by Jewel, Bella
“I’m so sorry,” I say when I take my place in the driver’s seat. “I don’t know what came over me.” I pause, reliving the horrible, cruel words I said to the love of my life. “You know I didn’t mean it. You know I love you more than anyone has ever loved another person. Right?”
The air in the car is thick with hurt, unsaid truths, and almost an entire lifetime of desperate love. No combination of words is enough, so we sit in silence, brooding in misery and confusion.
Eventually, I pull myself together, and we drive back to our apartment building in silence. As soon as I pull into the designated spot, Ki disappears out the door.
I rest my head on the steering wheel. What is happening to us?
Running from this is pointless, but so is standing still hoping something is going to change. I can’t keep torturing myself, wondering why Mereki is breaking his promise to stay no matter what. I can’t go inside yet. I’ll either say more things I’ll regret or suffer further from his crushing silence, so instead, I drive around until I feel ready to go home.
Chapter 15
It’s the crack of dawn on Sunday morning, and Mereki is leaving for a two-month work project in Sydney. He’s going to miss my twenty-third birthday, and I can’t bring myself to raise the subject of our five-year pact to return to the river.
“Wait,” I say, halting his approach to the front door. “I need to say something.”
He turns to face me with a stony expression.
“This can’t go on,” I say, directing my gaze at the floor rather than him. This is hard, but I have to get the words out before he leaves. I owe this to myself at the very least. “I love you, and I know you still love me, but I can’t keep hoping things are going to get better because they’re not.” Glancing up, I think his eyes have softened slightly, but his tight jaw and clenched teeth speak volumes. “We need this break.” I can barely stand to say those traitorous words, but the truth often hurts far more than the lies we tell ourselves.
Striding purposefully past him, I open the door and lean against it. “Things will either be better when you return, or we’re done.”
As he passes me, he nods and holds up his hand in a small wave. I want to curl into a ball on the floor. He wasn’t supposed to agree to that. How could he agree to the possibility of us being over?
Defiantly shaking my head, I slam the door shut, then whisper, “I’ll never say goodbye to you.”
Yesterday was the wake-up call I needed. Pushing some pebbles into the ground wasn’t going to magically solve anything between Mereki and me, but it reminded me of the passion I once felt burning inside. I miss that feeling so much. How could I have expected him to stick around with a drifting shell of a person? I know he loves me, but he didn’t sign up for this.
Instead of moping around the apartment, I drive myself to some markets south of the city. A flyer had been pushed under the door at work one day last week, and it had caught my eye. I find a park easily and kick myself for not having come here before. It’s a lively cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells.
My mouth waters when irresistible wafts of freshly-baked bread hit my nostrils. As if I have no control over my legs, I’m walking towards the stall responsible for my body’s reaction. The large selection of loaves, rolls, and pastries make my mouth water. Classic French baguettes stand tall in a row of baskets along the front of the stall, and a rotund man with a big smile, rosy cheeks and a black beret perched on his head holds his arms out wide.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ca va?”
“Bonjour,” I reply, my cheeks heating. I was always hopeless with languages and desperately wish I could reply with more than just a meek hello.
“Emerson?”
I look up and find Josh standing next to me holding a big bunch of flowers. “Oh. Hey, Josh.” I shift on my feet. It feels strange seeing him in person after months of communicating via cupcakes and art.
“How are you?” he asks, swapping the enormous bouquet from one arm to the other.
“I’m good. Fine. I was just going to buy some bread.”
“I see that.” He glances at the stall, then back to me. “It smells amazing.”
Unsure whether this is the end of our conversation, I turn my attention to the friendly vendor. “I’d like a light rye sourdough loaf, please.”
“Great choice,” Josh says. “I’ll take one of those, too, please.”
We both thank the vendor after paying and take our loaves wrapped in paper a few steps away from the stall.
“Are you here alone?” Josh asks, looking around me.
I nod, trying and most likely failing, to hide my sadness.
“I know the last time I asked, you shot me down, but I’m willing to risk one more rejection. Can I buy you a coffee?” Without waiting for my response, he continues, gesturing with a wave of his arm towards the other end of the market. “There’s a new stall selling beans. I’m pretty sure they’re making takeaway coffees, too. I was just on my way there when I saw you.” His easy-going personality makes me feel so comfortable.
“I would love a coffee,” I reply, not allowing myself to second-guess my decision. “You like markets?” I ask as we jostle our way through the crowds, passing a variety of stalls.
“Some,” he replies. “What about you?”
“I love these markets so far.”
Once Josh has ordered our coffees, he turns back to me, and it’s the first time I’ve seen a glimmer of nervousness mar his features and I find it charming. “So. How have you been?” he asks.
“I’m okay, thanks.” I swish my yellow sundress and smile in a way I fear is flirtatious. “I’m enjoying this warmer weather.”
His eyes appear to drink me in, and my whole body reacts. It feels as if I’m being awakened from a long sleep and I want him to touch me. It’s a shocking thought, and I know the smile disappears from my face. What is wrong with me? This man is playing havoc with my body, and I instinctively take a step back.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Shall we walk and talk?” he asks, and I quickly agree. It is far less confronting having a conversation on the move than face-to-face, where the only thing I’ll be looking at is him.
“I love your drawings, Josh,” I say after a beat.
“I love your cupcakes,” he says, winking at me.
“Will you tell me more about your classes? What does art therapy actually mean?”
“It can mean whatever you want it to mean.”
I study his features to try to work out if he’s being serious or not. That makes no sense at all.
“Some of my students know why they’re there and what they need, and others discover along the way.” He smiles warmly. “I like to think I’m helping them help themselves.”
I school my features because what he says impacts me, and I don’t want him to know how much. “That sounds really fascinating.”
“I have a new group starting on Wednesday if you’d like to stop by and check it out. If you hate it, you don’t have to come back on Thursday.”
I take a sip of my coffee to avoid answering straight away. “Is it the same class both nights?”
He shakes his head. “Each class follows on from the next, and I encourage my students to attend both sessions each week. I find we can achieve more if there isn’t a whole week in between.”
“What’s involved in art therapy exactly?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“Why don’t you let me show you on Wednesday evening,” he says with a wry smile.
I meet his gaze but not his humour. I’m still torn. “It’s a definite maybe.”
For the next hour, we stroll around the remaining stalls, picking up the occasional thing we fancy. I can’t help buying half the chocolate stall, and he purchases a large selection of nuts. I smile more than I have in quite a long time and don’t want it to end. Inevitably, we run out of stalls, and I know we will be parting ways soon when we find ourselves back at the bread stand.
“Well thanks for keeping me company, Josh,” I say, as lightheartedly as I can.
He steps forward and kisses me on the cheek, then whispers in my ear, “The pleasure was all mine. Come to my class on Wednesday.”
My breath hitches, and a small gasp escapes my lips. My whole body is on fire, and I raise my hand to where he kissed me in a bid to cool down the flush that is no doubt flaming across my cheeks.
Gracelessly, I stumble back a few steps and mutter a stuttered goodbye.
When I’m far enough away to be able to breathe again, I can’t resist a glance over my shoulder. Josh is still standing there holding the enormous bouquet of flowers, watching me leave.
Chapter 16
On Wednesday evening, with a box of leftover cupcakes and a belly full of nerves, I show up a little late for Josh’s class. Glancing around the room, I count five students of varying ages sitting on stools in a circle. Each one has their own easel and a table covered with art supplies and a small stack of magazines. It’s a far more informal setup than I was expecting, and the atmosphere is welcoming and airy.
“Good evening, Emerson.” Josh’s deep voice draws my gaze to the front of the room, and I’m completely disarmed by his warm smile. As he closes the distance between us, my heart beats faster. “Welcome,” he says when he’s only a few feet away. “I was hoping to see you here tonight.”
I hand him the cupcakes. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“Thank you.” He takes the box, and I try not to flinch when his fingers brush over mine. “We were just about to start.”
Choosing one of the available places, I drop my bag under the table and take a seat. An older man with greying hair sits to my left, and a girl about my age with jet black hair sits to my right.
Josh claps his hands. “Okay. Let’s get started with some introductions.” He pushes off the table he was leaning against and takes a step forward. “I’ll go first.” He opens his arms wide. “I’m Josh Holland, and I’m so happy to welcome you to my class. I hope it will be, at the very least, an enjoyable life experience.” All the other students are nodding, gazing at him as if he’s some kind of god.
“Let’s see. What can I tell you about myself?” He glances at the ceiling briefly. “I’m thirty-one. I love windsurfing and my dog, Leroy, a chocolate Labrador.”
I swoon at the mention of his dog. I’ve always wanted my own dog.
“I graduated from the National Art School eight years ago, then followed that up with a teaching degree,” he says. “I’m a working artist and run a variety of workshops. Art therapy is my specialty, and I’m very passionate about it.” He clasps his hands together. “That’s a little about me.” With his eyebrows raised, he glances around the room. “I’d love it if you’d introduce yourselves and, if you’re comfortable, let us know what you hope to get out of this class.”
The lady closest to Josh pipes up. “I’m Zoey Smith,” she says. “I’m forty-four years young, and I’m doing something for myself for the first time since I got married in my early twenties and started popping out kids.” She looks tired but has a fierce edge to her voice. “I have no idea who I am anymore, and I’m hoping this class might help me with that.”
“Thanks, Zoey,” Josh says, warmly.
“Eric Daniels,” an older man says. “I’m fifty-five years old, and I’m a paediatric surgeon.” He wrings his hands on his lap.
“So you need an outlet from the stress?” Josh guesses.
He shakes his head. “My wife passed away recently.”
“I’m so sorry,” Josh says.
“Art was her passion, and I only realized that after she died.” His eyes glaze, and my chest aches. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing here, but I guess I’m trying to pay tribute to her? Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. I’m glad you’re here.”
I know it’s my turn, so I take a deep breath and meet Josh’s gaze. “I’m Emerson. I’m twenty-two.” I sigh, unsure how comfortable I am divulging anything about my life. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a famous artist, but somewhere along the way, I lost that desire.” I know exactly when it happened, but I’m definitely not sharing that.
“You’re here to find that desire again?” Josh asks, a sparkle evident in his eyes.
I sit up a little straighter. “I am.”
Josh doesn’t react verbally to my words. He maintains eye contact and, for a moment, I feel completely vulnerable. It’s an unpleasant sensation, and I rip my gaze away to look to the girl next to me, hoping she’ll take over.
Perhaps sensing my discomfort, she smiles at me, then faces the class. “I’m Brooke, and I’m twenty-three. Oh God, I’m getting old.” A few of us chuckle while the older students roll their eyes and groan. “I’m an actress.” She announces, then pushes herself off her stool to take a bow. “You probably recognise me from my role in the TV show, Cousins.”
I’ve never actually seen the show, but a few of the others appear relieved. The familiarity must’ve been bugging them.
“So why did you enrol in my class, Brooke?” Josh asks.
“I’m auditioning for a role as the muse for a depressed artist, so this is research.”
“Well that’s a first,” Josh says, chuckling. “Welcome, Brooke.” He nods to the next student. She’s an attractive older woman.
“I’m Kaye Wager,” she says. Her frameless glasses slip down her nose, and she props them up before continuing. “I was an interior designer for forty years but have been thinking about a new career.”
“Go on,” Josh says.
“I’d like to run art workshops in aged-care facilities.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Zoey says. “My mother was recently moved into a retirement home, and it can be so depressing.”
“Exactly,” Kaye says, enthusiastically. “I want to bring some colour and creativity to their lives.”
“That’s fantastic. Thanks, Kaye,” Josh says.
The man on the other side of Brooke pipes up. “I’m Tenn, short for Tennyson. Thirty-year-old divorcee.” The way he says ‘divorcee’ through clenched teeth makes me think it’s recent and raw. “I’m a computer programmer—a career my ex-wife found unacceptable and dreary.” His shoulders drop as he takes a deep breath. “I guess I’m looking to expand my horizons and maybe become less dreary. No offense, Josh, but I’m literally doing every course I can find.”
Josh laughs. “No offense taken. Thanks for sharing with us, Tenn. I don’t think you seem dreary at all.”
Tenn shrugs. “Thanks, man.”
“Okay,” Josh says, pushing his hair behind his ears. “Creative expression is a known healer. By expressing yourself through the medium of art, you may well find many areas of your life benefit. You all have your own reasons for being here, and perhaps there’ll be reasons you’re not yet aware of. That’s what is so exciting about this class.”
Part of me wants to get up and run. As excited as I am by the thought of doing art again, I don’t need this therapy mumbo-jumbo messing with my mind.
“We’ll start off with a simple exercise.” Josh moves to his table and shuffles some paper. “It’s just an ice breaker, but it’s also fundamental to what we’re doing here,” he says, looking straight at me.
I want to glance around the room, but I can’t stop staring at Josh. His green eyes burn brightly with passion. I know that look; it’s the look of someone who loves what they do with their entire soul.
“Love and hate.” Josh passes two blank pieces of white paper to each student. “You have two minutes to express these emotions using the black ink and brushes provided.” He smiles as he hands me mine. “Use some of the time to think about the people or things that bring out these intense emotions in you. Try to channel that through the paintbrush, and let’s see what you come up with.” He moves around the room ensuring everyone’s paper is correctly attached to the easel before returning to the front of the room. “Your time starts now.”
I pick up my paintbrush and dip it in the small pot of black ink.
Love.
I know all about loving someone with all my heart, so this should be easy.
You can do this, Emerson.
The brush moves slowly across the page in soft waves. I dip the brush several more times to complete the circles that beg to be painted.
Hate.
I have experienced this emotion in spades, but I’m far more hesitant to paint it. Focusing on this emotion takes me to places I try my hardest to avoid.
Jagged lines rip across the page, and hate is done.
Josh asks us to bring our results to the front. We all place our completed pages in rows of love and hate on the large table, then take a step back.
“Who wants to tell me what’s interesting about this exercise?” he asks.
Brooke speaks up. “They’re all pretty much the same.”
Josh nods, and I go back to staring at the six very similar expressions of the strong emotions. “Love can take so many forms, but it’s typically expressed visually in very similar ways. Same with hate.”
“How cool was that?” Brooke asks, as we return to our seats. “I was sure they were going to be different.”
“Me too,” I reply.
“The next exercise involves thinking about who you are as an individual,” says Josh. “What makes you, you?” He sits on a round stool, resting his foot on the low rung. He’s wearing a loose, grey T-shirt over ripped jeans, but the way he carries himself tells me he’s athletic and fit. I can’t help wondering what he does to stay in shape.
When our eyes meet, I’m irritated that he’s smiling right at me. Does he think I was ogling him? Ugh.
“I’d like you to go through the magazines on your tables and tear out anything that appeals to you or causes any type of reaction. It doesn’t matter what it is. There’s no right or wrong.”
I pick up the first magazine and start flicking through the pages.