by Max Monroe
He’s right. The last painting I did was based on a candid photo of my mom, smiling with her hands on her rounded belly, and Em and me standing near her, our smiles mirroring hers.
Sadly, I haven’t painted anything else since.
“I used to love going into your spare bedroom and seeing what new things you’d created,” he comments, his voice quiet but still loud enough to hear over the street traffic. “But…it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything new.”
I don’t know what to say to that. How can I add to the conversation when I don’t understand it myself? It was like, one day, I just stopped. Stopped painting. Stopped sketching. Just…stopped.
Because you don’t think you’re good enough.
A few moments later, we come to a stop at a crosswalk, but Luke doesn’t lead us across the street. Instead, he asks, “Do you feel like going on an adventure?”
I tilt my head to the side. “What kind of adventure?”
“One that will not keep us out in the cold.”
“Okay…?”
“You in?” he asks, and I shrug one casual shoulder.
“Sure. I’m in.”
“Stay right here,” he instructs and nods toward the Duane Reade just behind us. It’s basically New York’s version of a Walgreens or CVS. “I have to run in and grab something.”
“But I can’t come with you?” I question, my voice both amused and curious. “I thought you said this adventure was going to avoid the cold?”
“Sorry, Ace. It will ruin the adventure surprise.” Luke just grins, and then he’s off, several steps across the sidewalk and through the automatic sliding doors of the convenience store.
It only takes a few minutes before he’s stepping back outside with a paper bag clutched in his hand.
“What did you get?”
“I’ll show you in a minute,” he says, smile engaged again as he reaches out to grab my hand. “But first, we have to get to our final destination.”
Luke leads us to the closest subway station, and we jog down the steps toward the platform.
Since it’s eight in the evening and the hustle-bustle of rush-hour traffic has morphed into a quiet, uncrowded lull, it’s not long at all before we reach the platform and are stepping onto an awaiting train.
Luke guides us to two empty seats in the middle, and the instant we sit down, he reaches into the paper bag, pulling out his goodies—a sketchbook and a pencil.
“What are you doing?”
“This,” he says, setting the sketchbook on my lap and the pencil in my hands.
My chest grows tight with anxiety. “This is the adventure?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, nodding and pulling his cell phone and headphones out of his pocket.
“Luke.” I sigh. “I’m not doing this.”
But he doesn’t respond. In fact, he just kind of ignores me and places one earbud in my ear and one earbud in his ear. Within seconds, the sound of Trois Gymnopédies: Gymnopédie No. 2, one of my favorite classical pieces by Erik Satie, vibrates inside my ear.
This, him sitting beside me, a sketchbook in my lap, sharing music from his phone, holds so many memories.
We did this often when we were at Columbia together. I’d drag him to the subway with me so I could sketch portraits of people on the train. And we’d sit like this. For hours. Music in our ears. Me sketching and Luke watching me sketch.
But God, it’s been so long.
I just stare down at the blank page, pencil in my hand. “I…I…don’t think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” he gently whispers into my free ear. “And you’re going to.”
“Why?” I ask and turn my head to search his eyes.
My emotions feel like a damn roller coaster. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to flee. I want to…draw.
“Because it’s time for you to stop ignoring what you’re really meant to be doing. Deep down, you know that you need this because you love this. Art gives you life. Not looking at art, but creating art. Your art,” he responds without hesitation. “And because I’m a bit selfish,” he adds with a little smirk, “I want you to do it because this used to be one of my favorite things we’d do on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. “I always thought maybe you got bored…”
“Bored?” He shakes his head. “I was fascinated.”
My heart does weird things inside my chest.
Tears threaten to prick my eyes.
And my belly feels like a million little fairy wings are fluttering around inside of it.
“Just draw, Ace. Use what’s inside you.”
I search his gaze for a few more seconds, noting the way his brown eyes stare back at me with warmth and kindness and something else I can’t quite discern.
And then, on an unsteady, slightly shaky breath, I put the tip of my pencil to my sketchbook, and I draw.
First, the lady sitting at the other end of the tram. A book in her hands, her caramel-colored skin highlighting the pensive, beautiful look on her face.
Next, a small child sitting beside his mother. He looks to be five, six, maybe, and he has a dinosaur toy clasped inside his tiny hand and his head resting on his mother’s shoulder.
I don’t know how long I sketch.
I don’t know how long Luke continues to watch me sketch.
But with him by my side and the soft lilts of my favorite classical pieces in my ear, I lose myself in the simple act of tracing my pencil across the paper and creating something.
And man, does it feel good. Like relief and peace and nostalgia. Like breaking through a massive mental barrier while simultaneously reliving the good old days when Luke and I were just two young college kids with our whole lives ahead of us.
A Sunday in August, thirteen years ago…
Luke
One of my favorite things to do in my downtime is people watch in various spots throughout the city. Central Park, coffee shops, Times Square, you name it, and I’ve found myself there more than a time or two in the name of observing my fellow humans in their natural habitat. Though, given the hectic nature of every weekday when you’re working toward a degree in aeronautical engineering, it’s been reduced to an activity that only occurs on the weekends.
These days, every Sunday, Ava lets me borrow her new—bright-pink—iPod Nano for the morning while she interns at a gallery in SoHo and then meets me at the corner café right down the street from our dorm.
I already have coffee waiting when she slides into the chair across from me and says loudly, “Nice color choice for your iPod, Luke. Real men use pink and all that.”
I roll my eyes at her lame attempt to tease me and hold it up proudly. “I know. I bet you wish it were yours.”
She sticks out her tongue, snags her iPod, and slinks back into her chair dramatically. “Man, you should have seen the pieces in the gallery today.”
“Good?”
“Beyond,” she corrects. “I almost wept at the feet of at least three artists.”
I laugh. “And someday, they’ll be weeping at yours.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You don’t get it, Luke. These people are so talented.”
“So are you,” I insist. “The only difference between them and you is confidence.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re oversimplifying it, and you know it. It’s nearly impossible to make it as an artist.”
I glance to the bustle of the street around us and then back to the sketchbook she’s placed on our table. She carries it nearly everywhere.
Somehow, it’s almost like the light of day shines too much of a spotlight on other people and their work. She needs a dark tunnel to narrow her vision.
And we are in New York.
An idea strikes, and I don’t waste any time letting it marinate. Lord knows, if I give her time to think and rationalize a way out of it, she’ll do it.
“Come on,” I prompt, standing from the table and grabbing her notebook and iPod
. She bristles at the sketchbook, so I pull it tighter to my chest.
“If you want it back, you have to follow me.”
“What are we, nine? Stop, Luke.”
“Follow me, Ava,” I assert.
I take off for the next block over, where I know there’s a subway station, and I don’t even look back to check to see if she’s following me.
Her huffing and whining are plenty loud enough for me to tell without question.
The A train is waiting on the tracks when I get to the bottom of the stairs, but I know it won’t be for long, so I turn back, grab Ava’s hand, and hustle her aboard before it can pull out.
She grumbles quite a bit—which isn’t unexpected—but when we settle into a seat toward the end of the train car and I hand her back the sketchbook, she finally stops giving me the silent treatment.
“All right. What are we doing here?”
I shuffle through her iPod until I find a song I know she’ll like, put an earbud into her ear that faces away from me, and put the other earbud in my own. Our heads are close together, but it’s not uncomfortable, and this way, we’ll be able to hear each other when we talk.
“We’re here for a recreational Sunday that benefits us both.”
She sighs. “Say it again, but do it like you’re not as smart as you are.”
I laugh. “I’m going to people watch. And you’re going to draw.”
“Oh really?” she challenges, and I nod.
“How about her?” I suggest, nudging her attention toward a woman on the other side of the train wearing a neon jumpsuit. “Draw her but as a circus clown.”
“What?”
“Humor me, Ace. I want to see you put my imagination into art. Please?”
“Fine,” she finally agrees. “But it’s your fault if I start making you do this every Sunday.”
I smile. “That’s okay. That’s the kind of blame I’m more than willing to take.”
November 27th, Friendsgiving
Luke
“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Ava teases as we head up twenty floors inside the sleek elevators of Thatch’s building. “Pretty sure this elevator costs more than our entire building.”
I smirk. “You act like our elevator is crap. We live in a building that costs four times what we can afford just because of my uncle.”
“And the elevator is still crap,” she insists with a wink. “We’re lucky if it’s working for three days straight.” She cracks up and slides a loose lock of blond hair behind her ear, and I can’t stop myself from taking in the view.
Clad in a pair of tight jeans, her favorite black stilettos, a ruffly top that shows a little more cleavage than I’m used to seeing, and a light sheen of makeup that only makes her big blue eyes damn near mesmerizing, Ava looks beautiful.
She always looks beautiful.
Tonight, we will spend Friendsgiving with Thatcher Kelly, his wife Cassie, and his closest friends. This definitely pushes the boundaries of a professional relationship, but knowing I’ve gotten into NASA takes a little pressure off. All these guys seem more like friends than wealthy passengers on my flights anyway.
The elevator dings at the Penthouse Level, and the doors slide open, directly into Thatch’s humble abode.
Though, with the marble entryway looking like something out of Architectural Digest, I wouldn’t exactly call it humble. Sophisticated and luxurious would certainly be better adjectives for this apartment.
“Luke, my man!” Thatch greets us with a boisterous voice and a smile as we step off the elevator. A brunette stands beside him, her eyes and mouth mischievous and excited at the same time.
“Cassie, honey, this is Luke and Ava,” he introduces us.
“Of course,” she responds, and her lips morph into a megawatt grin. “I’ve heard so much about you two.”
“Uh…good things, I hope?” Ava questions with a slightly nervous giggle.
“Very good things,” Cassie answers and reaches out to pull Ava into a friendly hug.
“Don’t worry,” Thatch says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Cass and I are the only ones who know about your little secret.” He winks, and immediately, Ava looks up at me with confusion on her face.
“Our little secret?”
“Your fake relationship arrangement,” Thatch adds, still whispering.
“Oh. That,” Ava responds, and a giggle follows. “Well, I hope it’s not asking too much, but I’m expecting you to really put this guy to task.” She flashes a wicked smile at me. “Feel free to ask him all sorts of questions about our relationship.”
I laugh and shake my head. “You’re evil, Ace.”
“Me? Evil?” she questions like she is the definition of innocence. “I mean, you’re the one who said we didn’t need to get lost in any of the specifics. If I do recall, it was you who decided we didn’t need rules or anything. Which can only mean one thing.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
“That you’re crazy confident you can wing it,” she responds without hesitation. “So, by all means, wing it the fuck up, boyfriend.”
“Well, goddamn, I think I might like Ava better than you, son.” Thatch smirks like the devil.
“Oh, hell yes.” Cass bursts into laughter and reaches out to wrap her arm around Ava’s shoulders and pull her into the apartment. “Honey, I think you and I are going to get along just great. Now, if you don’t mind, I could use a little help in the kitchen. My best friend Georgie tends to turn into a spaz when we’re trying to finish up dinner.”
Ava just giggles, but as she and Cassie walk down a long hallway and toward the inside of the apartment, she glances over her shoulder to meet my amused gaze. Her eyes silently asking, is this okay?
I nod, and Thatch slaps his palm on my back. “This is the part where the ladies finish up dinner and the men sit around in the cigar room, playing poker and shooting the shit.”
“Sounds very 1950s,” I tease, and he just smirks, leading us down the hall but taking a right turn and going in the opposite direction of Ava and Cassie.
“Yeah, well, when we started this tradition, we tried to help the girls get dinner ready, but if you’ve ever been stuck inside a hot kitchen with Kline’s wife freaking out over the consistency of mashed potatoes and my wife fucking up said mashed potatoes, you learn pretty quick to stay out of the way.”
The instant we step inside the cigar room, smoke coming straight from Caplin Hawkins’s cigar billows up into the air.
“Guess who finally made it?” Thatch announces as he takes a seat at the head of the poker table, where Harrison Hughes begins to deal a fresh hand.
Kline Brooks and Theo Cruz grin.
Milo Ives and Quincy Black offer a friendly wave.
Trent Turner urges me to take the empty seat beside him.
And Wes Lancaster grumbles out a hello before bitching about his hand. “Why do you always deal me shit, Hughes?”
Harrison just smirks and looks to me. “You want to play a little Texas Hold’em, Luke?”
“What’s the buy-in?”
“Today’s buy-in is courtesy of Mr. Moneybags Kline.” Cap waggles his brows and pulls his cigar out of his mouth. “So, technically, you’ll get paid to play.”
I tilt my head to the side, and Kline rolls his eyes.
“Apparently, it’s my penalty for missing the last two poker nights.”
“Aw, poor Kline…” Thatch pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “Him’s sad because him’s skipped out on two poker nights, and now him’s has to pay the price and follow the official poker night rules.”
“There’re no fucking official rules,” Kline chimes in, looking directly at me with a half-amused, half-annoyed smirk.
“Yes, there are!” Thatch bellows.
“Oh, really?” Kline retorts. “Show me. Where the fuck are these supposed rules?”
“They’re right here.” Thatch taps the side of his head.
> “And that helps me, how?” Kline snaps back. “I can’t read your mind, T.”
“Pretty sure no one on the face of Planet Earth wants to read Thatcher Kelly’s mind,” Wes chimes in, and Cap is quick to agree with a grin around the cigar in his mouth.
“True that!”
Trent slides a stack of chips in front of me, and Harrison deals me into the game.
When I lift up my cards, I’m faced with two queens. Right off the bat.
“Raise $1000,” Cap slides four chips into the pile.
Well, fuck, it appears Kline had to pay quite the damn penalty.
“Call,” Milo agrees.
“Call.” Trent is in.
“Fold,” Wes grumbles. “Because Harrison keeps dealing me absolute shit.”
Kline, Harrison, Thatch, Quincy, and Theo also fold.
When it’s my turn to bet, I don’t hesitate to push all of my chips to the center. “All in.” Honestly, I don’t have a clue how much money this is, but if each chip is worth $500, it’s definitely at least ten grand.
“Oh, what the fuck?” Cap questions, narrowing his eyes toward me.
I shrug and grin.
Milo laughs and folds.
Trent flips me off and folds.
But Cap stares at me like he’s trying to see inside my brain.
“What’s it going to be, Cap?” Thatch asks, his eyes bouncing back and forth between us. “You in or you out?”
“Fucking hell,” Cap mutters and glances at his cards one more time. “Your first hand, you’re really going to go all in?”
I shrug again.
“Fine. I call.”
“Show ’em, boys!” Thatch bellows and stands up from the table.
Cap tosses down two jacks.
And I flip over my two queens.
“Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Trent bursts into laughter, and Cap flips him the bird.
“Oh shit, Captain,” Thatch comments. “I think you might get your ass handed to you here.”
“Just show the flop,” Cap grumbles.
Harrison turns over the first three cards—an ace, a ten, and a four.