by Landra Graf
“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, Aggie. Don’t let your mind think negative things.”
He’d caught her falling into the slump, knew her better than anyone else. “Easy to tell, huh?”
“Your smile turned upside down.” He slid into his seat across from her. “How was the coffee?”
“The coffee is always good, and the company...even better.” For some idiotic reason, she fell silent at that. Letting the fact sink in for him as much as her, that she wanted to be with him.
Then his face embodied the same thing she felt, relief. Pure, sweet, and simple, and her shoulders relaxed. The knot in her throat dissipated, as she knew she’d created good feelings for them both. Though, it’d be best to ignore the deeper meaning there, the underlying current of emotions threading through the room, the remnants of Murph’s confession from yesterday.
The baklava came and Murph cut into one square with a knife and fork. He did everything carefully, with a grace lending to his volume of artistic talent. How had she not noticed how much time he took with everything, seeking the beauty in anything his hands touched? When he finally took a single bite between his lips, did she look away? A blush stole over her cheeks at the idea of him catching her watching.
“It’s delicious, almost as sweet as you.” He cut off another piece.
She tried to think of what to say next without taking the conversation to an even dirtier place, and decided on a simple question. “How goes the painting?”
“It goes well. I’m almost finished with four paintings, only little touch-ups and the final gloss to seal everything. They are ready to ship out.”
“For the show?”
“Yep, I’ll have Patrick come and get them tomorrow or the next day. Hard to believe I’ve only got a few weeks before the show. I actually think I might be done on time.”
“Awesome.” A sip of her coffee and another thought. “And the paintings you did of me, will I ever get to see them?”
He didn’t answer her right away, causing a flutter of worry. Did he hate them? Change his mind about finishing them?
Then he finally spoke. “You’ll get to see them. I promise.”
“Oh, and I can’t forget to give you the release back.”
He opened his mouth for the final bite as she spoke so all that came out sounded like, “Hmm?”
“The image release. I took it because I got nervous about the pictures. A few of them won’t hurt anything, as long as you let me see them.” She had to know what the public would see. To judge his work with her own eyes and make sure she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Images of Picasso’s Cubanism, O’Keefe’s modernism pieces, and Munch’s expressionist pieces came to mind. Anything distorting and she’d rip the paper apart.
“All right, after we eat and head back to my place I’ll let you take a look, as long as you promise to be kind.” Funny, he sounded scared.
“Are you afraid I won’t like them?”
“Every artist is afraid of rejection where his life’s work is concerned.”
The laugh that escaped her was more from shock than anything. “A few paintings of me are your life’s work?”
“All of my paintings are my life’s work. I’ve devoted my painting to mastering this technique, which isn’t widely used. Can you blame me for thinking everyone will hate it?”
“No, I can’t, but if you take as much care in your painting as you do eating dessert then I’d say you have nothing to worry about.”
#
Murph’s palms were sweating. They started when they left the café and it was all about his agreement to show Aggie the paintings. A horrible idea but one he couldn’t see getting around as the bargain got him the paper, and her agreement to let him proceed with the painting. He’d worked for only thirty minutes or so after she left, and he’d gotten the last painting started.
The look of dismissal in her eyes when she’d left was the main driving point for the image. The emotion of anger suffused with a level-headed attitude slew him when he’d finally gotten over being a jealous, simple fool. She’d been wrestling with all the emotions and needed a friend. He could be that for her without letting personal feelings get involved.
Her bright smile, easy conversation, and her forgiveness healed him, drove back the monster, and shoved it in its cage. He’d been moments away from bringing up the day before, the truth of his words of love. Then she mentioned the paintings. Skin clammy, sweaty, no sense denying how showing her this part of him produced more fear than when she’d left earlier.
They got to the house, walking arm in arm, the sun long gone.
“Did you leave the lights on?” This from Aggie as they came up the front steps. The house was ablaze with light on the first floor, the second remained dark.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Did you lock up?” The question sounded a bit accusatory and he’d been less than attentive to the world around him today.
“Probably not.” Dread suffused his frame and he froze in mid-motion. What if his paintings were destroyed again? He’d never be able to take it.
Aggie disconnected her arm from his and jogged up to the porch. Opening the front door, she stepped inside. He still couldn’t move, afraid to face the magnitude of his mistake once more.
“Get up here, Murph.” This she called out from the door, and he moved a few steps forward. “It’s okay, everything is fine.”
Everything is never fine. That snapped him awake. He had to check, to see. Reaching the front door, he brushed past Aggie into his apartment, the door wide open. Nothing looked out of place at first glance, but he could tell someone had been there. The chair pushed back, a blanket folded on the back of his couch—opened and balled up on the floor.
“Are the paintings okay?” Aggie asked behind him.
She hadn’t noticed yet, failed to notice they’d been set up on easels in the living room. Three of his pieces were on display, covered in drop cloths, the track lighting off.
“Yes, come see for yourself.” He stood, wiping his palms on his pants and sighing in relief. A small miracle whoever had been in here didn’t destroy them, but the tissues on the floor and the crack in his glass end table top gave him a pretty good idea of the culprit.
Everything on display was painted during the time she’d lived there. Anything prior to her moving in was already packed and sealed for transport. No matter if she hated them, he loved each one. They covered the heart of his exhibit, and he smiled at them.
“Give me a minute. Did you know there’s a broken plate on the floor in the kitchen?” Aggie hollered from the kitchen. He heard the clink of the ceramic being pushed around. She’d obviously decided to sweep up the mess.
“That’s my mess, from earlier. You don’t have to clean it up.”
“Well, it’s dangerous. You could get hurt. It will just take a second.”
The thought made him smile as he started to remove the drop cloths from the paintings. She suffered from a need to do things. It made her a horrible posing model. Suddenly, an image of her kissing him, taking him right there on the floor of his apartment in front of the paintings burned a bright spot onto his brain. Stepping back, he switched on the track lighting, his art coming to life before his eyes. He wanted her to love them too much, to be as enamored and inspired by her visage as he was.
“You’re out of trash bags? Who runs out of trash bags?” This time her voice, filled with confusion, sounded much closer, right behind him.
He turned just as she dropped the empty dustpan to the floor. The look on her face, her lips in the shape of an O, her wide eyes, and then her focus on the paintings on display made it impossible to gauge her reaction. She took slow steps toward them, her gaze moving from the first to the second, and finally the third. He decided to eat up the silence with an explanation.
“My exhibit is called a study in emotion. I attempted to create paintings resembling emotions, in color and in expression. The first one is courage, denoted by the blu
e coloring. Some people believe blue represents sadness, but I think it symbolizes something regal. The second one is caring, with the pastels. I got this one from when you took care of me during my breakdown a few weeks ago. You were so kind, so concerned, and—”
“And they are beautiful. How could you think they weren’t?” She turned to face him and immediately wrapped him in her arms, tears in her eyes.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because these paintings do exactly what you want them to. I see the caring, the courage, and even the fear in this last one.” The last one was her in the kitchen, his kitchen when he thought he scared her. Something he’d never do again, if he could help it.
“Thank you.”
“No, these are beautiful.”
“Like you.”
She pulled back, half out of his embrace. “It’s amazing you think so.”
“Aggie, I know so. Let’s sit for a second.” He was thankful she followed his lead and they both plopped onto the couch, never letting go of each other. “These paintings, the words I shared this morning. I love you, and I want to be with you. In a relationship or something a little more exclusive and official.”
Her reaction first involved a frown, and then she got up from the couch and moved to the chair on the other side of the coffee table. “Uh, I get you care about me, and maybe we have become a bit closer than we ever were before, but a relationship is a little fast.”
“Why is it fast? We’re practically in one now. Domestic bliss is much like this, right? You come home for dinner. I cook it, and we eat together before spending the evening in each other’s arms or doing something else together. It’s really just a formality of adding a label.”
“True, but I’m not ready to label it.”
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Why not? Don’t you want me? Because a little more than twenty-four hours ago you said you did.”
The anxiety within him was on the rise, fast and furious, the manic, the frustration, hitting an all-time high. He possessed the ability to recognize it, and the knowledge didn’t stop the mean words he let loose. “You’re my savior, Aggie. You make the monsters, the demons I face go away. Without you, I can’t do this, and we make sense.”
She got quiet, one hand over her mouth.
The words ran on replay in his head. He’d said them without thought, like an idiot. “Aggie, I’m—”
“I can’t save you. I mean, I thought I could, but what happens when it’s not enough?”
“No, it’s enough.”
“Really? There’s a broken plate in the kitchen, holes in your spare room walls. It doesn’t look like I’m saving anything, just stemming the tide. You left the door unlocked. Someone might have gotten in and destroyed the paintings. All this doesn’t begin to cover my own issues. Even now, I want to stuff my face with something to wipe away the guilt, the idea I’m not enough. My mother was right.”
He felt fuzzy, confused...like he’d fallen into some horrible alternate reality of his life. “What are you talking about? What does your mother have to do with it?”
“My mother told me to enjoy my time with you, but not give everything. I believed she was wrong. I could have you, be more than what I am. The truth is I need as much support as you, so I don’t fall into my own personal hell. A serious manic attack, you being angry and mean, it wouldn’t take much to send me over the edge. How can I save you when I can’t even save myself? What happens when my love and care aren’t enough? It wasn’t enough for Jordan.”
“This doesn’t make any sense. We take care of each other. We apologize and lift each other. It’s wrong of me to put everything on you. I can see how it would be a big task.” He’d do anything to stop her from saying the thing he feared most, but it was too late.
“I think I better go.”
“Until tomorrow?”
“No.” She gave a single shake. “This time I’m going to move. I’ve got the money saved, and I’ll be out within the next forty-eight hours. It may take another day or two to get all my things, but most of it is still in boxes anyway.”
He stumbled toward her, fell to his knees in front of her. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t go. Give me a chance to show you. It can work. You want me, too, don’t you?”
He lifted his arms toward her, like some savior on high, the only one to save him from the darkness coming. She owned the power to keep him from losing it. The paintings, a small part of him, but she’d become everything.
“It’s not a matter of wanting.” She moved his arms to the side, got up, and started to leave the room. “We’re not healthy for each other, Murph.”
Then she was gone, and he lost every strenuous hold he had.
Chapter Thirteen
“You’re finished with the last one?” Patrick’s voice droned in Murph’s ear.
“Yes, just come and get it.”
“And the image release form.”
“It’s signed.” Not a lie, but he wouldn’t tell Patrick the form wasn’t in his possession. Hell, she could’ve torn it up and thrown it away. Yet, even at the risk of a lawsuit, he refused to stop the show. Any ounce of caring disappeared when Aggie walked out his door. It had been pulling teeth to finish the last three paintings. Forcing himself to bother with the effort. The depression hit, and it hit hard.
The worst days being the ones where he couldn’t find things—paintbrushes went missing, his entire bottle of olifa varnish vanished into thin air. Thankfully, he had an extra bottle tucked away in a nook. Otherwise, he’d never seal the paintings. The idea he was in the middle of a delusion-episode occurred once or twice, but he refused to even contemplate going to the hospital until the paintings were finished.
Then there was Trix. She’d come by the next day with dinner and continued to stop by ever since. She never commented on the paintings, and sometimes he’d never even hear her coming or going. In fact, he didn’t care what the hell she was up to as long as she left him alone and locked in his personal hell.
When Aggie moved her stuff, as promised, he stayed in the apartment and stopped putting the security code in, in case she needed anything. With several finished paintings in the foyer, he secured the system now, not wanting to take the risk.
“I’ll be by in the morning to pick it up.”
“The door will be unlocked for you,” he mumbled in response before hanging on up on his friend. Talking was overrated, anyway. Now, he’d get lost in his thoughts and let the pain overtake him. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. In fact, since he shellacked the final coat on the last picture, he planned to stay in bed until the show. He lay there in yesterday’s clothes. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed and the bedroom was close to dark, thanks to the disappearing sun.
He’d let himself wander the existence of his pain, his mind still replaying how Aggie left. She’d never said goodbye. Not a single word from her since she made her exit his first night of hell, as he referred to it now. Two weeks turned into an endless mess of wake up, coffee, try to paint, maybe a sandwich, more paint, dinner of whatever, paint, and bed.
He stopped shaving and had grown some scraggy start to a beard. He changed his clothes when they started to smell, and maybe dragged himself into the shower if he happened to notice Trix giving him a weird look.
No matter the respective routine, the funk, the loss, and the need for a woman too scared to commit remained. Coupled with the wiggling, niggling thought in his mind she’d been right. He existed as a needy, dependent, crappy human who’d dragged her down with him, unless he got his issues fixed. If he wanted her, he needed to own his own problems, not expect someone else to save him.
His cell phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he chose to ignore it. Then he heard a noise upstairs, the floor creaking under feet, in Aggie’s room. Reaching over, he grabbed the phone and answered the call.
“Hello.”
“Mr. O’Shea, we wanted to confirm everything is all right in your home. We received an alert the securit
y system has been activated.”
The rustling and creaking of the floor above him happened again. “We’re fine. Accidental set off.”
“Thank you, sir. Have a good night.”
He hung up and stood to tuck the phone into his pocket. For a moment, he let himself live in a dream moment. Aggie coming back to him, wanting to stay, and looking at the final painting with pure happiness radiating in her eyes. A look he’d seen only once before the ex knocked at their door. Before their perfect little existence got ruined.
Who am I kidding? Their arrangement screwed him from the moment he confessed his feelings. Damn horrible words he should’ve kept to himself. The creaking of the floorboards came again, and then something dropped heavy, right above him.
The painting. He’d left it up there due to better circulation of air for drying. The ceiling fans were on throughout, and if someone ruined it... No!
Launching himself out of bed, he bolted for the door, not caring about the cold floor against his bare feet. Then a dash up the stairs. He really needed to turn on the damn heater. October had turned chilly in the last week or so. There were no lights on upstairs, but the door to Aggie’s apartment stood wide open. He slowed as he neared the top step. Empty hands meant nothing to bash an intruder with. Fuck.
No matter, he’d use his fists. He wanted to use them if the painting sat ruined, and with his luck, it would be. Another part of his life destroyed by his lack of focus and reluctance to get help of the medicinal variety.
A new noise this time, what sounded like paint squeezing out of a tube, followed by a whispered, “Crap.”
Murph moved into the apartment and made his way back to Aggie’s bedroom. She’d taken everything already. No furniture impeded his ability to get across the living room and down the small hall. He knew the creaks in the wood better than anyone and stepped in all the right places.