My Anorexic Heart

Chapter 12 - Sandy

"I can drive you home," Sebastian whispers into my hair after several minutes.

I pull my face from his pale-blue polo shirt. There is a wet spot where my tears absorbed into the fabric. "Your parents are waiting..."

 He doesn't move his hands from around me. "They can wait a little longer."

 I swallow, my throat sore as if I've been crying all afternoon, and glance back at the truck. Sebastian's parents and all the pastor-commitment stuff or home—the graveyard of childhood dreams and innocence, and the place Caesar can most easily find me.

 "No," I croak and have to clear my throat. "Let's stay."

 "You're sure?"

 I nod, biting my lower lip.

 He sighs and presses his forehead against mine. "I probably shouldn't say this but I could kiss you right now."

 My heart thumps against my chest like a hammer against a drum.

 He laughs. "Don't worry. I won't."

I stare at his pecks because if I gaze into his cloudless sky-blue eyes I might close the distance between our lips and be lost to them forever. "G-good."

He brushes my cheek with his thumb and then releases his hold on me. Sebastian's warmth is replaced with a chilly breeze. He takes my hand and turns the knob. 

The inside of the house is breathtaking and yet simple. No clutter. Just enough décor to feel cozy, but not enough to be ostentatious. Clean marble tile floors. Cream walls. White crown moldings. Overstuffed chairs and sofas. Glossy side tables with framed family photos. Tiny candy bowls here and there filled with mints or chocolates.

But, my favorite part of the house is the paintings. All over the walls in frames as diverse as the subject matter. Oils, watercolors, stencils, charcoals. The skylines of Rome and Paris. All kinds of flowers. Animals. Movie characters and scenes. Portraits of blue-eyed beauties with similar bone structures.

 "Wow," I say forgetting where I am. My eyes hungrily devouring everything before them. "I could spend hours in just this room."

 He laughs. "I'll tell my mother you admire her work."

 I turn to him. "Your mom did these?"

 "Everyone of them," he says proudly. "Except these." He walks me over to three charcoal skylines of cities I've never seen in person but are clearly Rome, Florence, and Paris. They hang on the wall around an ancient grandfather clock. "I took a drawing class while studying abroad," he half-smirks staring at his work. "I thought it would be an easy 'A.' I nearly failed. This one," he points to Florence, "saved my GPA."

I can see why. Though just in charcoal the buildings circled around the Duomo are drawn in detail from the material of the rooftops to the shape of the many windows. Ethereal light floods down from a sky not included on the canvas. If we weren't inside, I would say the sun itself casts the shadows upon the almost three-dimensional city. The shading on each building so precise, so magnificent the effect is glorious—breathtaking.

 "It's amazing."

 He chuckles and guides me away from the front sitting room. "They are nothing compared to what she can do."

As we walk down a narrow hall lined with more paintings, I can't help but internally agree. Though Sebastian's talent is profound, I feel as if I've just glimpsed the tip of the iceberg that brought down the Titanic of his capabilities. "Does she sell these?" I ask tempted to reach out and touch some of them to see if they might be windows into heaven instead of colors on a canvas.