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James
We don’t seemuch of Emily for a week after the Hawaiian luau.
I don’t really know why. Nobody’s talking about it, but I can feel the stress in the house, radiating off all the guys. Only Henry’s feeling good: this works out perfectly for him. Emily’s staying away from us, and he’s winning the bet easily.
I don’t understand what happened. It’s not like she moved out or anything, but it’s like she’s trying her hardest to keep to herself. She goes out to the beach early in the morning and hides in one of Henry’s many rooms during the parties.
I don’t know how long I can take this. I feel like I need to talk to her so badly, understand why she’s pulling away. The whole house is defeated, on edge, pent-up and angry. Just the other day, Aiden snapped at Ryan for no reason, and I suspect it’s because they’re blaming each other for Emily pulling back.
I know better than that. I can’t imagine it’s anything we did. Daniel and Carter are both sullen, a little reserved, trying to figure this out in their own way. As for me, I’m not going to sit around and mope.
So almost exactly a week after the luau, most of the guys go out to some bar instead of having a party. I make up an excuse to say home, I pretend that I’m not feeling well, and I wait for them to go out.
Emily’s in here somewhere. I get together some sketching materials, dark charcoal pencils and a large sketchbook, tuck a clean paintbrush in my back pocket, and then I go wandering through the halls.
I try her bedroom first, but she doesn’t answer. I try the gym, the sauna, even the pantry downstairs, but I can’t find her.
Finally, I have an idea. I go and slowly peek into Henry’s dork room. He calls it his ‘man cave,’ but I hate that term with a passion, and besides, Henry’s spot is full of anime and videogames. You can give a dork a million dollars, but you can’t make him stop being dorky.
I’m surprised to spot Emily lounging on the couch, watching some old Western film. She looks up as I poke my head into the room.
“Hey,” I say to her.
“Hey.” She sits up, surprised. “I thought you were all going out.”
“I stayed behind.” I step into the room and close the door behind me.
“Oh, okay.” She looks at me for a second. “What’s that?”
“Sketchbook,” I say to her. “Thought I’d get a little work in.”
“Oh, right. Have you, uh, gotten much done since being out here?”
I shake my head. There’s a chair against the right wall. I walk over to it, sit down, cross my legs and put my sketchbook in my lap. I flip it open and hold my charcoal pencil in my hand.
“Hasn’t been much to draw lately,” I say honestly. “Inspiration hasn’t struck.”
“That sucks. I mean, that must be hard, not drawing.”
“Really hard,” I agree. “Even if I’m not making some grand piece of art, drawing or just sketching recharges me.”
She sits up a little bit, interested. The movie’s still playing, but she turns down the volume a little bit. “What do you mean, recharges you?”
“Well, I guess I’m a little introverted,” I say. “There’s this idea that people are like batteries. Extroverts have huge stores of energy, and they aren’t drained easily by other people.” I adjust my sketchpad a bit and make a few lines. “But introverts have smaller batteries. And doing certain things drains them faster, like big social situations. They need to charge their batteries up.”
“And you charge yourself by drawing?” she asks, watching me with her big, beautiful eyes.
“That’s right.” I cock my head at her. “What recharges you?”
She shrugs a little. “I don’t know.”
“What do you find yourself doing when you’re in a bad mood?” I make a few more lines, quick and impressionistic, bothering less with shading and accuracy than with getting the right feeling.
She leans back, thinking. “I guess I watch movies,” she says softly.
I glance at the screen and then at her. “Westerns?”
“Not necessarily,” she says, following my gaze. “I mean, sometimes. But really, anything old, before the ‘70s.”
