The Painter & the Pretty Girl

c h a p t e r t h r e e : georgia

Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous. - Hebrews 13:4

PRESENT DAY NEW YORK (after The CEO & The Christian Girl)

I CALLED A FAMILIAR number. The only problem was, I had no idea who would pick up.

The receiver of the call in my mother's apartment landline should've been a no-brainer: my mother. Yet as of late, it had received another guest.

George Devereaux.

He needed a place to stay. My mother didn't like all my late nights, constant jetsetting, and the fact that her nearby apartments had experienced a string of break-ins. When I suggested moving, hiring security, or something else, she had shaken her head and simply told me to come home more often. I refused and found her a guard dog.

Well, a guard man. George slept in the spare guest bedroom.

The fact that the aforementioned guard was about to be evicted from the country for an expired visa weighed heavily on my mind as I waited for him or my mom to pick up.

"Georgia," said George's voice. A voice I'd come to know far too well recently. "What is it?"

"What is it?" I repeated. "You're being deported–"

"I'm not being deported," he said calmly. "I mean, maybe a little."

"How can you be a little deported? Are they deporting your ears but not the rest of you? Must be, since you never listen."

"That was a good one," he said drily. "You stay up all night thinking of that?"

My insomniac tendencies were none of his business, but I didn't say that. "I have the solution to all your problems."

"All of them? What about that weird shooting chest pain I sometimes get? Can you solve that, Doctor?" he asked.

"You know what I mean."

"Fine. I'll meet you at Kismet at four," he said.

He'd already known my usual favourite meeting spot, which I was halfway to already. Though the hot chocolate place was usually packed with tourists, I enjoyed people-watching there. George had joined me there a time or two.

"Fine," I  said back, just to get in the last word.

He hung up and I walked faster, grateful that I'd worn motorcycling clothes–thick leggings, a leather jacket, and ankle boots–instead of fancier clothes with heels today.            

When I reached the frozen hot chocolate shop, the immediate recognition I received from the hostess, whom I'd once helped land a modelling gig, allowed me to immediately bypass the line of tourists (who groaned, cursed, and hurled invective at me) and be seated at a table for two in the corner.

I checked my Apple watch and saw I was five minutes early, which, in George Devereaux's world, meant I was actually fifteen minutes early.

Yet to my surprise, he showed up promptly at four o'clock. He slid into the seat opposite me and began perusing the menu, though we both knew exactly what he would order.

"Do you remember when we first met?" George asked me.

"You mean when you got in the way of me admiring Michelangelo's Pieta? As much as that was a pivotal moment in my life, I haven't really considered it lately. I've been thinking more about how you're about to be deported or your visa expiring."