Part 14 (1/2)
”Then there's the c.r.a.p that comes with it naturally. The sunburn, the freckles-”
”I love the freckles.” Josh taps his sketch pad with an index finger. ”I have plans to hang these on my walls, you know.”
He does?
He does. The next day, my face appears in all of his prime-viewing locations above his desk, beside his bed, on his fridge. Drawings with leaves in my hair and my eyes closed in rapture. Drawings with delicately exposed collarbones and neatly tucked legs. Drawings with a stare as direct as it is vulnerable.
I feel like his muse. Maybe I am.
”It's still so surreal,” I tell Kurt, one afternoon in the Treehouse, ”to be the object upon which his eyes are focused.”
”Object,” Kurt says.
”I don't mean object object.”
”It's wrong to objectify people.”
”You're right. I used the wrong word.” It's easier to agree than to explain the perplexing and disconcerting truth. When it's Josh looking at me...I don't mind.
Kurt is petting Jacque. He scratches underneath his chin, Jacque's favourite place, and the grey tabby purrs accordingly. ”Where'd you find that?” He inclines his head towards a heart-shaped stone.
”Oh. Um, near the Arenes de Lutece?”
”So your boyfriend found it.”
”We found it together.”
”And you brought it here together?”
I pause. And then I nod.
Jacque jumps onto his lap, but Kurt pushes him off. ”I have to work.” He yanks out his chemistry textbook, and someone else's ballpoint-pen-drawn map of underground Paris flies out of his bag and hits my arm.
I hand it back to him. ”I'm sorry I didn't tell you. We come here sometimes at night.”
”Mm,” Kurt mumbles. We work until dinnertime, but the next day, when I ask if he wants to study at the Treehouse, he declines.
The following Sunday at the Treehouse, Josh surprises me with three brushes and a large plastic jar of cheap dark-green tempera paint. ”The brushes are my own, but the paint was found. And free.”
”Where'd you find it?”
His expression turns devilish. ”The art room.”
”Cheater.” But I return his smile. ”What are you gonna paint?”
”I like that. Not what do you want to paint, but what are you going to paint.”
”I trust you, if that's what you mean.” I tug out the plaid blanket from its trunk. ”Not that I should. Art thief.”
”Paint thief, thankyouverymuch. The art will be my own.” He helps me arrange the blanket, folding it over an additional time so there's more s.p.a.ce than usual around the rooftop's perimeter. ”I'll need the s.p.a.ce to work.”
I shrug happily. It's sunny, probably one of the last warm days of the year, so I'm already slathered in SPF. I slip out of my wedge sandals and wiggle my toes in the air.
He studies the concrete wall. ”Where will we go when the weather turns?”
”I tough it out through mid-November. And some winter days aren't so bad, you know? But Kurt and I usually hole up in the dorm, sometimes the library.”
Josh glances at me. It's so s.e.xy that my heart misses a beat. ”But where will we go?”
”Everywhere,” I reply. ”We'll go everywhere together.”
”I want to show you my favourite portraits. The Van Gogh self-portrait at the d'Orsay. And there's this Van Dyck that I've always loved at the Louvre. Le Roi a la cha.s.se. I don't even know why I love it so much. Maybe you could tell me.”
I close my eyes to feel the suns.h.i.+ne against my lids. ”I'd like to take you to the restaurant inside the mosque. We'll have mint tea and honeyed desserts.”
”We'll ride the Ferris wheel at the Place de la Concorde.”
”And then we'll walk through the Tuileries and drink vin chaud to stay warm.”
”The flea market in Montmartre,” he says. ”We'll shop for rusted bicycles and broken mirrors.”
”We'll ride the metro to its furthest stops, just to see what's at the end of each line.”
”Those,” Josh says to the wall, ”are perfect days.” I open my eyes. He dips a small brush into the paint and pauses mid-air.
And then...he comes alive.
His plan unfolds quickly. He's painting a mural on the inside of the rooftop's wall. He begins with a sketch, an outline, and moves around the interior in a complete circle. It's already clear what this mural will be.
I smile and let him work in silence.
Josh switches to a larger brush and bolder strokes. Fat green leaves and thick green branches appear across the wall's peeling white paint. I lose myself in a book about the search for an ancient lost city in the Amazon, glancing up occasionally to watch the tree grow. But when he circles around again, unexpected shapes appear between the leaves. He's creating a mock-up of the surrounding skyline. It's precise but with his usual touch of whimsy certain buildings rounder, others more square.
Jacque visits. He purrs against Josh's leg.
When Josh doesn't notice which is a first, Josh adores Jacque he scowls and saunters towards me. I feed him sc.r.a.ps of duck gizzard from the salad I had for lunch, and he allows me to pet him for a few minutes before disappearing back over the rooftops.
The sun beats down. Josh takes off his s.h.i.+rt. He's so deep into his work that he's forgotten I'm here. He's a work of art himself. The lines of his back and arms are strong, more so than his slender body would suggest. He has a small mole on his right shoulder blade and a faded scar on his lower back. The skull-and-crossbones on his arm looks even more him against this backdrop of similar brushstrokes.
And...his hips. They jut out skeletally from the top of his jeans, and I find my eyes returning to this area again and again. This right-above-the-pants area.
Christ.
Josh removes a second jar of paint from his shoulder bag. As he circles a fourth time, yet another unexpected layer appears behind Paris. Towering skysc.r.a.pers. Suspension bridges. Statues of lions. He paints a Flemish building with climbing garden roses and a tiled roof, and then a brownstone with ivy window boxes and an American flag. What surely must be his house.
I was wrong. Josh didn't just turn my rooftop into an actual tree house. He turned it into a tree house with a view of the world. Our world. Paris and New York.