Say Yes by Kandi Steiner
The Art of Vulnerability
What I assumed used to be a living room in this old house had been transformed into a studio, the walls lined with sketchbooks and anxious artists, while a model took up the space in the middle. It was warm, every neck beaded with sweat, but the windows were open, and a small fan ran in the corner of the room, providing a light breeze.
Liam spoke with the girl in the overalls who’d let us in, while I focused on the model in the middle of the room.
She was completely naked.
Lying on a burnt orange chaise, she had one hand draped overhead, and the other softly caressing her supple breast. Though it was hot, goosebumps pebbled her skin, and her smoky gray eyes were lost in space, focused somewhere in the distance.
She seemed to be living in her own little world, one where there weren’t a dozen pair of eyes cataloging her every feature.
“Ten minutes,” I heard the girl tell Liam. And then he pulled her a little away from me, whispering something in a hushed voice. I imagined he was telling her about my hand, about my insecurity, because she glanced over her shoulder at me with a reassuring smile before nodding at Liam that she understood.
Not too long after, the host announced in Italian first and then English that the time was up for this model, and that I would be the last one. With the help of a few of the male artists, the chaise was removed, the artists moved in closer, the center ring much smaller than it was before.
“This is Harley,” she said when the furniture was rearranged, smiling at me before she waved me to the center of the room. “Our hand model for this magical evening.”
All the artists in the room greeted me with warm smiles, and I tried to return them as I took my place in the center of the room. Instead of a chaise, there was a simple chair and a small table. I took a seat, closed my eyes, and then withdrew my hands from under the table.
I heard it, the brief silence followed by the soft vibration of everyone taking a breath at the same time when they saw my hand. Panic zipped up my spine, and when I tried to find Liam, he wasn’t standing where I’d left him. My breath came even shallower until I finally found him.
He was sitting at one of the artist stations with a sketchbook in front of him.
“I’m right here,” he mouthed, giving me a nod.
“Go ahead and take your posture,” the host instructed me. “Don’t force it, just do whatever comes natural.”
I inhaled, looking down at my hands before I closed my eyes and exhaled.
Relax, I told myself.
My rigid spine eased, my rib cage loosened its grip on my lungs, and then I sank a little deeper into my chair, crossing one leg over the other and propping my right elbow on the table. I rested my chin in the nook of my right hand then, the pinky and thumb framing my jaw, and my left one spread out on the tabletop as I found something to focus on.
My eyes landed right on Liam.
In the next instant, the room came alive with the sound of pages turning, pencils sharpening, chairs scraping against the hardwood floor as the artists got situated. The host turned up the volume on the record player in the corner, and then the room filled with the sounds of classical music, sweet and calming.
I felt all the eyes in the room on me like hot coals, and the urge to wiggle away from the burn was so strong I didn’t know if I could fight it. But anytime I’d start to feel like it was too much, Liam’s eyes would flick up from his sketch to me, and he’d hold my gaze until I felt calm again.
It’s like he knew without me even saying a word.
I found myself committing this image to memory — the high ceilings of the house, the antique chandelier hanging above us, the flicker of the candles around the room, the deep browns and reds that made up the interior.
Most of all, the way Liam’s eyes peered over the top of his sketchbook and into mine.
Strands of his chestnut hair framed those dark eyes, and they disappeared only brief moments at a time to look down at his sketch before they were on me once more. His lips were relaxed, but every now and then, he’d chew his bottom one — usually when he was erasing something in his drawing.
I cataloged every feature as I stared at him, as much the artist as I was the model. I knew the moment I was alone, I’d paint this. I’d paint the candle flames dancing behind him, the shadows covering his face, his damp hair falling in front of his eyes, the stark lines of his jaw and his nose, the intricate stubble on his chin.
The more I focused on how I would paint him, the less I cared that everyone in the room was drawing me. It was almost a meditative state, an out-of-body experience, and before I knew it, the host lowered the music gently, waking us all from the spell as we blinked and stretched and looked around at each other with sleepy, satisfied smiles.
“Thank you for your time this evening, artists,” the young woman said, and then she turned to me with her hands clasped at her chest. “And a special thank you to our model.”
I nodded with a flush as a round of light applause filled the room, and then I beelined for Liam, rounding his station to see what he’d drawn before he could think to hide it.
My entire body froze when I saw it.
The girl he sketched couldn’t have possibly been me. Her eyes were strikingly beautiful, the kind that stare straight into your soul and see you for exactly who you are, no matter how you try to hide. He’d sketched my lashes long and dark, my nose perfectly symmetrical, and he’d even carefully drawn the mole above the left side of my mouth. My hair was thick and lush, cascading over one shoulder, and though I still wore my jacket over my dress, he’d sketched me in a spaghetti strap top that accented my collarbones, the deep V of it hinting at modest cleavage.
And then there was my hand.
The detail in which he’d captured each finger was incredible. From the fingernail of my pinky where it framed my chin, to the delicate bones of my wrist and the lines where my thumb bent — it was exquisite.
To top it all off, he hadn’t just sketched me sitting in a dimly lit house in Italy. He’d sketched me in a field of flowers, a dense forest behind me, wings spreading from my back, and a crown of thorns and flowers on my head as if I were a fairy queen.
“Do you like it?” he asked in a hushed voice.
I touched my lips with my cold fingertips, eyes still scanning the picture. When I first saw it, I couldn’t see myself at all. But now, all I could see was the most accurate depiction of me I’d ever witnessed — even more so than any photograph I’d ever been the focus of.
Tears welled in my eyes, but not because I was sad, or panicked, or ashamed.
Because for the first time in my entire life, I felt desirable.
I swallowed, blinking out of my daze before I met his dark eyes with mine. “I love it.”
The corner of his lips tugged up just a notch, and he reached forward, carefully ripping the page from the sketchbook and rolling it up before he tucked it inside his jacket.
“Come on,” he said as he stood. “On to the next adventure.”
The city of Florence pulsed on when we were inside that quiet, calm house, which threw me off when we made our way back toward the bridge and saw restaurants and bars still bustling. The busses had stopped running, so we’d been walking for quite a while, and I knew it was after midnight now, though I couldn’t be sure exactly what time. Still, the city was alive with laughter and music.
“Oh my God,” I said as we walked past one of the street vendors packing away her cart. “I’ve always wanted one of those. Is that weird?”
Liam smirked at the sight of the necklaces hanging from the top of the rack, each with a piece of rice inside. “So, get one.”
I shook my head. “Oh, she’s packing up, it’s ok—”
“Excuse me, miss?” Liam asked, bypassing me to greet the woman packing away her necklaces. He pointed at the ones still hanging. “May we?”
The woman smiled and nodded but continued putting things away as Liam waved me over to get a closer look.
“Who knew yes night would make us so obnoxious?” I murmured under my breath.
“If we were that much of a bother, she would have turned us away. Money is money, no matter what time of night. Now,” he said, reaching out to hold one of the necklaces between his fingertips. “Which one?”
The necklaces were simple — black cotton or silver chains, each with blown glass tubes filled with water and a solo piece of rice floating inside. Some were just plain tubes. Some were framed with a few beads on either side. And some had glass blown into different shapes and colors — everything from bright yellow smiley faces and yin and yang symbols, to roses and dolphins and more.
My eyes caught on one with a deep navy-blue mushroom head peppered with lime green spots, and I plucked it from the cart, holding it up with a grin at Liam.
He chuckled like my choice surprised him, and then he trailed his fingers along the line of necklaces until he found one with a smiley face almost like the one Nirvana used as their logo, with the exed-out eyes and tongue sticking out. It looked like a little kid’s sloppy attempt at copying it, which I almost loved more than the original.
Liam took the one I’d picked and handed both to the vendor, who smiled and scooted her seat up to a small folding table with a light, various bags of rice, and colored pens.
“Name?” she asked me first.
“Harley. H-a-r-l-e-y.”
She nodded, and with tiny, precise handwriting, she inscribed my name on a piece of rice before tucking it in the necklace I’d chosen and filling it with some type of oil. She glued the top on before handing it back to me and telling me to be careful with it.
Liam grabbed it out of my hands, instructing me to turn around so he could put it on me. As I did, she asked him what name he wanted on his.
“The same, please. Harley.”
I stilled where I was scooping my hair off my neck, my next breath lodged in my throat, but Liam put the necklace around my neck and fastened it at the back without so much as a pause or look in my direction. When it was on, I let my hair fall again, peeking at him from over my shoulder.
Did he just get my name on a necklace?
On his necklace?
A few moments later, and Liam was handing me his new jewelry and turning around so I could put it on him. I had to step on my tiptoes, and even then struggled a bit, but I got it on, and then he looked down and framed the little tube with his finger and thumb.
“Cool,” he said simply. He pulled out his money before I had the chance, and then we were on our way again — but not before he pulled out the camera and snapped a picture of us with our new necklaces.
“You know, I haven’t paid for a single thing tonight,” I remarked as he put the camera away. “That’s not very fair, considering this was all my idea.”
“Well, I’m getting hungry. Care to buy our midnight snack?” He frowned. “Or after midnight. What time is it, anyway?”
I glanced around for a clock, and when I didn’t find anything, I paused mid-step to ask a table of girls sitting outside a bar.
“Excuse me, do you have the time?”
They looked at me confused, one arching a brow at the other before she shook her head. “No English.”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “Of course. Um…” I tapped my wrist as if I had a watch on. “Time?” Then, I saw the smaller of the two had on a watch, and I pointed to it next.
“Oh!” she said as recognition hit, and then rather than trying to read it to me, she stuck her arm out for me to read on my own.
“Grazi,” I said, waving, and then I turned to Liam. “One thirty.”
“Ah, the night is young!”
I chuckled, tucking my hair behind my ear as we stood there in the middle of the street. I wanted so badly to ask him about his drawing. I wanted even more so to ask him why the hell he got my name on a necklace. Instead, I just waited for his next move.
“Do you hear that?”
I froze. “What?”
“The song.”
I strained to hear what was coming from down the street somewhere. “Is that… Mariah Carey?”
Liam started walking in the direction of the sound, and the longer we walked, the louder it got, until we were standing outside a dimly lit bar across from the Pitti Palace.
A set of street performers stood near the entrance, one with a guitar and the other with a cajón, and sure enough, they were playing a unique version of ‘Fantasy’ in very broken English.
Liam and I joined the small crowd around them, and I sang along and bopped my head to the rendition.
When they finished and asked if the crowd had any requests, Liam arched a brow at me. “Do you really want to mosh? I can see if they know any Pearl Jam.”
I barked out a laugh. “Well, since I can’t say no tonight, yes. But only if they know a Pearl Jam song.”
Liam dug in his pocket and fished out a two-thousand lira note, laying it in the guitar case at the performers’ feet before he asked them so quietly I couldn’t hear. They shook their heads apologetically and offered something else, to which Liam nodded, and as he walked back to me, they began playing ‘Tears in Heaven’ by Eric Clapton.
“Can’t exactly mosh to this,” he said when he made it back. “You got lucky.”
I chuckled, folding my arms over my chest as a cool breeze blew over us. We stood there for a long moment, just watching each other, and I could feel goodbye close enough to touch.
But I didn’t want to say goodnight.
Not yet.
“You haven’t held up on your end of the deal, you know. About doing something that terrifies you.”
Liam sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked down the street instead of at me. “And you haven’t forgotten, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Well, a deal’s a deal,” he said, and then he reached out a hand for mine. “Come on. We need provisions. Let’s see what we can find that’s still open.”
“What are we shopping for, exactly?”
“You’ll see.”