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Chapter EIGHTEEN

I'm nervous as he leads the way into the studio. The light is cool and moody still, coming in through the bank of windows. The bed is neatly made, which is somehow reassuring.

"Okay." He stands by a stack of paintings against the windowless wall. He's barefooted below his jeans, wearing only a plain blue t-shirt, his hair slightly tousled, and I can see the vulnerability on his face. He's never been more beautiful to me than he is right now, both eager and afraid. My heart is pounding, too, and I put my hand on it, wondering what I'm so worried about.

"Remember, I didn't start painting at all until I was twenty-one. Like, never an art class of any kind, no drawing or sketching in my free time. All I ever did was snowboard."

"Ok."

He turns the first painting, and then another and another and another, going down the line to reveal the subjects in a hurry, seven, then twelve, then sixteen. There are young faces and old, male and female, most in underwear or nothing much at all, but it's not about nudity or sexuality. The eyes are exaggeratedly large in all of them, and in some other features are bigger, too, like ears or the crooked teeth of a teenage boy wearing boxer shorts and a knit cap with tassels hanging down around his neck.

A puff of wonder leaves my lips. Stepping forward, I admire one, then another. A middle-aged man with a chef's apron over his bare tattooed chest and enormous, exhausted eyes, a cigarette burning in his right hand. It makes me think of being poor and working too hard. The next is another middle-aged man with perfect hair and eyes as hard as diamonds. "Is this your father?"

Tyler frowns. "How did you know that?"

"I don't know." I look back at the face. "Cruel mouth, expensive haircut. And he kind of has the same color eyes you do."

He nods. His arms are crossed over his chest as he watches me.

I had been afraid that they would be terrible, so terrible that even I would realize it, and then I'd be embarrassed for him and worried about what to say. But they're not terrible. They're really, really good. I pause in front of one of a woman-my age, maybe-wearing a swimsuit. Her breasts and lips are exaggerated here, like balloons. Her eyes are filled with tears. "Tyler." My voice is as hushed as if I'm in a church. "These are amazing."

"Yeah?"

I nod. Look at him. "Really amazing." I point. "I love what you're doing with the idea of nakedness. Revelation?"

"Yes!" He steps forward, eager now, and points out details in several of them. "I was so proud of this, the way her hands look." Another. "And the ears here. Listening, get it?"

"I do."

There are still some facing the wall. "Are those in progress or something?"

"Uh." He makes a little noise. "No." Turning to look at me, he takes my hand. "I've been trying to decide whether I should show them to you or not."

"Old lover?"

A nod. "Lena." He raises one finger. "It's not that I think you'll be mad. It's that maybe it isn't fair to her to show you what I saw in her." He pauses, his eyes very serious. "Does that make any sense?"

I close my eyes, and in answer sway forward and kiss him. Maybe I'm a fool, but it seems an example of honor and kindness. "Yes," I whisper against his soft lips. "Yes, very much so."

His hand rests on the small of my back. "Thank you."

We skip past the portraits of Lena. One of the last is a self-portrait, Tyler from the back, naked, his body circled with scars like a snake that's squeezing him to death. His head is turned toward over his shoulder, eyes lost and vacant, one hand reaching. It knocks the air out of my lungs. He says nothing as I absorb it. A dozen responses run through my head, but they all sound trite or pat. It scares me a little, seeing that he feels so lost. "When did you paint this?"