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In a daze, I flip the page.
And turn to stone.
My own eyes glower back at me, my gaze harsh and unwavering from the page. It’s a portrait from the shoulders up, shelves of bottles blurring behind me in the background, and it’s drawn in such painstaking detail that a loud buzzing sound fills my brain.
Because… my stubble. My mouth. That tiny scar notched in my earlobe, from a stray fishing hook when I was a boy. The tired lines at the corners of my eyes. It’s all there, every last detail of me—like looking in a mirror, except more flattering somehow.
When did Marigold look at me so closely? When did she stare long enough to draw this? And did she like what she saw?
Guilt twists my gut, but I’m in too deep to stop now. Screw my eternal soul; screw the last shreds of my restraint. Tossing a glance at the bathroom door, I flip back to the very first page of the sketchbook and start working my way through.
There’s the bar from outside, set against the forest and mountains.
Then Jana and Tess, laughing together in their matching black polo shirts.
And… me. I’m lifting a crate of beer bottles, muscles taut beneath my t-shirt, scowling to myself about something or other. Mouth dry, I linger for a beat on this first drawing of me—wishing that for once in my life I had my phone to hand, so I could snap a quick photo of this.
Another glance at the bathroom door. How many minutes have passed? Two? Three?
Moving quicker, I flip through more pages. There’s a group of hikers bent over a table together, maps of the mountains spread across the wood. More portraits of our regulars, their weather-beaten faces creased into grins. Jana’s fiance Stig as he leans across the bar, flirting with his girl.
Then me again. Squinting into the sun this time, one arm raised to shade my eyes, drawn in finer detail than any other sketch so far.
Next is a landscape drawing of Starlight Ridge town, nestled down in the valley, followed by an older woman licking an ice cream in our backyard, a trickle of cream sliding down her wrist.
Me again, elbows propped on the bar.
Jana and Tess.
Tess alone, flicking a dish towel at her brother, Rowan.
Me, my hair rumpled from a long day I’ve forgotten now.
The locals.
A hiker.
Me.
Me.
Me.
Flipping faster, heart pounding, I scan page after page of my own scowling face, the sketches coming closer together. There are still other subjects scattered in between, but they’re rarer and far less detailed as the sketchbook goes on.
And it’s clear: Marigold knows my face better than I do. Every detail of me, she’s sketched out and brought to life. And not just my face—in some of these drawings, she’s included my body too. The swell of my shoulders beneath my shirt, the press of my thighs against my jeans. The way my belt sits across my hips. All of it.
Fuck.
I slam the sketchbook closed, fingers splayed, chest heaving like I’ve just run ten miles—then spin the book back to face Marigold’s stool right as the bathroom door swings open.
I’d be busted right now, except she’s too busy staring at the floor to notice my deer-in-headlights act, picking her way around tables and booths on a roundabout route back to the bar. That green dress swishes around her legs, and her cheeks are flushed when she finally looks up at me. I’m over by the dishwasher, unloading glasses like nothing’s happened at all.
“S-sorry,” my artist whispers, sliding back onto her stool. She glances down at her sketchbook, then frowns.
Shit.
Did she leave it open or closed? After everything, after the non-stop shocks of the last few minutes, the way my world turned upside down and shook me like a snow globe… I can’t remember. It was closed, right?
