I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(33)

I wrap my arms around myself, to keep my guts from falling out. Because, f*ck, it feels like they just might. Times like these, stumbling upon reminders of all I once had, it comes back to me—how very much I miss my family, all of them. But especially the one I’ll never see again, my dad.

My eyes sting, but I blame it on sweat dripping from my brow. To distract myself, I set aside some of the vinyl to take downstairs—Led Zeppelin, vintage Aerosmith, Boston, a few more. Then, I go through the movies one by one.

Before we moved to Vegas we used to come over here to Gram’s house—Dad and I, sometimes Mom—and we’d watch this shit. When I pick up the box for Terminator, a flash of a seven-year-old me begging my dad to let me watch it runs through my mind. We still lived in Ohio at the time, I remember that. I also recall Mom wasn’t around that day, and Grandma Gartner was busy in the kitchen, making homemade pizza for her son and grandson. After some convincing and pleading, my dad finally said, oh, what the hell.

So we watched the movie together on the couch, with Grandma Gartner shaking her head when she brought in the pizza. And I loved it, the pizza, the movie, spending time with my dad.

Mom joined us for our next movie night. When she wanted to pick the movie, though, Dad and I shared a look.

“Oh, Jack,” she said as she flipped through the videocassette boxes, “let’s all watch Pretty in Pink. It’s so cute.” She held a box up, one with Molly Ringwald and friends on the cover.

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, please…God, no.” That cover, the girl in pink. Kill me now, I thought.

Thankfully, Dad came to the rescue. He could always be counted on to be the voice of reason.

“How ‘bout we compromise, Abby? The Breakfast Club is good too. And I think Chase will like that one much better.” Dad paused and Mom seemed to consider. “What do you say, honey? You okay with that one instead?”

Mom gave in fairly quickly—she always did with Dad—and we ended up watching The Breakfast Club, as a family, all snug and cozy on the couch. What a f*cking picture we must have been. Dad slipping Mom kisses when he thought I wasn’t looking, and Mom covering my ears every time Bender swore. Her efforts, though, were only halfhearted—she was well aware I’d heard her and Dad say much worse.

I’ve been up here for a while and sweat is running down my bare back. It doesn’t look like I’ll be finding the camera anytime soon. I’m hot and I’m thirsty and I’ve had enough of memory lane, so I give up the search. I tug my T-shirt back over my head and go downstairs, taking Dad’s old record albums with me.

Since I can’t find the camera I decide to go with plan number two: I’ll just sketch the apartment right on the flyer. Fuck the camera. I can probably draw the details a whole lot better than what low mega pixels will end up showing anyway.

My newest sketchbook is on the buffet in the dining room, where I’ve been keeping it lately. Under it, in the top drawer, there are an assortment of colored pencils, charcoal sticks, and oil pastels. I grab a bunch of the colored pencils and set everything out on the dining room table, including the flyer I made up earlier.

Before I get started, I turn the ceiling fan on low and grab a lemon-lime soda out of the fridge. When I settle back down at the table, I wait a few minutes for my drink and the cool rotations of the fan to cool me off. Then, I get to work on sketching a few practice drafts in the book. After I know how I want to present the apartment I go right to the flyer. In no time at all, I’ve created a f*cking damn good depiction of the space I plan to rent.

Over in the apartment there’s a half wall separating the living room from the bedroom in the back, but I draw the wall as transparent. That way, prospective renters can see both rooms are furnished. There’s not a lot of stuff, but there’s enough, and it’s nice. Using a dark blue pencil, I shade in the coloring of the small couch Tate and I dragged up when we were both high, and then I sketch the TV and the little wooden table it sits on. For the bedroom, I draw the lines of the iron headboard, the one I refinished when I was all coked up. I add in an old trunk that sits at the foot of the bed and the small dresser up against the wall on the left. I mark two side-by-side doors on the farthest walls as closet and bath.

Once I finish with all the shading and coloring, I have a fairly kick-ass flyer. Hell, I’d rent the apartment if I didn’t already own the house. I’ve had a rental rate in mind for a while now, but since the place looks so good I up it a bit. What the hell—it’s still a sweet deal.

Once I’m finished with the flyer, the need to sketch keeps the colored pencils going. It’s like that sometimes, like I have to get whatever image is haunting my head out onto a piece of paper. Like I need to give the image life, give it some substance, make it real. And the image currently in my head—searing my brain, in fact—is of Kay. And how she looked this afternoon when she wrecked into me in that parking lot.

She probably has no idea what I saw in her eyes—want, lust, need. A need I definitely could fill. I had every intention of following through. ’Cause let’s be honest, I’m incredibly attracted to Miss Kay Stanton. But after hearing her story from Father Maridale—and seeing the pain in her eyes when our own conversation got real—there’s no way I’ll be pursuing that course of action.

Kay is a sandcastle on the beach, and I’m a f*cking hurricane. I’d not only wash her away, I’d f*cking destroy her. Even Father Maridale sees that, which is why I received the warning, in not so many words, to not corrupt her. But that doesn’t mean I can’t draw her as I see her in my head, the image of this afternoon from my perspective.