Before Thirty

20. Blake

"The guy in my sketches wasn't you. I don't know what you think you saw."

The joy of a photographic memory is that I know exactly what I saw, in detail. If I had any artistic talent, I could probably draw them again, curve for curve and line for line. I've rarely considered my memory as a negative, but this is one time where I'm not sure it's a positive either. When I closed my eyes last night, those sketches were front and center.

She's so defensive, I decide to take a different tactic. "They were..." I clear my throat. "Very good. Excellent."

"Oh, my god." She brings her T-shirt over her face and eyes. "Stop talking about it."

"I know supply chain management or graphic design aren't your ideal careers. As an alternative, I'd think you could do something with those drawings. Maybe not those specific drawings."

She peers at me over the edge of her shirt and seems to be assessing whether I'm serious. "Like a graphic novel, but erotica?"

"Not necessarily erotica—nothing wrong with that if that's where your passion lies. I'm sure there's a market, and I bet it sells. You're a great storyteller, at least in person. Have you tried translating that onto the page?"

"Like writing a book?" She lowers her shirt, and the dark red tint has left her face.

"Or a graphic novel. Though isn't that just a comic? Drawing the pictures. Writing the storyline."

"I—I don't know. I've never thought about it. My art has always been my outlet. Mostly self-taught." She shoots me a furtive glance. "Scenery, caricatures, still life... a young Keanu Reeves in various states of undress."

I smother a smile. She's trying it on, and I'm going to let her have it. We both know Keanu doesn't have a substantial scar above his right eye, and though I've been told before there's a passing resemblance, that's not who she drew. If it makes her more comfortable to pretend otherwise, maybe we can regain the platonic vibe.

"A fantasy," I say. "Best left on the page." I can feel her staring at me, but I keep focused on the road. The comment can land, but I have no desire for it to land hard.

"Since I don't have a time machine, and I don't know Keanu personally, that's all it'll ever be." Her tone is flippant, but when I sneak a glance, she doesn't seem happy.

We drive in silence for a few more minutes, and I wonder whether I should prod the issue a bit more, so she knows it's not that I wouldn't get involved with her in a less platonic way, it's just that I don't think it's wise. Travel companions with benefits seems straightforward in theory, but so far everything about my time with Gwen has driven me outside my comfort zone.

"While we were on our little vacation from each other," Gwen says, filling the silence, "I invited my friend, Izzy, to the cottage on the St. Lawrence River. I can invite her boyfriend, Jeremy too, or I can rent a place for me and Izzy. Whatever you want."

She's talked about Izzy before, and I'm not sure if I should be surprised that she needed to fill the travel buddy void immediately or not. Gwen is independent with a side of needing people around her constantly, and that trait in particular, is the opposite of me.

"After Quebec City?" That's three weeks from now. "What'd we rent again?"

"A two bedroom with a pull-out couch. There's room, but I don't know if you want my friends crowding your personal space."

I peer at her, even though there's no bitterness or accusation in her tone. "For the whole week?"

"Izzy thought probably just a long weekend. Three or four days?"