I realize that he's not going to stop asking questions until I at least give him an answer.
"Yes."
"You're incredibly talented."
"I'm okay," I say in response.
"Okay?" he repeats, brows furrowing. "So, that's your thing."
"What is? Painting?"
"No. Putting yourself down."
Ah.
I bite my lip, sucking it into my mouth, and turn my eyes from his.
I hear him putting the painting down, and the next thing I know, he's standing before me, and his fingers are holding my chin, turning my eyes to his.
I stare up at him, holding all my pain inside of me. Pain that is begging to escape.
"You shouldn't hide your talent away like that," he says gently.
A dry laugh escapes me. "And why would I have them out on display when all they do is remind me of what I can no longer do?"
Shit.
His brows come together in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Christ. Me and my big mouth.
"Why do you even care?" I toss at him. "You still hated me this time yesterday."
Confusion turns to anger. "I never hated you, Ari. But this isn't about me. So, don't try to distract us from the issue. Tell me what you meant by that."
"I can't paint anymore, okay!" I push his hand away from my face. Stepping back, I bump into the wall. "I stopped drinking, and now, I can't paint anymore. Happy?"
"No, I'm not happy." He leans against the opposite wall, eyes watching me. "Why can't you paint?"
"Weren't you just listening?"
"I was listening. I just think it's bullshit."
"Fuck you."
The bastard smirks. "There she is. Foulmouthed little Jailbird."
"Stop calling me that!" I yell, my hands going into my hair and making two fists. "God, you're so infuriating!"
He laughs this time, and I want to take a fist from my hair and use it to punch him right in his perfect jaw.
"I'm glad my life is a joke to you."
His humor disappears, replaced with irritation. "Trust me; the last thing I think you are is a joke."
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
"Tell me the real reason you can't paint."
"Because the alcohol made me good. I don't drink anymore; ergo, I can no longer paint."
"How long have you been painting?"
"Since I was a kid."
"When did you start drinking?"
"When I was a kid."
He frowns. The look in his eyes makes me want to shrink in on myself. Disgust laced with consternation.
"I was fifteen," I add quietly, my eyes lowering.
It takes a good minute before he speaks again. I wonder for a time if he's actually going to say nothing and just walk out of my apartment. I wouldn't blame him.
"But I'm guessing you started painting before you were fifteen. A gift like that, it's always in you, right?"
"Yes … " I say, slowly looking back up at him. "I've always painted. Since I was small."
"Then, you still can. You just think you can't. But your talent is still in there."
"I don't know … "
"Do me a favor. Stop punishing yourself with the blank canvas out there."
"I am not-"
He holds a hand up, stopping me, giving me a look.
Am I punishing myself? I thought it was to try to inspire myself. But wouldn't I have the paintings where I could see them to remind me of what I could do … what I might be able to do again? Not the blank canvas.
"Hang the paintings up. Remind yourself of what you're capable of. Of what you're good at. What you love. Well, all of them, except for this one." He reaches for the ballerina painting, picking it up. "I want this one."
"Why?"
"My niece is obsessed with ballet. She'd love this."
"I didn't know you were an uncle."
"Two nieces. They're Zeus's kids. Gigi is five and ballet-obsessed. And Thea is only six weeks old."
"Cute," I say.
"Ridiculously so."
"I bet you spoil them rotten."
He gives me a look. "All the damn time. Case in point." He nods down at my painting. "So, can I buy this from you? It doesn't matter what it costs."
"No." I shake my head.
"Ari-"
"Take it. Call it a gift for, you know, your help last night."
"You don't owe me for that."
I shrug. "Whatever. I still want you to have it. Well, your niece."
"You have to let me give you something for it. I can't just take it. It doesn't feel right."
"Honestly, I don't want anything, but if it bothers you that much, make a donation to a charity instead."
"Okay. I can do that." He nods. "Which charity?"
"American Foundation for Suicide Prevention," I say without thinking.
He's wordlessly watching me. Like he's trying to fit all the pieces of me together, but he's coming up short.
"Okay." His voice is rough. "I'll make the donation today."
"Thank you," I say softly.
We're quiet a moment. All of the unspoken words hanging silently between us.
He's the first to speak, "Well, I guess I should take off."
"Right. Yeah. Of course."
I follow him into my living room and watch quietly while he puts his shoes on.
Then, I follow him to the front door. He unlocks and opens it, stepping through, my painting in his hand.
"So … thanks again for the save last night."
He shakes his head in silent reproach. "You don't need to thank me, Jailbird. I did what any guy would."
"Well, not any guy. I don't think Kyle would threaten you to save my ass."
"Good point," he says.
I chuckle.
"Don't forget I'm driving you in the morning."
I tap two fingers to my head and salute. "Why do you get there so early anyway?"
He's always there first before all the other players, and he is always the last to leave.
"I like to do cardio before training starts."
"And after? You stay way later than the other players."
"Weights. Sometimes, I have a massage. And I like to spend time watching tape."
"Geek," I say.
He laughs.
"Well, at least I know why my dad thinks you're the shit. You're certainly his most dedicated player."
"You don't think I'm the shit?"
"Nope." I smirk. "I think you are shit."
"Low, Jailbird." He slaps a hand to his chest. "You almost hurt my feelings." He steps back. "Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. Be ready to go."
"Yes, boss."
"And don't go watching Dexter without me," he throws over his shoulder as he heads for the stairs.
Does this mean he wants to come back? Not just to drive me to work, but to watch TV with me? Maybe be my friend?
I feel a little glow inside of me at the thought.
"Got it. But you don't need to worry. I wouldn't dare watch it alone. Seriously. I'd shit if I did."
That earns me a laugh. "Later, Jailbird."
"See ya, Mr. Perfect."
I shut the door on the sound of his deep chuckle and lean against it, feeling a little lighter and a lot happier.
It's Friday. I'm in a great mood. It's been a good week.
Ares has been giving me a ride into work every day and dropping me home, just like he said he would.
He even walks me up to my apartment when he takes me home, like he thinks Kyle is going to jump out from behind the wall and get me.
There's also been no sign of Kyle since that night, which is a good thing.
Ares and I are getting along well. No more sniping or shitty comments from him.
We're actually talking like normal people. And I'm finding that we have more in common than I would've thought.
Well, not tons in common. But we like a lot of the same movies and music.
Okay, so that's it. But I like him. I like what he has to say. I like listening to him talk.
I find that I look forward to our chats in the car.
And I haven't had a bad moment once this week. Don't get me wrong; the need for alcohol is always there, in the back of my mind. It's just not been as strong.
Ares hasn't once mentioned us watching Dexter together again though. And I don't want to be the one to ask him. I don't want to push a friendship onto someone who doesn't want it. So, the ball is in his court.
Although I am dying to watch more episodes of Dexter, and I'm wondering if I should just watch it alone. During the daytime, of course.
I've seen Missy a few times this week, which has been fun. I like her a lot.
We had lunch together on Sunday. She had called a few hours after Ares left to invite me to lunch. We met at a cute little café in Times Square. She apologized for missing the cinema, which I told her she didn't have to. I mean, her friend was having a baby; that was way more important. She told me that her friend, Amanda, had a boy called Freddie. Missy showed me a picture of the baby on her phone. So freaking adorable.