Then, Now, Me

Chapter 15: Now

My eyes lazily drift open to fall upon the morning streak of light trickling through the window blinds.

Jem"s fingers are tentatively running through strands of my hair, and I realize that he must have woken up before me. My head feels heavy as I raise it up from his chest to try to meet his eyes. They appear closed at first, but as though sensing my inspection, creak open. A light smirk graces his face, and he says in a gravely tone, "Morning, Sweetie."

I rest my head back down and let my eyes fall closed again as I say, "Hey, You." I snuggle in close, forming my body against the slopes and hard planes of his, and with a relieved sigh, once again realize we"re are both fully clothed.

We continue on this way for awhile, his fingers walking trails through my hair, and me squeezing against his side, as though reassuring myself of his presence.

We don"t speak again until the sun is fully assaulting the room. Jem breaks the silence and asks, "So what do you feel like doing today?"

I consider the night before of being out and about, meeting people, listening to music, and hanging with his parents. It was all such a whirlwind of faces and names and generic small talk that my introverted self needs a break. With that in mind, I say tentatively, "What if we stayed in today?" And then I add when another thought pops to mind, "Maybe I can see your artistic process?"

With the side of my forehead resting against his mouth, I can feel him smile softly. He responds, "Only if I can read some of your writing."

I laugh, feeling self conscious, "Oh geez, I guess so." I squeeze harder and say into his chest, "Please don"t make fun of me."

Chuckling lightly, he kisses my forehead. "Never," he says with a hug, and then rolls over to begin the morning routine.

OOOOO

Paint, paintbrushes, canvases of all shapes and sizes, easels, and big clipboards (or something like that) litter the back sunroom. I look down at my measly little laptop, sitting wide open on the leather couch and think about how low maintenance - and possibly boring - my artistic process is in comparison to Jem"s.

"I know what you"re thinking," Jem says, waltzing into the room. He looks incredibly cute and downright sexy in ripped jeans, an old fitted Silver Chair concert tee, and doo-rag wrapped around his mane of hair; it"s all clearly his "making art apparel," since there are splotches and splatters of paint from every angle. "My stuff is a complete mess." He shakes his head and adds, "With how OCD I am, I really don"t understand how I tolerate this whole thing."

Tearing my eyes from his form, I scan the room one more time. "Nah, it"s incredible that you know how to manage all of this," and I add, feeling poetic, "You somehow transform the chaos into a unique, Jem-inspired piece. It"s really quite the feat."

He smiles at me, and then looks me up and down. "So is this your typical attire for writing?"

I look down at my bare feet, cut-off shorts, and off-the-shoulder oversized sweatshirt. Touching my hair tied up high in a messy bun, I explain, "Um, yeah. I can"t be distracted by hair in my face or weird clothes digging into me, while I"m creating my masterpiece." I say this with a laugh, indicating that I in no way believe my writing to be anywhere near that great.

As usual, Jem sees right through my self-deprecating humor, "Sweetheart, I know we haven"t spent a lot of time together yet, but I can already tell that you"re brilliant. I"m sure your writing is just as mind-blowing as you are."

I can feel the blush rise up my neck and cheeks, which makes Jem quickly lope over his mounds of art supplies and envelop me in a tight hug. He pulls back to look me in the eyes, studies me for a moment, and then, before I realize what"s happening, he pinches my cheeks, "Cheekie. I love these cheeks of yours. Especially when they turn all pink like that."

Of course I blush even more, which makes Jem"s face practically split open with an affectionate grin. He wraps his arms around me tightly again and says into my hair, "Oh, Beth. What am I gonna do with you?"

"Stop making fun of me and get to work already," I say, mock reprimanding him and playfully slapping his shoulder.

He quickly backs off with his hands up in the air and says, "Yes, Ma"am." And with a wink, he dives in to his work.

I nestle myself into the couch, pull the laptop up on top, and pull up where I left off in my story. Let"s see, I begin to ponder. What happens next?

As the morning bleeds into afternoon, the only sounds from the backroom are the clicking of my laptop keys and the shuffling of paintbrushes on canvas. Jem and I occasionally make eye contact and share a smile, but for the most part, we"re in our own creative lands. It"s such a peaceful environment - something I"ve never experienced with another human being. I pause to appreciate the moment, and look at how Jem"s piece is coming along.

He must be tuned into the sound of my laptop because after a couple seconds of not typing, he turns and says, "Hey, Sweetie, what"s up?"

"Just thinking," and I smile at his obvious confusion. "It"s nice being here with you like this. Thanks."

He just smiles back and asks, "I know, it really is nice. But what are you thanking me for, Love?"

My heart sputters at his casual use of that particular pet name for me before I finally respond, "Thank you for just being you, I guess."

"Well, thank you for being you, Miss Elizabeth."

OOOOO

Before we know it, time - that ever-present thief, stealing all our precious moments away - tells me it"s time to go home.

Is it really home, though, if I"m more comfortable here? I think to myself, watching Jem meticulously clean and pack up his things.

We go through the motions of cleaning up, and because I"m all ready to go, Jem takes some time to show me how he cares for his art supplies. It"s incredible how much time and effort goes into simply taking out and putting these art supplies away. It really shows me why a lot of artists have a space where they just have everything spread out all of the time.

Soon enough, we"re standing at his door, once again faced with the kind of goodbye that does not guarantee any future hellos - in person, anyway. I anticipate I"ll get plenty of text messages as the week progresses.

"So, here we are," Jem says with a sigh, and it somehow comforts me that he seems to be thinking the same thing. "Let me know when you get home safe?" He says, slightly uncertain.

"Of course," I say, with a lift on one side of my mouth - not quite a smile, but an attempt anyway. "Maybe I"ll see you soon?" I say, not allowing myself to ask for any more specifics than that.

"I"d say yes to that, Miss," Jem says, sharing with me a bittersweet smile. "It"s amazing how these couple weekends have really - "

"Flown by?" I interrupt, quickly.

"Well, yeah that, but," and he hesitates before finishing, "I just know you so much better than I should, given the little time we"ve had together."

"Oh," I respond, flattered by his honesty, and relieved that we seem to be on a similar page. "Well, we"ll talk during the week, right?" And feeling a jolt of bravery, I add, "Give me a call, okay?"

Jem looks at me knowingly and says, "Okay," but in a way that still doesn"t convey a confidence that he will actually do it.

I ignore that feeling and go to give him a hug. Once again we"ve collided in a steady stream of kisses, squeezes, light touches and nuzzles. I allow for a few moments to pour all of my feelings out of my body onto Jem, and it seems that he"s doing the same. My intellectual being has melted back into a kind of primitive state, where my senses take over and all thoughts retreat.

Finally, we both pull away. Jem gently pushes back a lose strand of hair that has come undone from the bun still tightly woven on my head, and leans forward to kiss me lightly on the forehead. He seems to think for a moment before he places his lips once on my left cheek, and then another on the right one. He leans back and smirks with clear affection in his eyes, "Cheeks."

I giggle, and our arms drop, knowing it"s time.

"I"ll see you later," I say, once again beginning my trek back to the car and out of his life.

"Definitely," he says, putting one hand in his pocket and the other to hold open the door for me.

I look back, place a hand on his cheek and lean up to kiss him once. "Bye, Jem."

"Bye, Sweetie."