I See Me by Meghan Ciana Doidge Page A

Rochelle. Just … maybe … you shouldn’t be lying so much to yourself.”
    “Like you never lie to yourself?”
    “I don’t,” he said, lifting his blazingly aquamarine eyes to mine. “But that doesn’t mean I like all the truth either. This is no tiny talent.”
    “Thank you.” I wasn’t exactly sure that had been a compliment, but I didn’t know what else to say. I really didn’t want to talk about the sketches, because that would lead to the hallucinations and the sketching being part of my therapy. That was all a topic for tomorrow … or the next day.
    He smiled sadly. Then carefully, only touching the very edges, he packed all the sketches back into my portfolio case.
    I turned away, feeling just as alone with him three feet away as I had two evenings ago. I started unpacking my meager belongings into the double wardrobe beside the bed. I barely filled two shelves with my clothes and a third with my drawing supplies. This left the other side of the shelves entirely empty. I didn’t mention this to Beau. His backpack was still where he’d left it tucked on the far side of the bench seat in the dinette area.
    He slid my portfolio along the floor until it just nudged my foot, then he leaned it back so it wouldn’t fall forward. I nodded and reached down for it, then tucked it between the wardrobe and the bed.
    The silence between us was making me sick. It shouldn’t be this way. A hint of discord, and I was all choked and angsty? It didn’t make any sense, not yet, maybe not ever.
    This so wasn’t me. I opened my mouth to say so, to rave and rally against the feelings coalescing all around my heart. My ever-steady, never-tested heart. But … I didn’t speak. I didn’t question. I didn’t know what he wanted from me. I didn’t know why he was here. And I found I was deeply afraid to ask.
    “I’ll check the engine,” Beau said. I could see without turning my head that his hands were stuffed in his pockets, as they’d been last night in the diner. He turned to the door.
    “It’s fine,” I said.
    “Still, I’d like to have a look.”
    He waited at the door for me to look up at him. Then he smiled.
    I nodded and he ducked underneath the doorway to climb down and out of the RV. The Brave actually dipped and righted itself as he did so.
    I picked up my portfolio. I put it down on the table, unzipped it, and flipped it open. The sketches inside fanned out, falling open to one of the dark-suited man staring out at me. His expression was serious, maybe even deadly. I shuddered at the look I’d captured in his eyes. He haunted my hallucinations, my nightmares, and my art. He scared me, even tamed and captured on the page.
    I closed the portfolio and tucked it back between the wardrobe and the bed. It was too wide to fit in any of the cupboards.
    Beau had let it drop, as if it wasn’t more than a casual line of inquiry. And, of course, that’s what it was. What else could he want to know? He’d asked if I saw magic. He meant metaphorically, and I was so terrified of him knowing about the hallucinations that I’d shutdown at the question. Now, he probably thought I was a moron. But would he have stuck around this long if that was the case? Would he be checking the engine?  
    I didn’t get the impression that Beau was just looking for a ride, either in my bed or my RV. He’d been perfectly fine in the rain on the edge of the highway, all alone. And so had I.
    I wandered forward to the cockpit, grinning when Beau looked around the hood through the windshield at me. He was insanely beautiful and completely surreal standing at the front of the Brave. Standing there as if he belonged, as if he’d never even thought of being anywhere else. This juxtaposition of reality and the unreal — the parking lot behind Beau and the engine hood between us, his looks and his choosing to be here — was mind-boggling.
    It was more than looks, actually. It was belittling to label him so simply and