Roomies

Chapter 11

A Matter of Trust

Matt awoke in a momentarily strange room to the sound of charcoal on paper.

"Don't move; I'm almost done. Go back to sleep."

He relaxed at the sound of her voice. It had lost its cool, defensive edge after a long night of talking; he smiled at her scent on the pillow.

"Stop with the smile; you didn't get that lucky and you're messing up my composition."

"I think I am pretty lucky, Jane." He pushed the smile away, missing it immediately. It felt like he had let go of a handhold, standing on a slope. At the bottom of that slope would be a cliff. Don't slide, idiot. He turned his thoughts to the woman who sat a few feet away, sketching him in the early morning light. He focused on the sound of the charcoal stick she held in those long, slender fingers. He visualized the black hair, those impossibly blue eyes; those scarlet lips that she often set tightly, controlled, private. She could understand how he felt, because in her own way she had been there herself.

The sound stopped.

He could hear the floor creak slightly as she moved from her chair, putting the sketchpad down, charcoal sticks clicking into a shallow cardboard box, the quiet squeak of a spray bottle as she wiped the carbon from her fingers with a paper towel.

He felt the mattress settle as she sat on the edge of her bed.

"Finished?" he asked, opening his eyes. She was studying his face. She reached slowly, putting a fingertip lightly on the corner of his mouth, tracing the curve of his upper lip. Lifting the finger, she shifted and lightly brushed the curve of his eyebrow, and then moved to his jawline. She tilted her head curiously as she did so.

"Not yet," she said softly.

He savored the delicate touch. He could smell her skin, the faint scent of steel a mordant to the human. She smelled of art supplies; paper, the kneadable rubber eraser she had held just moments ago, turpentine, linseed oil. It permeated her being. It seemed to rise up from her skin like shimmering heat on a desert road. Art was in her, it protected her, it shaped her spirit.

So scarred, this woman, and so beautiful.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Jane."

"You shouldn't promise things you have no control over," she said simply, looking into his eyes. "I can only say that I'll try not to hurt or be hurt."

"That's what you do."

"That's the best I can do." She leaned in and kissed him softly.

"Daria? Is Janey still with Matt?" He poured himself a cup of coffee, and joined her at the table.

"They were up all night talking. I think they just kinda passed out, I didn't hear anything that would suggest otherwise."

"She's being careful here, so it must be serious."

"You and Jane have trouble attaching, having been so independent for so long. And before you say it, yes, so do I. That's why it took so long, right?"

"Yeah. Thing I wonder about is how you and I are different, yet we can mesh. You know, you and Tom were a lot alike, and it didn't work out. I guess I'm kinda worried that Janey and Matt are like that too, you know, too much like each other?"

"Phillip and I were very different, and that sure didn't work out. He was just into owning me. You and I share the need to be our own person, and we trust that we both value our relationship strongly. So, we do have our similarities. We're compatible where it matters."

"Compatible doesn't mean alike."

"Tom never understood what being an artist meant to Jane. That was based on his simple understanding of what art was, and that doomed their relationship. With me, it was that I could never really forgive myself for having hurt my best friend, and that poisoned everything. It didn't help that there were things about myself that I didn't like that were mirrored in him. And I simply wasn't ready to trust that deeply."

"Matt and I have things in common, and I think we can deal with our differences." Jane pulled up a chair, setting her coffee down. "Our styles are completely different, but we can appreciate the other."

"Told you," Daria smirked.

"His dad died a year ago, and his mother disappeared when he was six." Jane added sugar to her coffee, and stirred. "So, abandonment issues and the use of Art as catharsis and spiritual balm."

"Does he have any brothers or sisters, Janey?"

"Nope. He's had to deal with things on his own, which is why I think he's more tightly wound at the core than I am. At least he's had a few more years on me to work things out."

Daria's eyes flicked to the doorway. "Hey, Matt."

"Ears are burning," he smiled. "There's no basis for scandalous rumors, right, Jane?"

She gave him a smile, got up and took a glass out of the cupboard, along with a coffee mug. She handed him the mug and pointed at the coffeepot. "I'm not a waitress, buddy." She turned and began looking in kitchen drawers.

"Bottom drawer, Jane," Daria said, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Right." She rummaged in the drawer, and handed Matt the glass with a new toothbrush and a razor in it. "Keep it on the second shelf in the bathroom cabinet. That's my stuff. Just in case you need these again; you won't get a new toothbrush every time you fall asleep on my floor."