One of Those Faces (4)

She fancied herself a real entrepreneur because she’d gotten me the job and was working on getting her business degree. The reality was that she’d flunked her first quarter of general studies so badly that her parents insisted she take a few months off to “find her why.”

Erin’s dad had lucked into the trend of painting classes with complimentary wine at the right time and had opened the Tipsy Paintbrush in a storefront in Wicker Park. He’d interviewed me just to save my pride, or at least that’s what I’d assumed. I had felt his reticence at the end of the interview. My portfolio was considerable from having random art jobs on and off for several years by that time, and I’d somehow managed to make money through selling my work online, but my attitude didn’t inspire much confidence. I imagined he’d only relented because, first, it paid minimum wage, and second, he didn’t want Erin’s motivation in business to take any hits, no matter how minor. She’d probably begged that he give her dropout, slacker friend some kind of a job to report to so I didn’t fall off the face of the earth. And with the purpose of holding it over my head.

I watched the last couple of stragglers filter into the shop. “Hello,” I greeted everyone once they were in their positions. I turned back to my own canvas at the front of the room and lined up my paintbrushes on my palette for what must’ve been the fifth time. Each time I blinked, my eyelids grew heavier. I could never quench that sweet ache of closing them and completely losing myself in sleep, a dreamless sleep without Issi. Without her icy grip on my throat.





CHAPTER TWO


If we were all being honest, I probably wasn’t charismatic enough to teach any level of art class. But I had some artistic ability, and the students had wine. That’s what had gotten me through this position over the past couple of years.

Once the wine and brushes began flowing, my thoughts kept drifting to the guy from the café. As much as I had been annoyed at the interruption, chills rose along my skin as I remembered his eyes. I remembered the flickers of hesitation when he spoke. Those moments of uncertainty made him the most appealing.

The words “check him out” made it to my ears among the other chatter in the room.

The gaggle of girls closest to me were not moving their paintbrushes at all but instead were surveying the guys in the room. I had often heard students say that our studio was the only one that had guys. Well, unattached guys. It was all women everywhere else. This was why Erin sat in the corner of every class the entire time, trying to look busy doing the bookkeeping. She called it “shopping.”

I glanced over to her now, and she was staring at the same guy the girls in front of me had fixated on.

He was tall and bronze with platinum-blond hair, happily painting and laughing with his group of friends. The other guys he was with were also really good looking, but he appeared to be the only uncoupled one.

Erin’s eyes had been trained on him for some time although she was absently flipping through the binder on the counter. She shot up from her perch when she noticed his wineglass was half-empty. “Excuse me, can I get you some more wine?” she asked, appearing by his side.

The man raised his eyebrows when he saw Erin. She was exactly the girl you would picture with a guy like him, beautiful and trendy. And she was fun enough that you could almost forgive her volatility.

She pointed at his painting, leaning in as she gestured to the canvas, commenting. He smirked and angled his body toward her.

When class ended, everyone started packing up their creations, and Erin nodded to me from the back as she pulled a bottle of leftover wine from the counter and slipped behind the employees-only door. I waited until the last woman said thank you a little too loudly while tumbling over the threshold, and then I rushed over and locked it and turned off the front light. I watched the last car roll out of our tiny parking lot and walked to the back.

Erin already had the wine bottle uncorked and was well into her first glass. It had become our routine after a class to snag one of the leftover bottles and finish it up. Since it had already been budgeted for the class, her father wouldn’t notice it was missing. Although I suspected that even if he did, he wouldn’t have cared.

“I’m not sure I feel up to drinking tonight.” Since I taught four days a week, that ended up being four nights I staggered home buzzing on cheap red wine.

Erin tapped the table across from her. “Come on, let’s at least finish the bottle. That guy asked for my number, by the way,” she said. They always did.

I complied and sat across from her at the tall break-room table. In the back of the studio was a small kitchen and then a bunch of shelves with wine and painting supplies. Mostly wine.

Erin pushed the bottle and a clean glass toward me. “I’ll clean up the front tonight. Are you walking home after this?”

“Yeah.” After pouring a little less than half a glass, I tried to put the bottle back down.

“Nice try,” she slurred, tipping the bottom of the bottle while it was still in my hands. “I can’t finish this on my own.” She didn’t let go until the wine almost spilled over the brim of my glass. “You should be careful. Did you see the story about that girl that got murdered a couple of weeks ago?” she asked.

The first mouthful of wine coated my tongue and throat with a bitter, chalky aftertaste. “Kind of. I heard the news mention it. In Logan Square, right?”