Draw Me In by Regina Cole Regina Cole Page B

it tightly. She was rigid at first, stiff and wary. But as I drew lazy circles over her knuckles with my thumb, she relaxed by degrees, her body going softer until her leg was touching mine.
    When her tears had slowed slightly, I spoke. “Listen. We didn’t talk about why you needed this job, but it’s pretty easy to tell that you’ve got some bad stuff going on. Is the job making it worse?”
    She pulled away, and I didn’t stop her, but I did keep talking. “I know it’s been hard. But you’re doing great. I can’t imagine that I could have found anybody better at this than you. Hell, anyone else would have walked out yesterday. But not you. You came back, and I appreciate that. You’re a lot tougher than you think.”
    “I’m not tough,” Hailey said through tears. She covered her eyes as her sobs came flowing out again. “I’m a complete wreck.” And then she fell apart, gulping, ugly cries that seemed to come all the way up from her soul.
    I wanted to pull her into my arms, gather her pain into my chest and soothe her hurt. I’d known her only a few days, but dammit, I hated to see her so sad. My hands itched to pull her close. I ignored the urges, gripping my thighs until her cries became softer.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her tears away. “I’m so sorry.”
    Without a word, I crossed the room and grabbed a tissue. Handing it to her, I turned away as she mopped up her tears. Grabbing my sketchpad and a pen, I sank onto the rolling stool and moved it closer to her.
    “What are you doing?” she asked, already looking a bit less flattened. Good. The distraction was working.
    “Whenever I’m upset about something, I draw.”
    She smiled, and my chest lightened at the expression. “You, too?”
    I nodded, focusing on the quick sketch lines that were forming under my pen. “It helps me get past the feelings and figure out what it is I really need to focus on. A look at the big picture, kind of.”
    We were quiet for several minutes while I worked and Hailey watched me. I was intensely aware of her stare as the picture took shape, and I wondered if she liked what I was doing. It was important that she like it, but damn if I knew why.
    When I was done, I stared at it. Sometimes art was like this for me; I didn’t really know what I was drawing until it was nearly finished. This picture for Hailey had been that way. So when I turned it toward her, I was as surprised as she was.
    “Daffodils,” she said, smiling. “They’re beautiful.”
    “I know this place isn’t perfect. And I know you’ve been thrown into the deep end much faster and harder than you expected. But don’t give up on it yet.” I didn’t want to beg, but I would if I had to. Anything to keep her from crying.
    She reached for the sketchpad. “May I?”
    I nodded, handing it over with the pen. On the opposite page of my drawing, she started one of her own.
    Watching her work was beautiful. Her face lost all traces of the frustration, anger, and sadness she’d been dealing with only minutes before, and it gained an almost transcendent quality. She looked like I felt when I was lost in the muse, creating something that could be seen only in my mind’s eye.
    I sat there, rapt, watching as she, cross-legged and bent at an angle that could only be considered awkward, made line after line, shaded, darkened, and accented her piece. Her eyes were bright as she worked. Her long delicate fingers gripped the pencil firmly, her other hand holding the sketchpad against the tattoo chair to keep it from moving. Her entire body was held in the prison of her creation just as firmly as I was. And it was a prison I had no desire to escape.
    And then, minutes later, she turned the sketchpad so I could see her work.
    “Holy shit,” I whispered as I traced a finger alongside the Asiatic lily. “That is incredible.”
    She shook her head, a pleased blush staining her cheeks. “It’s not as good as your daffodils.”
    “It’s