snoop. I was looking for you, and—”
“I couldn’t care less if you snoop. I have nothing to hide from you.”
“But you have been,” I say, taking a deep breath as I turn back to the desk. “These drawings … Gavin … they’re incredible.”
He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder, looking at the sketches with me.
“I wasn’t hiding them from you. They’re just scratchings.”
“Oh,please. That’s the first lie you’ve ever told me. You’re a true artist, Gavin. Look at these.” I leaf through them, as if I’m showing him something he’s never seen before. “They’re so … moving.”
“You think so?” It’s a genuine question. He honestly has no idea how talented he is.
“I more than think so.” While I continue to flick slowly through the sketches, I come across one that isn’t clean like the others. Smudges and streaks smear the page, lacking a polished finish, though it was clearly on the way there. “Why didn’t you finish this one?”
“I was still working on it the day I walked out of prison. I left it like that. As a reminder.”
I look closer, fascinated by the process. That’s when I notice it. The reflection in the irises. They look like … prison bars. Intrigued, I flick through the pages, seeing the bars on all the others. Until I get to the more recent sketches. The bars are gone, replaced by the silhouette of a man instead. That one little detail shatters my heart all over again. It’s him. It’s me, looking at him. It’s the moment I stopped seeing him as a prisoner and started seeing him as a man.
Taking a moment, I breath through the overwhelming tidal wave of emotion. When I finally have control again, I ask, “Why me? Why my eyes? Why any of it at all if you don’t think you’re an artist?”
Raising his head, he plants a sweet kiss on the part in my hair. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” I twist out of his embrace, take a seat on the edge of his bed, and look up at his questioning expression. “I’d love to know that part of you.”
A little reluctant, he slumps onto the office chair. After staring at the drawings for a long moment, he drags a hand over his face, then turns his attention to me.
“Although I always hoped I’d meet you, I didn’t believe it’d happen. So, when it did, I thought you might see all these,” he waves a hand at his sketches, “as kind of … creepy.”
I think about that for a moment. “But you drew them on the letters you wrote me. You weren’t worried about that.”
“They were doodles. Not the same as these.”
“Tell me the difference.”
He swivels side to side in the chair, his eyes focused on his hands fisted in his lap. Finally, he lets out a long breath and looks at me.
“Unless you’ve been through it yourself, it’s one of those things you think you might be able to imagine, but without firsthand experience, you can’t understand what it truly means to be locked in a cage. When you find something—anything—that can take you out of there, that can make you feel free for even the briefest moment, you hold onto it. Tight. For me, that was you.” He picks up one of his sketches and stares at it. “You have no idea how many times I escaped prison by looking into these eyes.”
My heart stills. There’s something special in what he’s telling me, I just don’t quite understand. “But you didn’t know me. Allyou knew, was that I hated you. Why would anyone want to use that as an escape?”
He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and reaches for my hand.
“When I saw you in that courtroom, you stunned me. I tried to ignore you and concentrate on what was happening. I tried. But I couldn’t do it. There was something about you that kept reeling me in. I was captivated. And yes, you only ever looked at me like you wanted me to burn in hell, but … all that fierce emotion, all that energy put into conveying how you felt about me … You were alive with it. And since I felt dead, I wanted some of what you had.”
My heart stutters in my chest as I squeeze his hand, encouraging him to go on.
“In between court days, I started sketching. And what came out were your eyes. I hadn’t even planned to draw anything to do with you. It just … happened. Then it became my meditation. I’d disappear. I wasn’t in a prison cell, waiting to be found innocent or guilty. I was with you, bringing you to life so I could see you whenever I wanted. Your eyes were the only image that would flow from my hand onto the paper. Looking into your eyes … that gave me something tangible to hang onto.”
Before I can barrel into his arms, he releases my hand, flips the sketchbook over and slides out the last drawing. “At first, I didn’t care that you hated me. I understood. But over time, I wanted to change that. I tried to make you look happy. I just couldn’t get it quite … right.”
“Until recently.”
He nods. “I guess I need to see the real thing before I can immortalise it on paper. Once I had you in front of me, giving me all those different emotions, I couldn’t get enough. I still can’t. I don’t think I ever will. You helped save me in there, J. And now you’re the one saving me out here.”
Rising, I position myself between his spread thighs and cup his face. “They’re so beautiful, just like you. You should share them with the world, Gavin.”
