my
artwork of her. On the walls, leaning in corners, one sketch after another, the
work made me look like a frigging stalker.
Lark’s expression wasn’t difficult to read. Even
with the fake smile on her face, her eyes were horrified.
“I paint what I’m into,” I said, trying to seem
casual. “You should see the number of paintings I made when I was really into
meatball subs.”
“This is how you see me?” she asked, staring at the
most recent works, some still wet. “They don’t look anything like me.”
Lark reached out to touch the blissful expression I
drew of her. I wasn’t sure what she was saying. Did she hate the paintings? Did
she think I was a creep? Was I not seeing the real her?
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked, sounding like a
hurt child rather than a twenty two year old man who spent the night claiming
this very woman who now stared at me in shock.
Lark glanced at me then back at the sketch.
“They’re all so beautiful. I don’t look like that though. You made me seem
better. I mean, that’s good, but I’m surprised is all.”
The worry eased away and my shoulders relaxed.
Smiling down at her, I caressed the bridge of her nose.
“You have freckles.”
“Sorry. I didn’t put on any makeup. I just saw you
were gone and went looking.”
“I like them. The first girl I ever had a crush on
had freckles. Now, the only girl I want to ever have a crush on again has them.
I’d say I got lucky.”
Lark gave me a genuine smile. She looked at the
sketch then her gaze rolled over my chest before returning to my face.
“I can’t believe you can create such beauty.”
“I can’t believe I’m finally looking at my beauty.
You can’t see it, Lark. I know you can’t. Maybe it’s a girl thing or your
shitty family or you do see it and are just fishing for compliments, but you
are too beautiful to get right on paper. No matter how much I try,” I said,
cupping her face, “I can’t make my art look nearly as perfect as you.”
“Shit,” she whispered. “Did you just think that up
because it was fucking brilliant?”
Before I could answer, little Lark stepped up as
far as she could on her tippy toes, pulled me down to her, and kissed me hard
and deep. The girl claimed my breath like she’d already claimed my heart. No
way was I imagining all of her wonderful qualities. I wasn’t that damn creative.
Chapter Twenty Three - Lark
Aaron loved to walk around shirtless and I
overwhelmingly approved of his choice. Having seen the gym in one of the
house’s tiny bedrooms, I understood how he kept so ripped. Every time he caught
me admiring the view, I pretended to be looking at his tats. He wasn’t fooled.
His little bungalow wasn’t what I expected when I
imagined Aaron’s house. Passing by the front, I likely would have thought an elderly
couple lived inside. The front yard was small and generic with grass and
nothing else. Aaron clearly didn’t have a green thumb.
Inside was remodeled and felt new and fresh. Aaron obviously
wasn’t afraid of using bold primary colors. A red kitchen with black and white
tiled floors. A black accent wall in the living room. My favorite was his chalk
wall in what was likely meant to be a dining room. This was where he sketched
out ideas and kept his grocery list jotted down.
Despite the quaint vibe of the bungalow, the place was
male. The big TV, the large comfy leather couch. No accent pillows or
knickknacks, just art on the walls. In the gourmet kitchen were cookbooks on
the shelf, yet everything so clean that I doubted he cooked much.
Aaron was an artist in the body of a biker. He
smiled easily like a sweet boy next door and glared often like a bad boy
looking for someone to punch. His irritation was mainly directed at the sounds
out on the street. Deputy Dickhead or someone else nannying the neighborhood.
I stood next to Aaron as he glared outside. The front
porch looked cozy and I wished to sit out there and watch the world go by.
artwork of her. On the walls, leaning in corners, one sketch after another, the
work made me look like a frigging stalker.
Lark’s expression wasn’t difficult to read. Even
with the fake smile on her face, her eyes were horrified.
“I paint what I’m into,” I said, trying to seem
casual. “You should see the number of paintings I made when I was really into
meatball subs.”
“This is how you see me?” she asked, staring at the
most recent works, some still wet. “They don’t look anything like me.”
Lark reached out to touch the blissful expression I
drew of her. I wasn’t sure what she was saying. Did she hate the paintings? Did
she think I was a creep? Was I not seeing the real her?
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked, sounding like a
hurt child rather than a twenty two year old man who spent the night claiming
this very woman who now stared at me in shock.
Lark glanced at me then back at the sketch.
“They’re all so beautiful. I don’t look like that though. You made me seem
better. I mean, that’s good, but I’m surprised is all.”
The worry eased away and my shoulders relaxed.
Smiling down at her, I caressed the bridge of her nose.
“You have freckles.”
“Sorry. I didn’t put on any makeup. I just saw you
were gone and went looking.”
“I like them. The first girl I ever had a crush on
had freckles. Now, the only girl I want to ever have a crush on again has them.
I’d say I got lucky.”
Lark gave me a genuine smile. She looked at the
sketch then her gaze rolled over my chest before returning to my face.
“I can’t believe you can create such beauty.”
“I can’t believe I’m finally looking at my beauty.
You can’t see it, Lark. I know you can’t. Maybe it’s a girl thing or your
shitty family or you do see it and are just fishing for compliments, but you
are too beautiful to get right on paper. No matter how much I try,” I said,
cupping her face, “I can’t make my art look nearly as perfect as you.”
“Shit,” she whispered. “Did you just think that up
because it was fucking brilliant?”
Before I could answer, little Lark stepped up as
far as she could on her tippy toes, pulled me down to her, and kissed me hard
and deep. The girl claimed my breath like she’d already claimed my heart. No
way was I imagining all of her wonderful qualities. I wasn’t that damn creative.
Chapter Twenty Three - Lark
Aaron loved to walk around shirtless and I
overwhelmingly approved of his choice. Having seen the gym in one of the
house’s tiny bedrooms, I understood how he kept so ripped. Every time he caught
me admiring the view, I pretended to be looking at his tats. He wasn’t fooled.
His little bungalow wasn’t what I expected when I
imagined Aaron’s house. Passing by the front, I likely would have thought an elderly
couple lived inside. The front yard was small and generic with grass and
nothing else. Aaron clearly didn’t have a green thumb.
Inside was remodeled and felt new and fresh. Aaron obviously
wasn’t afraid of using bold primary colors. A red kitchen with black and white
tiled floors. A black accent wall in the living room. My favorite was his chalk
wall in what was likely meant to be a dining room. This was where he sketched
out ideas and kept his grocery list jotted down.
Despite the quaint vibe of the bungalow, the place was
male. The big TV, the large comfy leather couch. No accent pillows or
knickknacks, just art on the walls. In the gourmet kitchen were cookbooks on
the shelf, yet everything so clean that I doubted he cooked much.
Aaron was an artist in the body of a biker. He
smiled easily like a sweet boy next door and glared often like a bad boy
looking for someone to punch. His irritation was mainly directed at the sounds
out on the street. Deputy Dickhead or someone else nannying the neighborhood.
I stood next to Aaron as he glared outside. The front
porch looked cozy and I wished to sit out there and watch the world go by.
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