Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
He belatedly notices me coming toward him, and when I am close enough, he snaps his sketchbook closed. His eyes go wide, and he quickly looks left and right — for an escape.
Aha! I know guilty when I see it, and this stranger has it written all over his handsome, sculptured face. I bite on my lip, hiding my smile. “I don’t want to sound obnoxious, but I’m pretty sure you were just sketching me.” I pause, pointing at the sketchbook on his lap. “And closing your sketchbook like that kinda makes you look extremely guilty.”
His lips thin into a straight line, but he doesn’t say anything back to me. “Look, I don’t have a problem with it. But if you were drawing me, I just want to see how it looks.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice deep and gruff.
“Huh?”
He finally looks up at me. Our gazes meet, and his brown eyes are stern and intense. “Why do you think I’m sketching you?”
I point back toward my bench. “Because I saw you. I kinda caught you red-handed. So, can I see it?”
He’s silent for a minute, before he grumbles under his breath, “Yes.”
I sit down next to him and he opens his sketchbook, before handing it to me. My breath catches in my throat. The girl on the paper can’t possibly be me.
The art is detailed and exquisite. Every line is drawn with startling precision and patience. As if he was trying to be careful not to stain the image with any outside flaw.
Her hair is flowy, and her eyes are deep and expressive — pained.
At first glance, the girl in the drawing is breathtakingly beautiful.
But the closer I look, the more haunting she becomes. There’s a restlessness in her innocent expression, a feeling I know very well.
“This is me?” I question out loud, practically choking on the words.
“I’m not a professional artist,” he defends quickly. “So, I’m not very good at it. I only draw when I’m bored.”
He misunderstood my shock. “No, no,” I tell him. “It’s beautiful. It’s just…I didn’t expect it to be so…detailed.”
This stranger didn’t just draw me.
He sees me.
I swallow and look up from the sketchbook. “Thank you,” I breathe, and then a shaky laugh escapes past my lips. “I am delightfully surprised.”
“That’s a good thing then?”
I nod. “Yeah, yeah, it’s a good thing.”
My gaze flickers back to the paper and I can’t help but run my fingers along the lines of the drawing. We’re both quiet for a long time, and I bask in the comfortable silence.
This is the first time I’ve spoken to someone since I left rehab. The first time I’ve willingly approached someone in a very long time. It’s crazy to think how I’m living in a house with my parents, but I haven’t spoken a word to them since I came back home three months ago.
They don’t want to see me, so I stay out of their sight.
I should be apprehensive of the stranger I’m sitting next to, but there’s something in his silence that puts me at ease. He doesn’t sneer at me, doesn’t watch me with disgust, even when I constantly feel his burning gaze on me.
His silent curiosity speaks to me. I hand him back his sketchbook and lick my lips, before speaking again. “Do you mind if I ask for your name?”
He slowly cocks his head to the side. “Only if you tell me your name first.”
I tuck my annoying stray hair behind my ear. If he’s asking for my name, that means he doesn’t know who I am. This is my first indication that he’s not from around here. If he is, then maybe he’s just new in the area or he’s not much on social media. Because my humiliation from the Christmas gala has gone viral.
And if he doesn’t know who I am…then I can be anyone I want to be.
Someone who is not the haunting girl in his drawing. I don’t have to be Riley Johnson — the worthless, grotesque girl that no longer belongs anywhere.
I swallow, and then smile at the stranger. “Daisy,” I tell him, “Daisy Buchanan.”
His brown eyes light up with recognition. “The Great Gatsby?”
So, he’s not just an artist, but he recognizes classic literature too? Mr. Tall, dark and handsome is now ten times hotter. I simply shrug and wait for him to give me his name.
He surprises me when he finally introduces himself. “You can call me Jay then,” he says, in his deep riveting voice. “Jay Gatsby.”
My heart does a somersault in my chest. “You’re kidding, right?”
“If you can be Daisy, why can’t I be Jay?”
Point taken. His lips twitch with a secretive smile. “So, Jay,” I start, calling him by his obvious fake name. “How did you get into art?”
A muscle ticks along his chiseled jaw. “Someone suggested I use art as a medium to clear my thoughts. I find that it works.”