Chapter 9: The Second Visit
The smell of Club Velvet hit her first—cleaning solution, old carpet, and the faint, cloying sweetness of cheap air freshener masking something else. Lily-Anne’s knuckles were white around the strap of her satchel. It felt heavier tonight. Button, her bunny, was inside, a soft lump pressing against her hip through the leather. Taking him out of her apartment had felt like a rebellion. Bringing him here felt like a declaration of war on her own fear.
She paused outside the familiar unmarked door, the one leading to the Littles Room. The thunderous bass from the main club bar vibrated through the floor. Her heart matched the rhythm, a frantic, panicked drum.
You can leave. You can turn around. He’ll understand. But the memory of the maple stain on her thumb, now faded to a faint shadow after two days of scrubbing, anchored her. She had proof she’d been brave once.
She pushed the door open.
The contrast was still jarring. The dim, pastel-lit room unfurled before her, a sanctuary of quiet softness. A few people were scattered around: a young woman in fuzzy socks carefully building a tower of blocks, a younger man curled in a beanbag with a pacifier, eyes closed. The vanilla-lotion scent was stronger here, mixed with the waxy smell of crayons.
And there he was. Marcus sat on a large, low floor cushion in the corner, under a string of fairy lights shaped like clouds. He looked incongruous—his solid, broad frame amidst the pastel fluff, like a great oak tree growing in a pillow fort. He was examining a coloring book, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration.
He looked up as the door clicked shut. His eyes found her instantly, and the furrow smoothed. He didn’t smile widely, just a small, steady upturn of his lips that seemed to say, I knew you’d come.
Lily-Anne’s feet carried her forward on autopilot. The satchel felt like a lead weight.
“Hey,” he said, his voice deliberately softer than his workshop rumble, calibrated for this quiet space.
“Hi.” It came out as a squeak. She stood awkwardly, shifting her weight.
“This is for you,” he said, nodding to the space opposite him. He had set up another floor cushion. Between them was a low table with a brand-new coloring book—the cover showed intricate gardens—and a box of sixty-four crayons, the pristine points visible through the clear plastic lid.
“Oh.” She lowered herself onto the cushion, her legs folding under her. The satchel she placed carefully beside her, within reach.
“Thought you might like it. Less pressure than conversation sometimes.” He had his own book, she saw now—a simpler one with bold-lined animals. And a small, well-used box of eight crayons.
“You’re… coloring?” The question was absurd, but she couldn’t help it.
“Yeah. My giraffe needs a spotty neck.” He selected a brown crayon, his large hand making it look like a toothpick. He began to fill in a section, his strokes surprisingly neat. “You don’t have to. You can just sit.”
But she wanted to. The ordered lines of the gardens called to her, a puzzle of spaces to fill. Yet the act of reaching into her bag, of pulling Button out in front of him, felt monumental. She chewed her lip.
“I, um. I brought a friend.” The words were a whisper.
Marcus didn’t stop coloring. He didn’t look up. “That’s good. Friends are important.”
The permission in his neutrality gave her the last ounce of courage. She unzipped the satchel, plunged her hand past her notebook, and closed her fingers around Button’s soft, familiar ear. She pulled him out, settling him in her lap. His one eye, slightly loose, gazed up at her. He smelled like home, like lavender detergent and safety.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus glance, just a flicker. His expression didn’t change. “Handsome fella.”
The tight coil in her chest loosened one single, crucial notch. She picked up the garden coloring book, the pages crisp. She opened it to a page of sunflowers. Selecting a yellow crayon, she began.
For a while, there was only the soft, rhythmic scratch of wax on paper. The ambient sounds of the room faded. Her world shrank to the sunny circle she was creating, to the solid presence of the man across from her, to the soft weight in her lap. She was careful, so careful, trying to keep the yellow precisely within the black borders.
Then her hand slipped. The yellow streak shot past the line, intruding on the green stem section with a garish, waxy smear.
She froze.
In her head, a critic’s voice, sharp and familiar, hissed. Sloppy. Ruined it. Can’t you do anything right? Her breath hitched. She braced for a sigh, for a correction, for any sign of disappointment from Marcus.
He was watching her. He had set his crayon down.
“Let me see,” he said, his tone gentle.
Reluctantly, she turned the book toward him, pointing a trembling finger at the mistake. “I messed up.”
He leaned forward, studied it. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he picked up his own coloring book. He turned it to show her. His giraffe’s spots bled clumsily over the lines in several places. The colors were bold, uneven.
“See that?” he said. “My giraffe’s having a spotty day. Got them all over the place.”
“But…” she started, confused.
“It’s perfect,” he said, cutting her off softly but firmly. He held her gaze. “Art isn’t about staying in the lines, Lily-Anne. It’s about the color you choose to put on the page. That yellow is a happy, brave yellow. I like it.”
The critic’s voice in her head sputtered and went silent. She looked down at the smear. It wasn’t a mistake anymore. It was just… color. A happy, brave color.
A small, wet sound escaped her. She was crying, but not from sadness. It was a quiet release, like the exhale he’d spoken of in the workshop. A single tear plopped onto the page, blending with the wax.
Marcus didn’t comment on the tears. He simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean, folded handkerchief—plain blue cotton—and offered it to her.
She took it, dabbed her eyes, then blew her nose softly. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He went back to his giraffe, selecting an orange now. “The page can handle it. So can I.”
She colored the rest of the sunflower with a new, looser grip. She didn’t try to stay perfectly in the lines. When she moved to the sky, she used a light blue, making soft, sweeping circles. Button watched from her lap, one ear tucked under her arm.
“What’s his name?” Marcus asked after a comfortable silence.
“Button.”
“Good name. Solid.” He finished his giraffe’s neck and closed his book. “You know, I was thinking. There’s a park near my workshop. Has a duck pond. The benches are good for sitting. For coloring, if someone wanted to.” He paused, carefully not looking at her, his focus on repacking his eight crayons. “Outside the club, I mean. In the sunlight.”
The invitation hung in the vanilla-scented air. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a dynamic. It was a bench. Sunlight. Ducks.
Lily-Anne looked at her sunflower, at the brave yellow smear, at the faithful button-eye of her bunny. She felt the ghost of the wood stain on her skin.
“Ducks are messy,” she said quietly, a tentative testing of the waters. “They don’t stay in lines either.”
Marcus looked up then, and his eyes crinkled at the corners with a warmth that reached her across the low table. “No,” he agreed, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet room. “They really don’t.”