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Our gazes lock, and a loaded beat passes between us.
I’m the one who moves first, reaching over to steal a kiss, her giggles melting on my tongue like sugar. She tastes like peaches.
“Anyway,” I say, after pulling away, hoping to change the subject. “What are you painting?”
“Just some flowers,” she says, looking down at her sketchbook. “Something about them calms me.”
I hum in understanding. “Cooking is like that for me,sometimes.” I stub my cigarette in the dirt, pinching the smoldering tobacco out of the stub and putting it back in the pack. “Did you always want to be a painter?”
I lay on my back, my hands clasped over my stomach. James lays next to me, staring at the puffy clouds, before she answers my question.
“I’ve romanticized that lifestyle for as long as I remember.”
“What lifestyle?” I ask, taking her arm and placing it over my chest, my fingers drawing circles on the skin of her forearm.
She stays silent for a beat. “You know that famous hotel in New York City that was really popular back in the 60s and 70s? It had all these starving artists staying there.”
I breathe out a small chuckle. “Hotel Chelsea? Yeah, of course I’ve heard of it.”
She takes back her arm and rolls over onto her stomach to look at me, both hands cradling her chin. “Okay well, I used to daydream about what it would have been like to live during that time. You know? Where nothing mattered but your art. Imagine being able to pay your rent with your paintings if you were too broke that week?” she says wistfully, her eyes glimmering. “I don’t know … people’s creativity felt more pure back then. There were no brands or social media. No need for marketing. No influencer bullshit. The goal wasn’t to get famous. Art wasn’t a way to make money. Life was art, art was life and that was good enough for them.” I study her with a grin. “Look,” she adds, “I’ve heard all of it before, ‘rich girl cosplaying at being poor’,” she says while air-quoting her last few words. “I know how it sounds.” She shrugs. “Doesn’t change the fact that they somehow seemed happier.” She pauses. “Maybe because they were living authentically … I don’t know.”
I can’t help but stare, my body reacting conflictingly—a painful pinch to the heart clashing with a surge of adoration. Getting to know James on a deeper level is turning me into an addict. I could spend my whole life here in this park, rain or shine, listening to her talk.
I reach over and drag my thumb across her glossy bottom lip. It’s tacky under my touch, pulling at her lip. My thoughts turn filthy, but I just sit with the feeling staring into her starry blue eyes.
“I like how your brain works, Jimbo.”
Her cheeks pinken, her expression turning coy. After another loaded silence, she asks, “And what about you?”
“What about me?” I repeat.
She sits up, sliding herself closer to me. Placing her palm on my chest, she slowly moves it down my stomach. “What did you spend your time daydreaming about when you were a teenager?”
Distracted, my eyes track her hand, now toying with the bottom of my shirt. When I don’t immediately answer she gives my stomach a small tap. My gaze jumps to her face, and she gives me an impatient look as if waiting for an answer.
What did I daydream about as a teenager?
I spent most of my time locked in my room, blasting music and wishing my parents weren’t my parents. But there’s no way I’m telling James that. So, I choose a more light-hearted answer.
“Touring the world with my band.”
“Your band? I didn’t know you were a musician.”
“Hardly. You don’t need much talent when you’re in a punk band playing for a crowd of three.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket but I ignore it.
“I wonder if we would have liked each other back then,” she muses.
I bark a laugh. “Considering you were fifteen when I was eighteen, that’s a hard pass.”
She chuckles, face seeking the sun. “Right.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket again. That’s two calls in less than a minute.
I groan, reluctantly releasing James’ hand from my grasp. Hers falls on the blanket next to me as I fish out my phone from my front pocket.
It’s Huxley.
