The Real Deal

“You’re up for that?” There’s genuine enthusiasm in his tone.

As the train slaloms out of Manhattan, rattling past concrete buildings, I answer. “I painted a few models last year, and I’m under consideration to be the lead painter.”

“Holy shit. You paint people for a living. That’s your actual job?”

I smile, proud of what I do. “Yes, it is.”

“That’s fascinating. You have to tell me when you land that gig. Promise me you’ll tell me.”

I laugh. “Sure.”

“How did you get started?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes. I’ve never met a body painter. I want to know it all.” His eyes are fixed on me, and he seems to listen intently.

“I started with my brother’s kids. He’s thirteen years older than I am.”

“Does that mean you’re an ‘oops’ baby?”

I shake my head. “No. Well, I suppose it’s possible, but my parents made it pretty clear that I was their ‘later in life’ baby. My brother Mitch is forty-one, my sister is thirty-six, and I’m twenty-eight. Mitch’s daughters are teenagers now, but they were grade schoolers when I was in high school, so I learned to paint faces on them. Then I moved on to the local farmers’ market and painted there. I was quite good at it, so I started doing parties in college for fun. After college, I picked up random little gigs here and there. Halloween, then a mom would hire me for a kids’ party, then her friend would hire me for a sexy nighttime party, an adults-only affair where I’d paint sensual images on the women in their low-cut dresses. Soon, I was invited to corporate events, and shows, and my friend Tom got me my first big gig for a magazine. That broke me out, and one thing led to another.”

“And now what do you do?”

“Magazines, commercials, photo spreads, even some movies from time to time. Music videos. I painted all these slinky tall women silver in a music video last year for Jane Black,” I say, mentioning a ridiculously popular singer.

“That was you?”

“That was me,” I say, and I whip out my phone and flip through some pictures I’ve taken of my work through the years. He points to the shot of the cheetah I painted this week. “That’s awesome. Can you send it to me?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why do you want it, though?”

“Because it’s cool. Because that—” He stabs his finger at the phone. “—that is crazy talent.”

I beam as though a ray of light glows inside my chest. This is what I long for. Not the praise per se. But the understanding.

I fire it off to his phone; then we look at some more pictures. He whistles appreciatively, a look of wonderment in his eyes that makes me happy. “Your family must be so proud of you.”

“Actually,” I say, wincing, “not entirely.”

“How could they not be?”

“They don’t think it’s real.”

He knits his brow. “Real? How could they not think it’s real?”

“They don’t really understand it. Everyone in my family has more straightforward jobs. Boatbuilders and bakery owners and such. They think I’m cobbling together a living painting faces at farmers’ markets and Renaissance festivals.”

He laughs. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that either.”

“Exactly. That’s good work, too. And I’ve tried to explain that I’m one of the lucky ones in my field—I’ve moved up, I’ve nabbed fantastic gigs for commercials, magazines, and catalogs. I’ve shown them the pictures, but some are too risqué for their tastes. They still think I’m painting butterflies on faces.”

“I bet they loved that.”

“They did, and I’m sure they’ll demand more at the reunion. I’m quite skilled at painting pretty much anything you can imagine on a person.”

“What would you paint on me? If you could pick anything.”

I use this chance to let my eyes take a tour of his body. I have more than free rein. I have express permission to stare. He’s fit and toned, and I could turn him to a chrome-plated man, I could transform his back into a cello, change his chest into a sky about to storm. “Ask me in a few days. I’ll have a better answer then.”

“It’s on my to-do list for a few days from now.” He mimes writing an item on a pad of paper. He asks me more questions as the towns slide past the windows, showing off lush hills and verdant trees that tower over white colonials and redbrick mansions.

But all these questions are about me, and I need to know the man I’m bringing home. My buffer. My new lover.

“My turn,” I say. “What about your family? I want the real Theo truth now. We can pretend with other people, but we should be honest with each other, don’t you think?”

He blinks, then meets my eyes. “Everything I’ve told you has been the truth.”

I arch a brow. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“One brother.”

“Are you close?”

“Yes. No. Sometimes. Very.”

“Okay. That covers just about everything.”

A sad smile crosses his mouth, then meets his eyes. “Yep. It sure does.”

“Where is he now?”

His voice is strained when he says, “Boston.”

“What about—?”

He cuts me off before I can say parents. “They passed away.”

My heart hurts. It pounds achingly, and I want to run a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Theo.”

“Me, too.”

“How old were you?”

He licks his lips. Closes his eyes. I would paint sparrows on him now, with folded wings and sad eyes, because that’s what would suit him. “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”

“Fourteen. I was fourteen.”

My chest collapses, like a Coke can stepped on by a giant. I can’t even imagine. Here I am, bringing him home to ward off efforts by my family simply to pair me with a man. He doesn’t have a family. Then it hits me again, like a double whammy. He was fourteen when he lost them—they must have died in a car crash or some other terrible tragedy.

“Is it easier for you to pretend you have parents or are you comfortable when someone asks about them? Because they will ask.” I shrug sheepishly. “It’s only a natural question, and my family will want to know you.”

He raises his face. “It’s easier for me to speak truthfully on this one. Maybe that means I’m not so good an actor as I thought, but if I make up a story about them, it’ll feel real and I don’t want to go there.”

“I understand,” I say softly, then segue to his profession. “Have you always wanted to be an actor?”

He angles away from me. “I’ve wanted to be different things at different times.”

“But do you like what you do now? Acting requires so much passion and dedication. Even to do this kind of acting.”

He stares straight ahead. “Yeah. I like it.”

He doesn’t seem to want to talk more about it, though, so I move on to other areas.

We settle on a few more key details of our backstory as the train rattles along the Long Island Sound, the ribbon of water framing our journey. The sun slips down the sky in a fiery ball of orange and pink fury. Houses shimmer and whole hillsides are swallowed up by the speed of the train as twilight flirts with the sky. The story of us feels so believable, from the night I met him to our tryst on the train to the foosball matches, and I wonder if it’s because we already have this fictional intimacy or because he’s truly a star at pretending.

Then I remind myself—he’s good at pretending.

Snap out of it. It feels true because you hired an actor, dumbass.

The conductor announces the next stop.

“That’s one stop away from Wistful,” I say, amused. “That means we talked the whole ride.”

“Yeah, we did. You’re a chatty one.”

I act shocked. “So are you. Also, you and I don’t do what’s known as,” I say, stopping to sketch air quotes, “‘companionable silence.’”

He gives me a quizzical look. “That’s a thing?”