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A knock to my door has me setting my brush down and lightly jogging to answer it. “Benny, how are you?” I ask, smiling at my favorite guy in New York.
“Doing just fine, Miss Andrews. I have a delivery for you.” I open the door farther as he rolls in a bell cart. A long black silk dress bag hangs from it, piquing my curiosity. Benny bows without a word and leaves. Leaving me dumbfounded by the random delivery.
A note card is clipped to the back, and I pull it off, examining the simple white with gold trimming. ‘Jasmine’ is on the front, so I flip it over to read the message.
Wear this dress for our date tonight. 7pm sharp.
-Easton
Short and to the point, as always. I unzip the bag and my chest tightness at the beautiful red gown. It has a sweetheart neckline with a lace bodice. Small lace strips that strap over my arms, to expose my shoulders. The bottom flares out just a little with tulle. Not overly dramatic. Perfect for me, actually. With my heart in my throat, I zip the bag back up, checking my phone for the time, and I realize I only have an hour to get ready. I hurry into the shower to wash off the paint that’s caked to my skin, before I begin the long routine that comes with being a lady.
EASTON
I wanted tonight to feel different. I wanted to feel like a normal man who fell for a normal woman in one of those chick flicks my sister uses as target practice. Like we were high school sweethearts and I’ve never disappointed her. That I didn’t have so much to prove. I wanted so much… but, yeah, I’d fucked up and now, I am paying for it.
There is no sugarcoating my actions, and to be completely transparent, I don’t even feel bad for all of them. Not really. The guy I show to the world is fake, all smiles and polite handshakes. Jasmine got the real me. The I-take-what-I-want-and-leave-no-prisoners me. The ugly, gritty part of me I can’t control. The darkness of my soul that mixes with the light of hers. She never could see that, the light that she is. How without her I would have no heart.
She stands under the streetlight, the red dress gleams from the carefully placed jewels. Her black hair up in an elegant updo. I’m sure there is a name for it, but fuck if I know. Her eyes are wide, the way I love them so much, as she stares up at Emerald Lexington’s House of Art.
I take my phone out, snapping a picture of her. I want to burn this image to my memory, relive it whenever I please, because this beautiful woman, standing underneath the light, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, is the mother of my future children, my future wife, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life loving her.
I walk up beside her, my hand caressing the small of her back. She jumps a bit, because in typical Jasmine form she’s always jumpy. Eyes slowly, regretfully, leaving the astonishing glass building in favor of me. My other hand lightly caresses her wrist, my thumb rubbing over the raised scar. She tenses, breaking eye contact with me, and I wonder if we’ll be having another conversation where I remind her about her beauty marks. I don’t want her to forget—forget she tried to leave me alone in this world. Tried to break my heart yet again. But I want her to embrace it. She may see an ugly scar, but all I see is the beauty in her strength.
“Are you ready to go in or would you enjoy admiring the building for the rest of the night?”
Her eyes flash to mine, narrowing a bit. My smile cuts across my face, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she nods. “These tickets are impossible to get. Of course I want to see a once-in-a-lifetime art show.”
“Do you forget how powerful your last name is?” I hold the door open, reluctantly letting go of her hand.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” she muses, taking in every inch of the place.
The floor itself is art. Every tile painted differently. The walls are made of sand art, trapped in their finest moment forever. From the ceiling, the most extravagant origami shapes hang, ranging from every animal ever imaginable. That is the one thing I love about this art house; no art is greater than another. Every style is cherished, worshipped, and displayed.
“Just wait until you have my name.” But she doesn’t hear me as she floats across the tile, dress falling around her as she grabs ahold of the hand-blown glass rail, ascending the stairs to venture farther.
The next room is filled with photorealism. I love the paintings, don’t get me wrong, but it’s the pencil drawings that look like black-and-white photos that steal my breath away. Apparently, Jasmine’s as well, because she floats over to them, her hands clenched in restraint to stop herself from touching them. I take that chance to wrap my fingers around hers, letting her take her fill as we move to the next room. We talk very little but it’s not uncomfortable. I don’t feel the need to fill the silence with small talk, and she couldn’t care less as she stands under a giant sea turtle made of plastic that was found in the ocean. A clear message to recycle and fuck you if you don’t.
“How long do you think it took them to make this?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.
“I’m not sure. A year, maybe longer?” I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know shit about art.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
I lean my head down, lips connecting with the soft skin of the back of her neck. “In my eyes, you’re the only thing worth looking at in this entire gallery. The only thing catching my attention.” Her breath catches, a slight gasp parting her lips. I back up. “Let’s keep going.”
I tangle our hands together, walking us into the next room. The walls are covered in spray paint—traditional—and some look as if the artist cracked the brick with a wrecking ball, exposing a new world inside of them. The next room is human flowers. Real people bend and flex into various positions with others to create the illusion of a flower, bodies painted to flow together seamlessly. People move about them, observing this rare art form. Jasmine stops. “Holy crap, that’s amazing.” I nod, having to agree with her.
We continue through X-ray art, then sculptures and traditional paintings, until we get to a red door. I begin to panic a little bit, nerves racking my body as she takes in the sign, The Mind of Jasmine in brush script. “Ha, that’s funny. I guess Jasmine is a common name in the art world.”
I pull on my tie, my tongue swollen and stuck to the roof of my mouth, unable to form words. She reaches for the handle, and sweat breaks down my neck. She’s going to react one of two ways.
Option one: she’ll be so blown away with my gesture that she’ll jump my bones and we’ll end up escaping to the back seat of my car.
Highly unlikely, but a guy can dream.
Option two, she’ll set me on fire.
It’s a toss-up, really.
