She’d gained another kind of experience, though. Her cheeks flushed warm as she tried not to think about the things they’d done these past few nights. It had been good. Really good. But that wasn’t the point right now. It didn’t matter how much she’d been enjoying herself—sex wasn’t going to help her figure out her life.
And nothing was as easy as Rylan made it out to be.
Her stomach did a twisting set of flips as she recalled his reaction to her grad school dilemma. He’d made it all seem so simple. She loved art, so therefore she should go for it, give it her all. Risk everything. The very idea of it was terrifying.
And thrilling. She’d never gotten that kind of support before. Had someone stand up to her father’s voice in her head, telling her that drawing was a waste of time. She was a waste of time.
The twisting in her stomach turned into a hard, painful clench.
Rylan’s words had made her feel better about considering taking this chance. But they were just a few words, after years and years of being made to feel like she wasn’t enough. Sure, Rylan’s opinion was the one she wanted to believe. But she still had to prove that she was worth this chance. At least to herself.
Before long, her stop came up, and she rose, clutching her bag close as she made her way off the train and up to the surface.
Of course, that was where she really had to start paying attention.
With her mental map firmly in grasp—and her paper one tucked away so she didn’t look like too much of a clueless tourist—she headed north, keeping an eye out for the things that looked familiar. More than once, she half turned to point something out or ask a question. To grab Rylan’s hand.
She rolled her eyes at herself as she crossed the street. Stupid. She’d left him behind not only because she needed some time to herself—which she did.
But also because she was embarrassed to admit that she was going back to someplace she’d already been.
Her very first day with him, she’d sworn she’d find some time to go back to the Louvre, but as her time in the city had flown by, it hadn’t been the old, grand paintings in the museum that had called to her to visit them again. Instead, it had been the city itself. The version of it that Rylan had shown her. The top of the hill where he’d challenged her to open her eyes.
And she had. And what she’d seen had been beautiful.
Montmartre was just as bustling, the climb to the top of Sacred Heart just as arduous as she remembered. But somehow, when she finally reached the top of it, the view of rooftops and skyscrapers and the swath of city spreading out before her toward the horizon was even more incredible. The feeling of lightness in her chest more expansive.
Winding her way through the thinner weekday morning crowds, she found a spot at the railing near where they had stood together Sunday afternoon. It was earlier in the day, so the angle of the sun was different, but she could work with that. She picked out a place to sit a few feet away and pulled out her tools, planning ahead in her mind. Graphite on paper to start with. Then if she liked where that was going, she had some other options. Colored Conté crayons or charcoal. A cheap little set of watercolors. Concentrating, she decided on a composition and dug in, sweeping her pencil across the page.
Twenty minutes later, she had a fair representation of the scene. She held it out at arm’s length and looked at it, frowning. Accurate, but not emotive. It didn’t give any sense at all of how it felt to be there, looking out across the Paris skyline.
Frustrated, she flipped the page and started again, attacking the scene with more fervor this time, laying down bolder lines and deeper swaths of shading. Trying to pour the light and air and scent of Montmartre into her page.
Her piece of charcoal snapped in half within her grip, and she blinked furiously against the blurring of her vision as she stared down at what she’d done. Her eyes prickled harder, and her breath got short. Shit, this one was even worse.
She wanted to fling the whole damn sketchbook off a cliff. Who did she think she was kidding? This was high school–level work; she’d be laughed out of critique for it. She’d be laughed out of grad school.
And there was that voice again.
The worst part was, her dad had almost never told her to her face that she wasn’t good enough. He’d said it with his frowns and his disappointed sighs. His absolute disinterest when she tried to show him something.
He’d said it to her mother. Maybe he’d thought she couldn’t hear, or worse, maybe he hadn’t cared. She’d been right in the next room. She’s wasting her time on that crap. Like hell I’m paying for lessons. She’s gotta grow up sometime . . .
Maybe it was time to grow up. To give up.
She dug her nails into her palms, sharp enough to snap her out of it. No. No way in hell she was giving up. She’d spent the last ten years overcoming that kind of thinking, working to banish that doubt. It hadn’t been easy, after she and her mother had finally left, but it had been good. There’d been no more tiptoeing around a quiet house, afraid to awaken a sleeping beast. There’d been a tiny apartment full of love, and there’d been her mom, telling her she could do anything. Be anything.
Just like Rylan had this morning. Rylan, who’d taken it for granted that of course she could make it in the New York art scene. Rylan, who barely knew her and who believed in her.
She swiped a clean part of her wrist across her eyes. She was better than this. She could do better than this.
Turning the page, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
In her mind, she was back there on that Sunday afternoon, on this very hill and on the footsteps of this very church. Rylan stood behind her, his chest broad and solid against her spine, his hands warm on her skin. He’d kissed her neck the way he seemed so fond of doing—the way that made her shiver and turn to mush.
She’d felt something more than just in awe of the city at the time. Tired from the climb, and close to someone who was interesting and beautiful and who treated her like she and her pleasure were precious. She’d felt . . . connected. To Paris. To her own life and breath.
To a man with more secrets than she had time.
That wasn’t the doubt she needed right now.
If he were here, he’d be sitting right beside her. Quiet and supportive. Reading or playing with his phone, making random comments as they struck him. But he’d be patient. He’d let her see the city the way he knew and loved it. He’d let her make something of what she saw.
She opened her eyes again, and the cityscape in front of her seemed to resolve itself. Without looking, she traded her pencil for a stick of soft, ephemeral vine charcoal and started sweeping out the world in broad strokes.
Once she had the basic shapes sketched in, she eyed the work she’d done. She was calmer now, better able to look at it with an analytical eye. It needed more bulk. More weight. She fumbled for the little tin of powdered charcoal she’d made fun of herself for bringing at the time. It was such a mess, but when she dipped her fingertips into it, the sootiness of it felt right. She smeared it onto the page, using the hard pressure of her strokes to show the crevices and depths between buildings. A light blush of it to hint at the wispy expanses of clouds in the sky.
Darker, more permanent compressed charcoal now. Finer lines. Her fingers started adding in other things, too. Spindly intimations of connections between rooftops and streets, anchoring the sky to the earth. Tying her and it and the lover she could almost feel behind her back together in one rough portrait of a place. Of a time.
Of herself, from beyond the page.
Finally, she set her stick of charcoal aside. Her shoulders were stiff and her left foot was half-asleep, but in her lap, she had a drawing. She regarded the image for a long, long time. Relief broke over her like the dawn.