The Girl in the Painting

by Monroe, Max

I don’t know what to say to that. But it doesn’t matter because she appears content to hold a one-sided conversation.

  “And whenever Ansel is a real fucking mess, he becomes an intolerable bastard,” she continues. “So, thanks for that.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I’m assuming you’re the reason.”

  “I…I…” I stutter and shake my head.

  “Well, enjoy the painting, I guess.” She shrugs, flips her hair over her shoulder, and leaves. Just up and walks away without a goodbye or anything.

  I stand in my doorway for a long moment, just watching her stilettos eat up the walkway while I grip the package in my hands.

  I’m not sure what urges me to go back inside, but eventually, I do. And I stride straight to my kitchen and set the package on the center of the island.

  I stare down at it, unsure of what to do with it.

  Do I open it?

  Do I ignore it?

  Do I try to forget it exists?

  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I take the small white card off the top of the package and work to see what lies beneath the brown wrapping.

  I slide my fingers under the rigid paper and tear. One, two, three, four, I tear until it’s revealed to me in its entirety.

  A hand goes to my mouth and tears fill my eyes, and I gaze down at the painting, Ansel’s painting. I don’t know how long I stand there, still as a statue, trying to make sense of it.

  It’s me, but in this painting, there is a violin in my hands.

  And I’m playing it.

  My face is so serene, so calm, so at peace.

  And there is a soft, tiny smile on my lips.

  And my eyes are so bright and burning and just…happy.

  I don’t even know I’m crying, but I am. Tears drip down my cheeks in steady waves, and when I read the small gold plaque at the bottom of the frame, a sob jumps from my throat.

  Venus and the Violin.

  Memories flood my mind.

  Ansel and me. The Met. His words.

  “She’s the feminine image of love,” he’d said. “Da Vinci, Picasso, Monet… Every great artist has a Venus. Their Venus is their muse. The woman who consumes their mind and inspires them to paint or sculpt until they either die or their fucking fingers fall off.”

  My hands shake. Tears drip onto my kitchen counter. And I look down to see that the small white card is now on the floor.

  I pick it up, and I see my name is written on top. Indy.

  I open it, and my eyes latch on to Ansel’s familiar and messy but beautiful scrawl.

  I don’t know why I feel like I need to tell you to play again, but I do.

  Play again, Indy.

  I don’t know why I know that music—the violin—makes you thrive. That music brings you inner peace. But I do.

  Let music inside of your soul again.

  But one thing I do know.

  One thing that is an infinite certainty.

  I love you, Indy.

  More than I have ever loved anyone or anything.

  I painted this over a year ago, and it belongs with you.

  This is you, my Venus, with your violin.

  -Ansel

  This is the most painfully beautiful gift anyone has ever sent me, and so many emotions flood my veins that I don’t even know what or how I’m feeling.

  And questions, so many questions race through my brain.

  How does he know about the violin?

  How does he know what music really means to me?

  And how does he always seem to get me? Know me?

  He loves me, but he can’t stand to look at me? Be with me?

  At first, I just stand there, in a puddle of my own tears with my thoughts scattered across the kitchen. But before I even know what I’m doing, I pick up my cell phone and call the one person I need right now.

  And an hour later, my dad is opening the front door, and I kind of push myself into his arms and hug him tightly.

  “Indigo?” he asks, but he doesn’t let me go. “What’s going on, honey?”

  I don’t say anything at first. I can’t.

  I savor the comfort of home. Of my dad’s hug.

  One minute turns to two and two turns to three, and when the urge to sob has been swallowed down enough for words to be a possibility, I inhale a deep breath. “Do you still have my violin?” I ask on a whisper. “Or did you end up getting rid of it?”

  “Of course, I have it, Indigo.”

  We’re in my dad’s music room, and it hasn’t changed one bit since I was last in here. The walls are still covered with music memorabilia and instruments, and stacks of sheet music litter the corners and fill the shelves.

  It’s both a vision of peace and turmoil to my eyes.

  I used to spend hours upon hours in this room. Learning how to play every instrument I could get my fingers on. But it didn’t take long for me to realize the violin was what I loved most.

  “What do you want to play?” my dad asks quietly from his spot behind the piano.

  I don’t even have to think about it.

  “The Four Seasons,” I whisper.

  “The whole concerto?”

  I nod.

  I know I’m going to be rusty as hell and both my dad and I will miss a bunch of notes, but it doesn’t matter. It was the last composition I played. For a crowd of thousands. And in order to do this right, in order to play the violin again, it needs to be this, it needs to be Vivaldi.

  Somehow, my dad manages to find the sheet music beneath the stacks and sits down at the piano.

  And I pick up the violin. Its slender strings caress my fingers, and I tenderly trace its curves under my palm and inhale a deep and shaky breath. It’s been so long since I’ve held it in my fingertips. So long since I’ve felt its weight in my hands.

  “You ready?” he asks and I nod.

  I adjust the violin beneath my chin, and I grip the bow in my hand.

  My dad waits for my cue.

  With a deep, nervous inhale, I pull oxygen into my lungs, and then I strum the bow across the strings and begin.

  Not even two beats later, the piano accompanies me.

  Instantly, there is something about the vibrations that feel so heavenly, as if they are liquid energy seeping right through my skin. There’s something about the way the violin sings in my hands that makes my heart race. And God, it’s both harrowing and euphoric the way it encompasses my body.

  It’s heaven and hell all at once.

  It’s everything I’ve dreamed of, everything I love, but it’s painful, releasing all of the tragic memories I’ve been trying to avoid.

  But I keep playing.

  First, Spring.

  Then, Summer.

  Then, Autumn.

  By the time we fall into winter, I’m lost to the harrowing notes. The haunting rhythm. Liquid emotion spills from my eyes, and I watch the drops fall onto the hollow body of my violin.

  But I keep playing.

  Music—this violin in my hands—it is the rhythm of my soul. It flows through my veins and swirls in my head. To me, music is life and life is music. It’s in everything I see. It’s in the air I breathe. It’s in my DNA. And the violin is my instrument, and I never should have gone a day without playing it.

  I shouldn’t have let over four years pass by without picking it up in my hands.

  When we reach the end, I sob. Not out of sadness or fear or uncertainty, just…this cathartic kind of sob that feels like it’s been buried inside of my bones for a decade.

  My dad doesn’t say anything.

  He gets up from the piano and pulls me into a tight hug and lets me cry for a long moment.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, and I nod into his shoulder.

  “I’m incredibly sad and incredibly happy at the same time. It’s overwhelming.”

  “Hearing you play again, seeing you play again,” he says and inhales an unsteady breath. “It filled my heart, Indigo. It was…beautiful.” He hugs me tigh
ter. “Whatever brought you back to this, back to the violin, don’t let it go.”

  Indy

  I hardly remember the walk back from my parents’ house.

  I don’t remember how I got there or how long it took me.

  But I do remember standing in front of my door, key in my hand and heart racing inside my chest. I remember lifting the key to the knob but being unable to insert it.

  And I remember walking back outside and heading toward the subway station.

  I got on. Stood in the center of the car with my hands gripping the silver pole and my mind a million miles away, yet steady and focused at the same time.

  One transfer, several stops, and even more rain-soaked blocks later and I stand in front of Ansel’s brownstone. The lights are on. And the moisture falling from the sky pelts against the glass of the windows.

  The temperature is ice-cold, and the drops freeze against my exposed skin on contact. To feel it is the opposite of enjoyable. Not like a warm summer rain that cools everything down and urges steam to billow from the pavement.

  But oddly enough, I want to feel it all the same.

  I want to experience each drop, together and apart, same and different. I want to see the droplets soaking my eyelashes before they hit the ground like saltless tears. I need to be in this, chaotic and wild. It’s as if nature looked inside my soul and pulled this weather from it.

  My pea coat grows heavy, and the rain falls, crazy and hectic, while gusts of wind swirl in all different directions.

  And yet, I’m just standing here, taking this beating from Mother Nature.

  Standing here and trying to find the courage to knock on his door. Trying to find the strength to face him again.

  I force my feet to move until I reach his door. My hands shake. Rain and tears mingle on my face, the salty, emotion-filled tracks blending with the fresh sky-fallen trickles.

  Somehow, I find the strength to lift my hand and knock.

  Ansel opens the door, and my breath is stolen from my lungs.

  He’s beautiful, so fucking beautiful, and his eyes are wild as they take in my wet and downtrodden appearance.

  “Shit, Indy,” he mutters and opens the door wide, trying to coax me inside. “You’re soaked.”

  I shake my head and take two steps back.

  He furrows his brow, and more tears start to flow down my face.

  “Indy?” he asks, and the way my name falls tenderly from his lips makes my chest ache.

  “Why?” I ask, and my voice comes out louder, harsher than I planned.

  “I swear to you, Indy, I didn’t kiss that woman. I didn’t want to—”

  “No,” I interrupt him. “I don’t care about that stupid kiss.”

  Because I don’t. That kiss is inconsequential to me. It’s barely a blip on my radar, and it wasn’t what made me run out of the club. His mere presence made me run. Being that close to someone you love so much but can’t be with is soul-crushing.

  His brow furrows deeper in confusion, and I oblige with another response.

  “Why did you paint that, Ansel?”

  He looks at me, but he doesn’t say anything. His full lips pinch into a thin line as his eyes search mine.

  “Why?” I scream at the top of my lungs and step toward him. My emotions are too potent, too strong to control myself. With two hands, I shove right into his chest. My fingers scrape against the zipper of his sweater hard enough to break the skin, but it doesn’t matter. Superficial pain is nothing compared to the agony that trembles beneath my skin.

  “Why, Ansel?” My voice drops and quivers, and a painful shriek escapes my throat as I shove my hands into his chest again, but this time, I don’t let go. I grip his sweater so tightly, I can feel the material wrinkling beneath my fingertips.

  I sob. Big, fat tears tripping from my lids like a waterfall and I bury my face into his chest.

  His strong arms wrap around me like a vise, and I can’t do anything but cry into the solace of his embrace. And the rain doesn’t quit. It pelts down on us, soaking our hair, our clothes and dripping between our bodies.

  I’m wrecked.

  Shattered.

  But I’m also comforted. So fucking relieved.

  It’s all so confusing.

  “I don’t know, Indy,” Ansel whispers into my hair. “I just saw it. I still see it,” he says, and then his voice shakes as he adds, “And for some reason, I just know. I just know you. My soul knows your soul. It’s crazy and insane, but it’s the only way I can explain it.”

  His words unleash something inside of me.

  Something I’ve been keeping locked tight inside my heart.

  Something I need to say out loud, if only for the sake of letting myself hear it.

  “Over four years ago, I played the biggest concert of my life,” I whisper through my tears, but my face, it stays buried against his chest. “My music always seemed to be the one sore spot in my relationship with Adam. He was always too busy with photo shoots to see me play. Not once did he see me play at Julliard. And when I gained a spot with the New York Orchestra, he didn’t make it to a single concert. And it hurt, you know. It hurt that he was never there. I wanted him there. I needed him there.”

  I inhale a shaky breath as visuals of that night flash behind my eyes.

  But I can’t stop now. I have to keep going. I have to tell someone.

  I have to tell him.

  “We had a pretty big fight over it, and that night, he was trying to make it. He was trying to be there, at Lincoln Center, to see me play. But like always, his photo shoot had him running late. And I was mad at him, Ansel,” I say, and a sob wrenches itself from my throat. “I was so mad at him for not being there. It was the biggest night of my career, and he missed it. He missed the entire thing.”

  Ansel’s fingers grip me tighter to his chest.

  “He was trying to be there. Riding his motorcycle through New York traffic. That stupid bike I hated so much because he would never wear a helmet and rode like a maniac through the busy streets of the city… And he never made it, Ansel. He never made it to my concert.”

  Another sob and three more shaky breaths.

  “He died trying to get there. All because I gave him such a hard time about it. All because of me, he died.” The last six words are painful, like knives scraping against my tongue as they leave my lips.

  All of the guilt I’ve held on to for so long boils to the surface and releases itself through more tears, more sobs. My body shakes with grief, and Ansel grips me tighter.

  “God, Indy,” he whispers into my wet hair. “I didn’t know.”

  “The last time I saw him, I was mad and pissed and upset, and I never once said I love you. Those are his last memories of me,” I cry. “Not happy. Not loving. Not how they should have been. But angry and mad and just…awful. When I found out what happened, I couldn’t even touch a violin anymore without getting sick.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Indy,” Ansel says quietly, but his words are firm. “There was no way for you to know.”

  “I should’ve known,” I reply. “But I should’ve known.”

  “Indy,” he says, and his voice turns soft and soothing. “His death wasn’t your fault. There is no doubt in my mind that he was rushing to your concert because he wanted to be there. Not because you guys had a fight the night before, but because you were important to him.”

  It wasn’t your fault, Indy.

  Somewhere, deep inside of me, I’ve always held deep-rooted guilt that I’d let Adam down. That I’d played a role in his death. But Ansel’s words permeate my bones, and I feel a small part of that weight slowly lift from my heart.

  I find the strength to lift my eyes to his, and I search his face for some kind of sign, some kind of answer to all of these crazy circumstances that have brought us together, some kind of explanation for the electric connection that pulled us toward each other.

  Still pulls us.

  “What are you doing to me?”
I ask on a whisper. “What are you doing to me, Ansel? It’s like you’ve reached inside my chest and wrapped your hands around my heart and soul. Today was the first day I’ve picked up the violin in four years,” I whisper in a rush. “Because of the painting. Because of you. You affect me in ways no one ever has, and I know this is insane for you. I know this is terrifying, but my heart has already made her choice. And she wants you, Ansel.”

  The words fall from my lips before I can stop them, and still, I can’t stop them.

  It’s like the faucet has been opened, and I’m just letting everything I’m thinking and feeling flow out.

  “God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m saying all of this to you. I’m not trying to make you feel bad for walking away. I just…I just…” I just want you. Only you.

  Ansel

  I place both of my hands on the wet skin of her cheeks and bring her gaze back to mine. She is tear-stained and rain-stained and so fucking lovely, it makes my chest ache with need for her. In my eyes, no one will ever compare to Indy.

  “Three years ago, I picked up my brush again,” I say and stare deep into her eyes. “Because of you. You saved me, Indy. And yeah, this connection of ours and the situation that has brought us together are scary. Insane, even. But I don’t care about the why or the how. I don’t care about anything but you.”

  “Ansel,” she whispers my name like a prayer.

  “I love you, Indy,” I tell her even though those three little words don’t even come close to how I feel about her. “Not because of my eyes, but because of what’s inside of your heart and how your soul matches mine. I’m so deep in love with you, Indy, there is no going back for me. There is no moving on from this.” I press my lips to hers, softly, tenderly, and I lift her hand to cover my chest. “This is real love. And fuck, I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, for you.”

  Her heart is in her eyes, and tears are now in mine.

  “I love you too,” she says in a rush. “I love you.”

  The girl in the paintings.

  The girl in my mind.

  The girl who owns my heart.

  She steps up on her tippy-toes, pressing her lips to mine, and I respond with fervor. Tasting her lips and tongue and savoring how good it feels to finally be kissing her again.