EIGHT
Even in the comfort of the expensive, borrowed bed, sleep came fitfully and full of dreams in which I angrily chewed out Rafiq and all of his idiot friends. The redheaded woman with whom Rafiq had been making out was at the top of my list, and she found herself on the wrong end of quite the angry dream-monologue.
When morning finally came, my body felt like I hadn’t slept at all. Nothing sounded better than a long, hot shower, and a giant cup of coffee. I wanted nothing less than to speak to Rafiq, possibly for the entirety of the day.
Folding my silk robe over my yoga pants and T-shirt, I peeked out into the living room to assess the damage. The place was a wreck, but at the very least, it seemed like everyone had finally bailed back to their own penthouses, or wherever it was that they slept.
Padding across the floor toward the kitchen, I heard a soft moan in the living room and jumped, startled. Rafiq was passed out on the couch, sleeping so deeply I hadn’t noticed him at first.
Anger bubbled up inside me as all the memories of the day before came rushing back. All I could hear in my head was the blasting music from the night before, and all I could see was his handsome, stupid face in the crowd, blissfully unaware of me, and wrapped up in the arms of another woman.
But as I stood there and watched him sleeping, something else came over me. The memories from the party began to fade, and the present moment before my eyes took hold. Arrogant, snobby, thoughtless Rafiq was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I watched this different version of him, stretched out with his arms all askew like a kid about to fall off a bunk bed after a restless night of sleep. Shirtless, his bronze skin glistened with the tiniest layer of sweat. His tattoos were alive with color, rising and falling with the soft rhythm of his breathing. The soft expression on his sleeping face made him seem more honest, more human, than I had ever seen him before.
It was like I was looking at the real Rafiq, and the real Rafiq was beautiful, sensitive, soft, and almost innocent.
A pang of hurt hit my chest, realizing that he’d never looked more peaceful than when he was sleeping, and wondering what turmoil was in his mind, keeping it from him during the day. I’d been around long enough to know that no one partied as hard as Rafiq did for no reason. He was running, or hiding, from something. But in this moment, right here in his living room, he couldn’t hide. It was the real him.
An urge I recognized all too well rang like a clear bell in the back of mind. I forgot the coffee and the shower; something else had come up.
I went to the painting room and quickly gathered up an easel and a medium-sized canvas, as well as paints, brushes, and scrapers. It took me a few moments to find the right angle for the easel in the living room, but when I did, a smile burst across my face.
I began to paint Rafiq as I saw him in this moment, in his deep innocence, asleep on the couch. The way the sunlight filtered through the penthouse windows to warm up the skin on his back brought fervor to the colors I used. I opted for bright yellows and whites and oranges to match not only the natural light in the room, but the overwhelming warmth and tenderness I felt looking at the scene.
The palate spoke of nostalgia, but the boldness of the colors themselves made it more than that. One day, this moment would be nostalgia. But I would have this painting to remember what brightness lay underneath, once upon a time.
I remembered Rafiq in my gallery, saying how much he hated nostalgia, and it only made me paint faster.
Two hours flew by before I realized any time had passed. Like always happened in the midst of a moment of true inspiration, I completely blocked out my tired body, my growling stomach, and my anger for Rafiq. I painted furiously until I looked up and saw Rafiq shifting, his eyelids fluttering open as consciousness came over him.
My heart seized up in my chest. I had the sudden urge to hide, but instead, I just froze there like a deer caught in headlights, trapped behind the canvas.
Rafiq groaned unhappily as he moved his no doubt exhausted and hungover body, rolling over on the couch and rubbing his hands over his face. He sat up and rubbed at a sore spot on his neck, realizing a few seconds later that he wasn’t alone. He looked up slowly and his eyes met mine, peeking around the side of the canvas, watching him.
Rafiq frowned. “Evangeline?”
His voice was dry, cracked, almost non-existent, and his eyes darted from me to the back of the canvas and easel.
“Uh, hi,” I said meekly. “Morning, Rafiq.”
“What are you doing?” he asked, instantly suspicious.
I swallowed. “Just painting.” Technically not a lie, right?
“Painting what?” Rafiq stood up, and something dark had come over his face.
“N-Nothing…”I said.
He stalked over to the canvas to call my bluff. Worried he might damage it, I stood in front of the canvas like a human shield, preventing him from getting to it.
Rafiq gave a look so stern, it made my knees quiver.
“Let me see,” he said.
“Look, I wasn’t…”
“Let me see.” There was nothing joking or playful in his voice.
The tiniest sliver of fear ran through my veins. I stepped off to the side to reveal the painting to him. Red darkness washed over his eyes as he frowned at the sight.
“What is this?” he said in a harsh whisper, pointing. “Is this me?”
“It’s just a painting,” I said, my voice small and submissive. “I… I got inspired.”
“You got inspired to paint me, sleeping and shirtless, without my consent?” said Rafiq. Fury came off his skin in waves. “Who do you think you are? You can’t just go around painting people without their permission like this!”
There was so much rage in his voice that I actually felt stung, wounded, as if he’d taken a razor to my skin. Tears stared to burn the back of my eyes. “I didn’t mean to violate your privacy. I just… I had to do it. I saw you there on the couch like that, and I…” My mind scrambled to find the right words for my emotions. “I couldn’t look away. You were so different in that moment, I wanted to capture it. I’m sorry, Rafiq.”
The last words dropped from my lips and silence fell in the living room. Rafiq watched me, studying me, his nostrils flaring with his heated breathing. Almost as if pulled by an outside force, his gaze tore away from me and back to the painting itself. Like a magic trick, I watched as the muscles in Rafiq’s face slowly softened. His knitted brows relaxed, and the light came back to his deep brown eyes.
He turned and faced the painting head on, staring. He didn’t speak for so long that eventually I softly put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Rafiq, truly. I should have given it more thought, I just… I got caught up in the inspiration.”
At first, he said nothing. Then Rafiq reached up and planted one of his big hands on top of mine, and gave it a soft squeeze. Warmth and hope washed through me, and my panic died.
“You-you didn’t,” he said suddenly, clearing his throat. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m sorry, Evie, I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I should be the one to apologize.”
“No, you’re right,” I said. “I shouldn’t have painted you without asking first. You were right to be upset. It was a violation.”
Rafiq didn’t acknowledge my words. “This isn’t what I thought it was,” he said, eyes still on the painting. “I’ve never…”
“Never what?” I asked when he trailed off.
He took a deep breath. “I don’t remember the last time someone took this kind of interest in me.”
His words surprised me. “How can you say that? The paparazzi are constantly on your heels, and you can pluck any woman you want from a crowd. Isn’t that taking an interest in you?”
Rafiq blinked slowly. When he looked at me, there was a pain in his eyes that made me sorry I had questioned what he said.
“It’s not the same,” he replied. “I don’t know how to make you understand without being in this worl
d, but it’s not the same. They aren’t interested in me. They just use me for what they need. The paparazzi only like me because pictures of me, and stories about my life, they make money. I don’t know why, but they do. And the women, well…there’s a lot about me they enjoy, but it certainly isn’t me. It’s only parts of me. Often times, it’s just my money, and my power.”