In six months, Gwen Johnston turns thirty, and when she does, she vows she'll have her life together. She'll no longer be jumping from one job to another, from one relationship to the next. A new, more mature, Gwen will have emerged. She's giving he...
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Patience is a virtue. That's the old saying, isn't it? If that's true, I must be the most virtuous person in the world. Each day since Blake agreed to let me probe a little deeper, I've limited myself to one personal question that makes him squirm in discomfort. Eventually, he'll give me a response, but he sometimes needs more than one try to give me an answer that truly tells me something.
I keep telling myself that it's good practice for him, and the fact he's telling me all these things is just proximity and luck. Any woman who was in my seat would be getting the same experience. My prickly pear was ready to shed some of his spikes.
The sketchbook perched in my lap is framed by panels, and I tilt my head, examining the latest one. This one is from a couple days ago when Blake and I were in the truck, and I think I've almost captured the expression on his face when he said, "I do want you to know me," and I melted inside a little. Almost. I pick up the pencil and add more shading.
After Blake suggested that my sketches might be worth pursuing, I spent an afternoon in a library reading graphic novels. Thumbing threw them gave me the idea to start documenting our trip in a different way. Rather than doodles and full-page sketches of specific events, I'm trying to recapture scenes in all their emotional resonance.
Maybe at the end of the trip, I can string together these moments into something resembling a narrative. Right now, they're just my Blake highlights—a time when he said something witty, another time when he gave me a piece of himself, another time when he made my pulse race with a touch or a look.
He hasn't picked up my sketchbook in a long time, so I haven't had to worry about him stumbling upon how my obsession has evolved.
This morning we're leaving for the airport in Quebec City to meet Izzy and Jeremy and then they'll follow us in their rental car to the cottage we've booked on the St. Lawrence River. They'll stay for a long weekend with us before heading back to Michigan.
This plan seemed great a few weeks ago when things were awkward between me and Blake, but now I kind of wish Izzy and Jeremy weren't coming. We've got our own bubble, our own groove, and I'm a bit nervous about what Izzy is going to think. Blake isn't like any guy I've ever spent this much time with, and I'm sure she'll wonder what we could possibly have in common.
Blake is out running, and I'm on the couch in the living room of our suite half-hoping he'll ask me what I'm drawing when he comes back. But I know he won't—because erotic-gate put a stop to that. He probably thinks I draw sex all the time.
Honesty, at this point, I'm not even sure I remember what sex is. This is the longest dry spell I've had since I lost my virginity at eighteen. Can you blame a woman for taking matters into her own hands?
The hotel room door opens, and I keep sketching, not bothering to glance up.
"Don't we have a rule about being half dressed in common areas?" Blake asks, his voice rough. He grabs a glass out of a cupboard and fills it with water from the sink before gulping it down.
