I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(34)

I pick the sketchbook up and flip to the back. Then, I start to draw Kay, hair a little mussed, bottom lip slightly pouted. I draw her eyes and the sex I saw in them, sex…for me. I sketch every detail, down to the veins in the petals of the roses that were printed on her dress. I shade in the soft texture of her cardigan, the little pink thread that came loose that she didn’t think I’d see. But I missed nothing this afternoon, and I miss nothing now. Kay’s immortalized on paper in minutes.

I take a look at the finished sketch, holding the book up to the light.

Sweet girl is, appropriately, a lot of pink. Pink roses, pink sweater, pink cheeks. And pink places I can only imagine. Now that kind of pretty in pink I could get into, literally. But I won’t and I can’t, but, f*ck, does my body want to. Shit.

I rip the page from the book. No one can ever see what I’ve drawn since it’s blatantly obvious I don’t see my subject as just a friend. But I can’t bring myself to throw this sketch away, even though it’d be prudent. It’s just too, I don’t know, special maybe. Kay may appear wanton and sexual in my sketch, but I’ve also drawn her as the incredibly beautiful, stunning woman she is. And I can’t bring myself to destroy the image I’ve created.

Against my better judgment, but following my heart, I fold the drawing in half and tuck it in the back of the sketchbook, wondering the whole time if Kay sees herself this way. Does she know how truly beautiful she is? Someone should make sure she knows if she doesn’t. Too bad that someone can’t be me.

Resigned that I will, sadly, never touch Kay Stanton, I put the sketchbook back on the hutch, turn everything off, and go upstairs. But when I lie down to sleep, I can’t stop thinking of sweet girl’s beauty, her fragility—pink and delicate. Not unlike the roses on the dress she wore today.

Thinking of those roses remind me of a time when I was very little, three or four. I see my father giving my mother a single flower. It may have been a rose, I was too little to know, but I recall trying to touch the pretty bloom. But my dad wouldn’t let me. He said it was a special, fragile flower and I had to leave it alone. Just like Father Maridale said to leave Kay alone. She’s fragile, don’t touch her.

I toss and I turn, thinking about that damn flower, and what eventually happened.

Naturally, being a curious and stubborn toddler, I didn’t listen to my dad. First chance I got I crawled up on a stool and put my little fingers all over that pretty pink blossom.

Big mistake… Let’s just say I quickly learned what fragile meant.

When my mom came in and caught me touching the flower, I yanked my hand back.

And that’s when all the petals fell off.




That night I dream of my father. We’re standing behind the church, next to the iron gated entrance. “Am I dying?” I ask my dad. “Or am I already dead?”

Why else would I be at a cemetery with my dead father?

My dad laughs, but it sounds far away, like an echo in a valley. “No, son, you’re very much alive. You’re just getting started, in fact. You have a lot more living to do.”

I take a step into the cemetery and my dad tries to follow, but he’s stopped in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I turn back.

“The ground is consecrated, I can’t go in.” His filmy hand points to his milky, opaque form. “Suicide, you know.”

The sun is shining brightly and I have to shield my eyes. “Why’d you do it?” I ask my father.

He shrugs a shoulder, much like I often do. No answer. My dad is as silent as the stone angel at his grave used to be.

There’s a noise from inside the cemetery and we both turn to see. It’s Will, he’s running around the markers, smiling and laughing. He’s little and happy, like he was before my father passed. Dad and I smile identical smiles, but then Will trips and falls and we’re both brought to action by his cries.

Dad and I move to help Will, but only I can cross over. Dad puts his hand out like he’s touching an invisible barrier that’s been erected between us. I hesitate, but Will cries out once more.

“Son, go help your brother.”

“But-but…what about you?” I implore.

Dad starts to fade away. “You can’t help me, Chase, but your brother still needs you. He always will. You’re there, I am not. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, son.”

Will is crying, Dad is fading, and I am somewhere in between. My hands reach out to both, but before I can choose which way to go, I wake up.





Chapter Four


Kay


Monday arrives in sunny, warm glory. I slip a simple dress over my head and adjust the crisscross of smooth fabric in the back. I feel light and free, pretty in mint green cotton and sandals with oh-so-skinny straps.

When I leave my apartment the junkies lingering in the parking lot rake me over with their empty eyes. Hard stares delivered without apology as I walk to my car. But not even their lascivious looks—or the one long, drawn-out wolf whistle—can bring me down today.

Remember all that hope I was feeling yesterday? Well it’s officially blossomed. I am finally ready to give this “living a full life-thing” a real shot.

I owe this in part to Chase Gartner. If you had told me twenty-four hours ago I’d be singing this tune I never would have believed it. But it’s true. Chase’s passion to move forward has inspired me to do the same. Good looks and an inspiration? That guy really is amazing.