The Muse by Nicholas Matthews Page B

the way.  He looked over his shoulder a couple of times to make sure Faith was doing ok.  She smiled at him each time.  Gibson wasn't used to anyone looking at him that way and tried not to focus on how good it felt.  Yet, even as he basked in the glow of her appreciation, he felt guilty because of it.  Faith was in a vulnerable position.  He was trying to help her, not take advantage of her situation.  He did his best to keep that in mind.  It wasn't right to help her out in the hope of making himself feel better.  He wasn't supposed to be making Brownie Points by actually giving a damn.  Maybe he was just killing two birds with one stone.     
                It was only as they reached his floor that Gibson grew nervous.  His place was a mess.  He wasn't used to having company.  He suddenly felt ashamed of how he lived and was scared of what Faith might think of him after seeing his inner sanctum.
                “I haven't cleaned up or anything,” he protested. 
                Faith touched his arm.  “Don't worry about that kind of stuff.  You were kind enough to want to help me.  That's all I see right now.”
                Gibson nodded and opened his door.  “Welcome to my home,” he said.  “Disregard the dead bodies in bathroom, the underwear hanging from the ceiling fan, and the bomb-making materials in the study.  I'm just your average, ordinary, everyday guy.”
                “You're also a dork,” Faith said, punching him playfully in the arm.        
                The place was a testament to the merits of poverty, and Gibson immediately felt embarrassed.  He led her over to the green couch that was covered with magazines, unfolded laundry, and a stack of mail he hadn't bothered to read.  With a swipe of his arm, he cleared the sofa, sweeping everything else into the floor. 
                “Sit down,” he said as he rushed into the kitchen.  “I'll grab some ice and see if I've got anything in the medicine cabinet to help with the pain.”
                “I'm fine,” Faith protested.  “Don't go to a lot of trouble.”
                But Gibson was gone, racing through the apartment on a mission.  Faith couldn't help thinking it was an endearing quality that he was so intent on taking care of her.  He was so completely unlike himself.  What had happened to him to make him act this way? 
                She could hear him tinkering around in the bathroom, rifling through the various bottles in the medicine cabinet.  She decided to take that opportunity to look around.  She wasn't trying to be nosy per se, but rather, wanted to learn more about him.  Studying the place he lived would surely provide a clue or two.  She only had to take a few steps before discovering something that made her heart beat a little faster than it normally did. 
                There, propped up at the foot of Gibson's bed, was a painting of her. 
                Gibson came out of the bathroom just in time to realize that she had seen it.  The look on his face was one of abject horror.
               

Chapter 7
     
     
                For a moment, neither of them knew what to say.  Finally, it was Faith who broke the silence.  “It's very good,” she said.  “You are extremely talented.  I never imagined you were so skilled.” 
                Gibson stood there, holding an ice pack in one hand and a bottle of aspirin in the other, unsure of how to respond.  “It's not what it looks like,” he said.
                “And what do you think it looks like to me?” she asked, amused.
                “I don't know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.  “I just don't want you to think I'm weird.  Like I said, it's not what it looks like.”
                “It looks like me,” Faith said with a wry