Drawn to You Read online

  How had he begun burning Christine’s painting? It had happened like nothing, an almost organic motion. He’d been lecturing the class on their inability to create anything worthy of the art school—explaining that Christine was closer, but even she had worlds to go. He knew that showing off, as a teacher, spoke volumes—forced some sort of “energy” behind his students’ eyes. And so, he’d sparked the lighter under the canvas, smelled the canvas begin to burn…

  Mario snapped his fingers, skirting through his all-silent class, toward the edge of the canal. Christine remained with her fists against her chest, tears sweeping down her cheeks. And beside her was Max Everett—a man who’d explained he was divorced, or planning to be. Things were beginning to click. Max Everett. Amanda Everett. Christine…their daughter…

  Christine spun toward Mario as he approached. Had Mario been alone, without the watchful eyes of Max, he’d had a million beautiful responses. A million ways to explain to her just exactly what his tactics had been. Since he and Christine had begun working more one-on-one, they’d grown more accustomed to one another’s angry spells, to one another’s surging adrenaline. And it was true, absolutely, that Christine’s work—now floating along the water—had been a kind of derivative drivel, something he would have forced her to recreate anyway.

  Christine looked like she was preparing to say something. Her tongue licked across her lower lip. Then, she surged past them both—between Mario and Max, disappearing between the buildings. They heard her footsteps, still echoing as she tucked around the shadows, finding refuge elsewhere. The classmates had begun to titter amongst themselves. It was the response Mario had desired, from them: to be fearful of their teacher. To not know quite what he was going to be up to, next.

  Max’s eyes remained burning into Mario’s. Mario gave him a small smile, as if to say, “So it goes.” Energy sizzled between them, filled with a million questions. Chance encounters often left Mario dizzy. How had so many factors come into play, that very early afternoon, to surge Max Everett and Mario together not once, but twice? Of all the twists and turns he could have taken, on his route back to the studio…

  “I just told her,” Max said, almost blurting it.

  “What?” Mario asked.

  “About the divorce. My divorce. My wife and I…” He trailed off, spreading his hands wide before him.

  Mario’s cock swelled slightly, gazing at those fingers. How long they were, the clean nails gleaming in the Italian sun. Max couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years older than Mario, which made him on the “older” end of people Mario had wanted. Something about him seemed forbidden, of another world. And certainly, the fact that his father had so revered him, made Max infinitely more attractive.

  “I’m guessing it was a bad time to set fire to her painting, then,” Mario said, sniffing. He offered Max a wry smile, wondering how to dig himself out of this grave. He’d made a mockery of Christine, in front of her father.

  “There’s really no way to know how she’ll react to things,” Max said, allowing his chin to drop slightly. “She’s a live wire. Like her mother…”

  “And like myself. And, surely, like you. Every artist I know is easily set off,” Mario offered. “It’s the ones I know to trust. The ones with passion.”

  Max shifted his weight. His eyes glanced back down the tight alleyway, where his daughter had disappeared. Mario’s heart strained, willing for him to say something to yank Max back. To keep him there.

  “You know, she really is turning into something,” Mario said. “Perhaps we could, I don’t know. Meet up tonight to discuss her progress…”

  “Never thought she had the raw talent of her mother,” Max said, drawing his nails across the back of his neck. “And yet, we’re giving her everything. Amanda and I…”

  “She’s fighting to find her artistic voice,” Mario said, leaning his face closer to Max’s. “She’s hungry for it. Wants to reach for it. And my arms are wide open to anyone like that, Max. Even if that means I have to set fire to a painting or seven. Even if that means I have to scream at her, to draw the energy out of her—the energy I can use…”

  Behind him, something clattered to the ground in the studio. He listened as a student darted across the cement, scrambling through the broom closet to find something to clean with. Down the canal, a boat sounded, a near-constant reminder that they were on the water—always poised to sink into the sea.

  “I’ll meet you tonight. To discuss Christine,” Max said, his voice lowering. “I think it will only benefit you, to know everything. To help her. You surely already know her better than I do. A father who was frequently absent. A father who could never really…understand her.”

  Mario reached between the space, drawing his fingers along Max’s thick forearm. It was meant to be a gesture of understanding. A gesture that told Max to calm his anxious mind. Nobody was a good parent; nobody knew anything more than anyone else. Instead, his fingers seemed to sizzle with electricity, upon his touch. He nearly yanked back, so charged with the strength of it. Something inside his brain told him to keep his fingers there, almost fondling the soft black hair. Max gazed at Mario’s fingers, his eyes heavy with something. Was it realization, that this touch held volumes? Was it annoyance? Surely, it couldn’t be that.

  “Let’s meet at nine,” Mario heard himself say, his voice bouncy and light—the voice of an arrogant professor. “I’ll meet you at the piazza I saw you at earlier.”

  Max nodded. With a subtle motion, he drew his arm back from Mario’s fingers, slinking it around his waist. He forced his body to turn, back toward the alley. Mario marveled at all he could already perceive from Max, just from these moments of interaction. That he had no clear understanding of his daughter. That this decision—to divorce—was seemingly something he had to say out loud, to people like Mario, over and over again, in order to believe it. He was in a state of indecision. A state of fear.

  “I’ll see you at nine,” Mario called, as Max spun toward the alleyway, without answering. “My strange American architect.”

  Max didn’t hesitate. He strutted down the alleyway, disappearing from view. Mario swept his fingers through his hair, his heart fluttering. He felt on the verge of something huge, like he was teetering over a cavern, preparing to fall. Behind him, another student seemed to drop something. It clattered over the floor, then shattered. Mario spun back toward the crew, stabbing his fists on either side of his waist. The students blinked up at him, their eyes fearful and rodent-like. He was the man who’d set fire to the best student’s artwork; a student he, apparently, had been growing close to, in one-on-one meetings. For this reason, no one was safe.

  Mario bounded back into the classroom, his motions rabbit-quick. The students followed him with their eyes, with the student who’d broken something teetering back to her feet. Mario whipped a lighter into the air, then smashed his thumb over it, drawing the flame. He whirled it through the air, toward their faces, his eyes wild. “Never know what you’ll get in this class, do you?” he asked, feeling like a magician, a performer. “Never know what’s going to happen next.”

  Chapter Five

  Max

  Max rushed down the cobblestones, his brain fizzing with thoughts of Mario. Mario, Christine’s teacher. Mario, this seemingly erratic, chaotic Italian man. When Mario had reached out to touch Max, every single cell in Max’s body had screamed with alarm. Even when he’d first met Amanda, his body hadn’t surged with such adrenaline. His cock was still heavy in his pants, pulsing and rock-hard in his pants. He’d never had such a physical reaction to anyone, or any one thing. It was almost violent, this reaction. Unexpected.

  Of course, Max had long ago come to terms with knowing he wasn’t the most practical of all men. That “artist brain” was very much a real thing, causing him to toss from one feeling to the next, willy-nilly. Once, he’d demanded that his building be torn down, half-way through the building process, due to the fact that he’d had a dream that made it
worlds different, worlds better. Perhaps these simmering feelings for Mario were just as passing as any other fancy; perhaps they were hormonal, or due to the fact that Max was surely jet-lagged as fuck. Plus, he’d always felt that attraction and anger were closely tied. And his anger at his daughter—for her youthful reaction—although, she was very much a young girl, herself—could have riled him up for this strange, bubbling…

  Sexual anticipation.

  He had to focus, to recharge his mind. Christine was out there, a blubbering mess. And, even if he didn’t altogether like his daughter, or appreciate her in a sense that was Christian and kind, he still owed it to his familial unit, and Amanda, to track Christine down and care for her. Didn’t he?

  Max pressed forward. Around him, Venice seemed to come alive in the afternoon, vendors selling vegetables and little sandwiches, meats sizzling on grills, women sitting outside gabbing together over glasses of wine. None of them was his daughter. As he moved, he cursed himself for going with Christine to the studio, before checking into his hotel. He could have napped atop the sheets, with the Italian sun gleaming in through the window. He could have prepared a better way to tell Christine the truth. Now, everything felt rotten. It was too late to plan anything else.

  Max sped around yet another corner. With a gasp, he recognized his daughter on the second step of a grand Renaissance church, her neck draped downward and her face against her palms. Tears streamed down her neck, gleaming in the light. Above them, the church bells began to chime—clanging together, without beauty. Max stepped toward his daughter. For a moment, on those steps, he saw only the young woman his wife had been, when he’d met her. Nineteen years old, the most whip-smart girl at the art school party. And yet, that night, his eyes had been on the man in the corner, twenty-two, twenty-three years old, maybe, his fingers twiddling over the guitar strings.

  Life just kind of fell out in front of you, didn’t it? You couldn’t really choose.

  Maybe in another reality, he actually stepped away from Amanda—winked at her, maybe—and then flirted with that male guitarist in the corner.

  Maybe Christine wouldn’t have been born.

  He stabbed his fingers into the side of his thigh, making his nostrils flare. He tried to take the thought back. Of course, he didn’t truly want to banish Christine back into the ether that was nothingness. There had been joyful times. He’d been there when she’d taken her first few, shuddering steps (no easy feat, since he’d begun traveling a great deal already, at that time). “Good timing,” Amanda had said, chuckling, her eyes filled with tears. “It’s like she waited for you.”

  Max stepped closer to his daughter, not wanting to frighten her. Christine whipped her head upward, allowing her curls to cascade down her back. Her eyes burned into his. Above them, the church bells stopped their horrific clanking. Christine’s jaw was set, as if she’d decided, once and for all, never to speak to her father again.

  “Come on, Chris,” Max sighed, using the nickname only Amanda ever used. “It’s not like I’m the guy that just set fire to your painting.”

  “He was right. It was shit,” Christine spewed. There, she was doing it again, cursing. Making Max’s skin crawl. “I didn’t know how to get myself out of it.”

  Max wanted to point out that these words couldn’t have been more perfect for his marriage, for how he currently felt about his romantic life. His tongue lodged back, tightening in his throat. It wasn’t the time for such things to be said. Too much honesty had burned through them already. It reminded him of something a German architect friend had said to him once. That the world was bubbling with truths. That sometimes, that truth could drown you.

  “Well, he sure as hell helped,” Max sighed. He perched at the edge of the steps, just below her. Christine blinked down at him, clearly aghast.

  “So, you really just came all the way here to tell me that you’re divorcing Mom?” Christine demanded.

  Max’s shoulders sagged. “I have this building going up here. You know that.”

  “You have buildings going up all over the world, and you don’t oversee them,” Christine said. “What brought you here. Right now. It was to tell me about the divorce. We can’t lie to each other anymore, Dad.”

  Max allowed his head to tilt forward, a nod. It was the only thing he felt strong enough to do. Then, his tongue lashed out—a surprise. “I haven’t known you in years, Christine,” he said. Was this a truth? “Maybe I never really knew you. Now, now that I’m losing your mom—one of the best women in the world, if not the very best—you’re all I have, in a sense. And dammit, Christine. I don’t want to let you go without a fight.”

  The words poured from him, without boundary. Some of it seemed actually genuine, the stuff lurking behind his anxious, throbbing brain. Christine’s lips parted at this. At her insistence that they no longer lie, he’d actually offered her some form of truth.

  “You came here to get to know me?” Christine whispered, her voice quivering.

  “Like I said,” Max murmured. “You’re all I have, Christine. I don’t want to lose you.”

  They sat in silence for a long moment, both staring at the cobblestones at their feet. At ground level, people swarmed, chuckled, tossed backpacks over their shoulders and strutted along the ancient canals. The movement felt akin to an ant colony, or watching a swarm of bees. For Max and Christine, they were stoic and solitary. Max’s fingers latched together over his knees. Had he fucked up his daughter so much, that she didn’t want to give him this chance?

  And what had led those words out of his mouth, anyway? He had a flight booked back to Chicago. He’d assumed he’d be back for a business meeting the following week, after checking up on this Venice build—and, of course, delivering the news to Christine. Something seemed to burn in the back of his brain, a kind of expectation or a promise. Something bigger than what awaited him back at home.

  He didn’t want to face that reality, back in that Windy City. The reality that he’d punched a hole through his marriage, destroyed his family. The fact that he’d allowed so much of his personal life to filter off, while he became a soulless architect and businessman. If he’d met himself as a nineteen year old, just before meeting Amanda, would he have liked the man he’d turned into?

  His career no longer surged with poetry. His body felt tired, achy. He hadn’t had a single, creative thought in years. And now, perched alongside his daughter—a woman who, it seemed, wanted to fight for creative pursuits—he yearned for something more.

  And it wasn’t the adrenaline from meeting that stranger, her teacher. It couldn’t possibly be. They’d only just met. He was nothing, less-than nothing. Just an element to bring Christine to the next level of her career.

  He could be nothing more.

  “Let me just stick around for a little bit longer,” Max heard himself say, his thick fingers drawing lines along his knees. “You’ve been here a month, but I know you must feel like you’ve learned a lifetime of knowledge. Share it with me, Christine. I was nineteen when you were born, you know. I had to move up into the world too quickly and become something. You’re allowed something beautiful. A time to create yourself, alone…”

  Christine held his eyes for a long moment. His daughter. His beautiful daughter. And yet, he felt no sense of “ownership” over her. No sense that she had anything to do with him.

  “He’s an asshole, my teacher,” Christine said suddenly, casting her glance across the canal.

  There, an elderly couple eased into a gondola, with the husband gripping the wife’s hand with red-hot hands. It occurred to Max that that should have been him and Amanda. A couple, growing old together.

  Max’s throat tightened at the mention of Mario. “Sometimes these teachers, they have different tactics…” he began, knowing he sounded like someone much more boring than he really was. He hated that most about parenting, or had hated it the most about parenting—past tense. You had to pretend that you knew so much better, when, in actuality, you d
idn’t know shit.

  “I suppose that’s what all of you artists are,” she continued, without acknowledging what he’d said. “And look at me. Wanting to become one of you.”

  “Your mother got away with being a kind, generous spirit, too,” Max heard himself say. “Maybe you’ll be allowed the same path as her. If you’re lucky.”

  “If I’m lucky,” Christine chuckled. “Whew.”

  Christine flung herself to her feet, walking down the steps. Sweat dripped down her back, easing into the fabric of her dress. “Come on. Let’s check into your hotel,” she called back, without turning her head. Her legs continued to stride forward, gazelle-like. “I’m ordering room service, and I’m going to knock myself out in one of those cushy beds. You know I’ve been sleeping in a dorm room since I got here? As an upper class woman from Chicago, it’s been drudgery. They tell me that’s where some of the best art comes from. Pain.” She paused, clenching her hands at her waist and spinning back toward her father. “You coming?”

  She was joking, maybe. Playing with him. They’d never had the kind of easy relationship that allowed for jokes. Maybe they could try for it now?

  Max sprung to his feet, following her lead. Something glimmered behind her eyes. A kind of decision, about which Max didn’t understand. Perhaps she’d resolved that she was going to give him this chance. That, so far from where she’d been raised, she could become a different kind of person. Not just the teenager who’d been cold to him, and receiving of his coldness. But a woman of the world, matching him.

  ***

  Max checked them into the hotel room, slipping his credit card across the marble counter. The Italian woman gave him a vague smile, the kind that said she had handled many men of “his caliber,” throughout her career at the front desk. He wasn’t anything special. And worse, he was American—the kind of artist that many Italians didn’t agree with, nor regard with any high acclaim. Max thanked the woman—an Italian “Grazia,” and walked down the hallway, toward a room where his suitcase and other belongings had already been taken. Christine ambled behind him, that confidence from earlier a bit lost, now that they hadn’t spoken any words in the previous ten or so minutes. The walk from the steps of the church had been stunted. Perhaps she was truly living in the face of her parents’ divorce, now. Weighing the reality. Seeing how it smelled.