If I Were You(Inside Out 01)(55)

Approval etches his face, and his tone is all suggestion and sex. “I knew there was more than vanilla in your future.”
My cheeks heat with the flirty remark.
“And she blushes like the good little school teacher,” he comments. “You are one big contradiction, aren’t you, Sara?”
He’s right, of course. I feel like I’m swimming between two shorelines - one the bland simple life, the other dark and erotic - and I can’t quite reach either. I shrug in reply. “I guess I am.”
“I guess you are.”
There is a sexy awareness between us as we dig into our food and I’m hungrier than I realized because the first bite awakens my stomach and taste buds. “I say you earn Top Chef markings. My omelet is terrific.”
“Omelets are pretty easy to make and hard to screw up.”
“You haven’t tried my omelets,” I assure him and when he laughs I sigh and stare out the window. The city is an early morning canvas painted with a brilliant, clear blue sky, water for miles, and the jagged edges of hills and buildings speckled here and there for a complete and perfect picture. “It’s like being on top of the world here, and untouchable.” I settle an elbow on the table and rest my chin on my hand, adding longingly, “Sure beats my apartment and the view of the parking lot.” I glance at Chris. “Does your studio have this kind of view?”
“Yes. I’ll show you later if you’d like.”
A thrill goes through me at the idea of seeing where he works. “I’d like that very much.”
“The studio view is why I bought the place. Plenty of inspiration for my work since I love this city. It’s home to me and always will be.”
“When did you move to Paris?”
“My father moved us when I was thirteen.”
My brow furrows as I try to recall anything I’ve read about his family outside of his father and remember nothing. “And your mother is-“
“Dead.”
“Oh.” I let my elbow drop and straighten. His one word reply has said far more to me than many entire stories have. “I’m sorry.”
“As I am about yours.” His voice has softened and taken on a somber quality.
I study him, trying to read his impassive expression, and I am so hungry to understand this man, I dare to go where I probably should not. “How old were you when she died?” I hold my breath; waiting on an answer I’m not sure he will give me. He has, after all, confessed an unwillingness to share personal details with the women he…dates? Fucks? I’m not sure. Actually, there is a whole heck of a lot I’m not sure about at this juncture of my life.
“Car accident when I was five.”
He spits out the information without hesitation, almost as if he’s reciting someone else’s story, but I see it for what it is - a coping mechanism. I know that mechanism all too well. You find a place to put things, to deal with them or you crash and burn.
“I was twenty-two when I lost my mother,” I say, offering him no words of sympathy. I’ve heard them myself. I know they don’t help. “She had a massive heart attack the day of my college graduation.”
He stares at me and we share a moment of understanding, of loss, of knowing there is nothing more to say. We both had something sucky happen to us. We both dread the rambling sympathetic purrs of those who discover our losses. We both get it and each other. We just…understand.
Seconds tick by and I think I’ve shared more in these moments with this man I’ve known only days than I have anyone except maybe my mother. We understand each other in a way few can.
It’s Chris who breaks the silence, reaching for his fork and motioning to my plate. “Eat before my masterpiece gets cold.”
I nod and in silent unison, we pick up our forks and begin to eat again in silence, both thoughtful. There are so many questions I could ask but I don’t. Personal questions about his family I know I can’t ask now, if ever. He’s already shared more with me than I expected, as I have with him. Still, with this new revelation about his mother, I want to know this man now more than ever.
“Why painting?” I ask. “Why not a sport or the piano, like your father?”
His jaw tenses, barely perceivable, but I notice, and I wonder why. What nerve have I hit?
“My father dated a rather famous artist who decided I needed an outlet outside the schoolyard brawls I was getting into for my anger.”
“Wait. You were fighting? You don’t seem like a fighter.” Then again, he’d all but flattened Mark, who had seemed untouchable, with nothing more than words.
“I was a teenager. I was in a new place and I didn’t speak the language, and I was an outsider to the other kids. It was fight or get beat up. I don’t like being beat up. The problem was that once I started fighting, I looked for reasons to keep doing it. I was pissed off about being in Paris and wanted to come back here. The result was I got kicked out of school.”
“Ouch. What did your father do?”
“He didn’t even know. The woman he was dating at the time — the artist I mentioned - stepped in and got me back into school. Then she sat me down and told me I had anger issues and had to find an outlet. She shoved a paintbrush in my hand and told me to create something worth looking at.”
“And what did you draw?”
He laughs. “Freddy Krueger from Nightmare On Elm Street. One of my best works to date, I might add. I was trying to be a smart ass.”
I laugh. “You? A smart ass? Never.”
“You think I’m a smart ass?”