Page 96 of The Leaving Kind
He added the soft black line. Found the need for another. Traced a shadow that could stand to go a little deeper and touched the pencil down another two times. Squinting at the paper, he surveyed the ratio of light to dark, the gradient of his shadows, and gauged the completeness of his sketch. No—this was more than a sketch. Something other than a simple study. This was a piece he’d pushed to completion. Not quite a painting, but close.
Drawing in a careful breath, Victor scooted off the stool and stood. He grabbed the pad and propped it up on the closest upright easel and stepped back for a proper look.
“Oh, dear lord.”
He’d done it. The face on his sketch pad had the same half tilt to the lips, the same careworn eyes. But the angle of his chin, that slight upward lift, said he wasn’t out of the fight. The direct gaze? Cameron Zimmermann wasn’t done caring yet, no matter how tired he was.
Though the portrait was rendered in black, white, and various shades of gray, Victor could feel the entire canvas of brown. The warm palette of Cam’s eyes, the tanned skin, more weathered across his forehead, softer and paler behind his ears. His nose, that crooked yet strong line. There, right there. The way his hair almost curled.
A face that was at once not handsome but utterly beautiful.
Victor massaged his chest and let go of a long, slow breath. A feeling he’d almost forgotten—or hadn’t wanted to entertain—crept beneath his hand, gripping his insides tight. It hurt, and he knew if he gave into it, the sensation would overwhelm him.
He loved this face. Loved the person who wore it. Had fallen head over heels, which was perhaps the most apt metaphor for love he’d ever heard, and would never be a chapter of his book because he had spent most of his life avoiding it. Had perfected the art, choosing lovers who were too pretty or selfish or self-absorbed (two rather distinct qualities). He’d entertained men who rambled endlessly about subjects Victor found tedious, who dressed better than he did (so annoying), who exercised properly and proudly, who believed in deities Victor had never heard of, adhered to ridiculous diets, didn’t read for fuck’s sake, and who didn’t understand art. Or who thought they did and continuously challenged Victor’s talent. Or falsely bolstered his ego because they loved the feel of his mouth on their cock.
He’d collected men and pretended despair when he discarded them.
Tholo had hurt. It always hurt. But separating himself from Tholo hadn’t been about preserving his heart. No, that had been all about his pride. About that damn magazine and the picture of Victor in that stupid little cutout. The terrible lighting and the fact he resembled a hundred-and fifty-year-old harpy.
That and the cheating. Victor could not abide infidelity. He’d have been willing to share Tholo had he been asked. Wouldn’t have minded entertaining one of Tholo’s other lovers. But to be kept on the side, or rather in the middle, while Tholo cruised the perimeter fence? No. Just no.
Victor turned away from the sketch to speak to Dexter, who had rearranged himself so that his back paws stuck out at right angles and was currently engaged in the all-important task of butt cleaning.
“It’s a simple life, but a good one,” he told the cat, his throat tight.
Dexter continued licking. His inattention to Victor’s spiraling emotions served a purpose, however. Victor stopped circling the drain. Mentally, he cast Tholo aside—Good riddance, you trite little fuck—and turned his thoughts back to the disaster at hand.
He’d fallen in love with Cameron, and this was so not good. Not good at all. The stupid part? He’d known it was going to happen. Had guessed it the minute he’d started seeking beauty in Cam’s features. Not because he needed to be with an attractive partner, but because the more one got to know another person, the lovelier they became.
Feeling panicky now, he pulled out his cell phone and called Tez.
“Hey, you,” she answered. “What’s up?”
“I’m in trouble and I need your help.”
He could almost hear Tez coming to alert. “What happened?”
Breath caught in his throat, and his heart seemed determined to continue beating faster, his pulse increasing until it launched from his chest and took off to orbit. Victor clamped a hand over his breastbone. “It’s Cameron. I ... I drew him again, properly this time. All the shades, my full set of pencils, and ... Fuck, Tez. We’ve been seeing each other, and it was too soon after Tholo, and now I’ve gone and fallen for him and it’s going to end in disaster and I’m not ready. I’m not ready!”
“Victor! Take a breath.”
He sipped at the air.
“Take another one. Deeper. Count with me. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four.” Tez repeated the pattern a few times, and Victor counted the breaths off in his head. His pulse slowed and the rocket launcher under his heart petered out.
“Okay.” He studied the drawing again. The art he’d been working on all morning, outlining, shaping, molding, and shading, until he’d brought a face out of the paper and kissed life into it.
His pulse sped up.
“Not working,” he stuttered.
“Being in love is not the worst thing in the world!” Tez sounded exasperated.
“Oh, but it is, Tez. It absolutely is. It’s going to hurt when he gets tired of me. It already hurts.”
“What if he doesn’t get tired?”
“Have you met me? I’m exhausting.”