Livvy

by Lori L. Otto

  “I love it,” I breathe as my brother rushes past me and crawls onto a guest bed.

  “Can I stay with Livvy?” he asks, peering out the window over the headboard that sits against it. The view from the north window isn’t as pretty as my view of Central Park, but it still overlooks a part of the city I love. Across the street is the Guggenheim and other apartments, their balconies decorated with ficus trees and ferns and flowers.

  “As long as you leave the firemen at home, Trey,” Mom says with a laugh.

  “Anna’s put so much thought into this place, Liv.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” I tell her.

  “I left the bedroom very neutral,” she explains, “so you can add your own touch to your room.”

  “You did an amazing job putting my touch everywhere on your own!” I say to her, giving her another hug.

  “I hoped you’d say that.”

  “It looks so different. It doesn’t even feel like the same place.”

  “Is that good?” Mom asks. I turn around and smile at her, knowing the old layout held special memories for her.

  “I think it’s good,” I assure her as she hugs me again.

  “We finally got our dance floor,” Dad says to Mom as he invites her to the hard, slick floor of my studio. My mother walks over to his awaiting arms and they start dancing together.

  “Oh, god,” I say with a laugh, leading everyone else back into the main space.

  “Do you like your new neighbor?” my uncle asks.

  “I love my new neighbor!”

  “Good, because we have a secret passageway between my bedroom and a guest room.”

  “Seriously?” I laugh.

  “It has double doors. Your dad wanted you to have another exit, in case there’s a fire or something.” He rolls his eyes at the far-fetched scenario. “I thought you might let my friends stay there from time to time.”

  “Sure! Of course!”

  “Happy early birthday, Livvy,” Dad says, coming back into the main room with the rest of us. He hands me the key.

  “I can wait until my actual birthday, Dad,” I tell him, trying to give the key back. I’m honestly not sure I’m ready to live here.

  “I want you to have it now, so if you want to come here and paint when you’re home, you can. But we’d still love to have you stay at the house for now. And whenever you want to, really. You’re always welcome there.”

  “Whatever, Jacks,” my uncle says. “This floor is going to be the place to be! We are going to have so much fun!”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Dad sighs as Mom and Nolan laugh. “But honestly, Liv... I don’t think I could have relinquished this place to you if your uncle hadn’t agreed to move here. I was pretty close to contesting Donna’s will,” he says, and I know he wouldn’t have really done that, but I’m sure this has been hard for him. “I worry about you.”

  “Daddy, the idea of me living here alone just got a lot less scary,” I admit. “Thank you so much.”

  “See, I knew you weren’t that anxious to move out... to move on with your life.” His comment is smug, and directed toward my mother more than anyone else.

  “You were right,” she says stubbornly, words that she says to him more often than she’d like to. “Should we tell her about the party?”

  “What party?”

  “I thought you mentioned you wanted to have a party.”

  “I do, yeah. But, you know, just something small. Finn’s going to be in town, and Maddie said she and Jackie were going to come home, too. They’ll probably bring Andrew, and I’m sure Clara will come. Maybe Lexi and Kyle can get a sitter... and then, you know, maybe I’ll ask some friends from Yale to come, too. I mean, hey. They could even stay in the guest rooms,” I say with a smile.

  “Will there be alcohol?” my dad asks tenuously.

  “I can’t buy alcohol,” I retort with a shrug, looking away from him.

  “But your cousins can. I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Dad...”

  “Hear me out. Matthew’s going to have some friends over that evening. I’d prefer you not drink at all, but I’d rather any drinking be monitored by someone–especially if some of your guests don’t stay the night.”

  “So Apartment C is the bar?” I laugh.

  “Always,” Matty answers.

  “In moderation,” Dad says. Mom nods her head in agreement. “You’re not old enough,” he reminds me. “I just know it’s a reality. I’d rather this than have Finn use a fake ID to get cases of beer.”

  “So you trust Matty to be a good chaperone?” I ask the question without thinking. My uncle’s posture tenses up, just as mine does.

  “You’re still here,” he says nonchalantly, patting my stiff shoulder. “He’s never let me down.” They exchange a brief glance. In that split second, I know my dad knows what happened between me and Jon in Mykonos, regardless of the many lies we’d all told him. But I also know he isn’t holding a grudge against my uncle. Matty and I smile at one another.

  While my parents leave to take Trey to his baseball game, and my uncle and his boyfriend return to the apartment across the hall, I stay at the loft and organize my studio, putting new brushes and paints in bins and on shelves that make more sense to me than they do to my aunt. Once everything is how I want it, I take a seat on the newly-installed, cushioned bench by the window, looking out to the northwest. Jon’s up there, somewhere. He’d be amazed at this place. Too bad he’ll never see it.

  In the corner, I notice drapes pushed together and as I look up, I see an old, sturdy pipe that’s been repurposed as a curtain rod. It stretches the entire length of the loft, and I notice other sections of fabric hanging from it, tucked behind the partial walls and in another far corner.

  Curious, I start to pull the curtains, and there are enough of them to cover all the windows. The apartment is dark in the middle of the day. We hadn’t needed lights when we came in, so we never turned any on, and now, I can barely make my way across the room to a switch. When I finally feel my way toward the nearest wall, I turn on the light. A row of spotlights shines on my series of thirty paintings. The lights are soft, and the display looks even more beautiful like this. I have to turn around to stop myself from crying, from wallowing in my pity. I don’t want to do that today. I won’t do it anymore, period.

  I’m amazed at how much smaller the apartment looks without the expanse of the city flaunting its uniqueness and charm through my windows. It feels like a totally different space. I know that no one can see in through the windows from the outside, and wonder why Anna thought curtains were a good idea. I retreat further back into the apartment, toward the studio, away from the paintings that reflect the best and worst moments of my relationship with Jon, away from the light. In the smaller living room around the corner, it’s dark again. I sit on the couch there, listening to nothing but silence. It’s as if I’ve shut off all of my senses. It’s calming. It’s a relief. It’s exactly what I need.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dad has prepared an early dinner on Sunday, wanting to give me plenty of daylight so I’m alert for my drive back to New Haven. Matty joins us–without Nolan–who apparently spends his Sunday afternoons with his family.

  I’d been painting all morning at the loft. While I had started a project yesterday, I wanted my normal brushes. I was used to their weight, and the feel of them in my hands. Even though the ones Anna had selected were top-of-the-line, they didn’t feel quite right and would need more breaking-in.

  When I returned home last night, my parents talked to me about finances for the first time. I will be responsible for some of the utility costs in the new apartment. I have money in savings–thanks to Dad’s insistence of me opening an account when I was eight and putting ten percent of my allowance into it every week. The majority of the profits I’d made from selling my paintings were also put away. I had enough saved to last me quite awhile, but Dad has already said he won’t let me deplete my savings on thi
s. He wants me to sell more paintings or find a job. I know he’s leaning toward me getting a job. After being faced with the series I’d painted over the summer yesterday and this morning, I start considering selling my tribute to Jon. My heart. My soul.

  My past.

  It’s not because I don’t want to work. I wouldn’t mind, and I know it would help me get my mind off of things I shouldn’t be thinking about. The truth is, school is unpredictable, and juggling a job with a schedule when I don’t know what projects will be heaped on me next is a little stressful to me. Painting is not. I know the series that is featured on the main wall of the loft is good. It’s really good... but I wouldn’t sell it as a series. No one gets to know the whole story. They can have pieces of it. But the entirety of our relationship should belong to me and Jon–and no one else. Especially not someone who’s giving me money for it.

  The sale of thirty paintings would probably fetch more money than some people make in a year. The money would last me long enough to paint three times as many paintings, if I was inspired and had the time and resources. So far, inspiration hasn’t been a problem for me. It hasn’t been for awhile. And they’ve given me an amazing studio at Yale, so resources aren’t an issue, either. It’s just time. Time I should spend studying. Time I should spend meeting people. Time I should spend exploring new places and things.

  I know for a fact, though, that I’ve been spending too much time sleeping. With an eye mask and headphones that play relaxing thunderstorm sounds, I can sleep through whatever keeps Rachelle and Katrina up at night. This would be ideal time to go to the studio and spend a few hours working among my classmates.

  I set the table for dinner, then take a seat next to my uncle. Mom and Dad bring in the food, and Mom helps Trey get suitable portions to eat. He never eats as much as he should.

  “So, Livvy,” Matty says as my parents settle in at the table. “Are you excited about Thursday?” I glare at him from the corner of my eye. “Was it a secret?” he asks suddenly, reading my expression.

  “What’s Thursday?” Mom asks.

  “It’s a secret,” I state plainly.

  “You’re not supposed to keep secrets,” my brother informs me.

  “That’s right, Jackson,” Dad says, looking at me curiously. “What’s Thursday?”

  “I have another date, that’s all.”

  “With one of the guys you’ve already been out with?” Mom asks. I shake my head. “With whom?”

  “Uhhh...” I can’t say ‘you don’t know him’ and blow off the question, because–of course–they do know him. “It’s Emmanuel, okay?”

  “Emmanuel Cortez, as in Manny?” Dad asks, referring to the boy he sponsored to go to the best art academy in the city when I was a stubborn child who didn’t want to leave Nate’s Art Room.

  “The one and only, but he asked me not to call him that anymore.” My parents both smile, obviously pleased with the prospect. If they saw how he’d changed since last year, I don’t think either would be happy. Dad has never been a fan of alternative culture, and he especially doesn’t like guys with earrings. I’m sure he thinks I’d never date someone like that since I don’t even have my own ears pierced.

  When Anna had asked me if I wanted them done for my ninth birthday, I told her simply that I wanted to remain a blank canvas. I don’t even know where I got the notion back then, but I always liked being relatively unadorned. I like being able to be anyone I want from one day to the next, just by wearing different clothes, and more or less makeup.

  Back then, I saw how people who looked differently were judged by others. I knew I already had enough people watching me, without drawing extra attention to myself. Sure, earrings for girls are nothing, and in fact are expected these days, but I still like the fact that I’d resisted peer pressure over the years. I was the only girl I knew that was my age who didn’t have any piercings.

  I can’t imagine Jon kissing my ears as he did with studs in my lobes. I wonder if piercing desensitizes that part of the body, because I’d never want that feeling to lessen. His teeth, scraping against my skin there... I shiver just thinking about it.

  “I didn’t even know you’d seen him this year,” Dad says. “You haven’t mentioned him.”

  “He’s the TA in my intro to photography class.”

  “Are you supposed to date teaching assistants?” Mom asks.

  “Am I supposed to?” I ask her. “Or is it frowned upon?”

  “I guess the second one.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he has rules, but I don’t. It’s not really a date, anyway, so much as it is two friends going out for dinner. We’ll probably talk about photography all night. It’s really no big deal, and Matty,” I say, turning my attention to him, “please do not make a big deal out of this.”

  “You’re the one who told me how hot he is, with his mohawk–ow!” he exclaims when I jab him in the rib. I look over at my dad. He looks surprised.

  “Mohawk?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “He got a haircut,” I say simply.

  “Into a mohawk?”

  “He does look kinda hot,” I say softly.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Dad says, looking away as he takes a bite of his salmon. “That would be an interesting story, though, if you ended up with him,” he adds with a small smile.

  “I don’t think you magically identified my lifelong mate when I was six, Dad. It’s just one date.”

  “You just said it wasn’t really a date, though,” he challenges me, looking smug.

  “Right. It’s not.”

  My cheeks heat up as I look at my mom. She’s grinning, but looking down at her plate. When she asks what our plans are, I tell her about the tapas restaurant, but leave out the part about the bar. One of Emmanuel’s selling points on that location was the fact that he knew they would serve us there. Apparently, many of the waitresses are models he has hired for photo shoots.

  After we exhaust that conversation, Dad gets back to practical questions. “So, where do you think you might look for a job this week?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to.”

  “Livvy, I was serious about the bills. You need to pay your share.”

  “I will,” I tell him. “I’m going to sell some paintings. I’ll talk to some of the professors at school and see if they know of any good agents.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t have a whole lot in storage,” he says softly.

  “I have enough,” I start. “And I’m going to start painting at the studio at Yale. They’re open all night. Plus,” I say, taking a deep breath to expel the next sentence as quickly and incoherently as possible, “I think I’ll try to find buyers for the series in the loft.” Mom’s fork clanks against her plate. Dad is more graceful, setting it down softly on his napkin. Matty puts his hand on my arm.

  “Livvy, I know how deeply personal those are to you,” Mom says.

  “I don’t know that I can bear to look at them every time I’m there, though, Mom.” I have to tighten my stomach muscles to keep my voice from shaking or cracking as I speak. “Especially if I’ll be spending every weekend there.”

  “Well, then we put them in storage,” Dad suggests. “I don’t want you making any impulsive decisions that you’ll regret later.”

  “I’d only regret it if he took me back someday,” I admit. “And I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Both of my parents look at me sympathetically. Dad starts to nod his head.

  “I want you to think about it for a few weeks. Okay?”

  “That’s fine,” I tell him.

  “And you don’t have to spend every weekend there, Contessa. Like I told you, you are always welcome here. This is your home. I’ll set up a small studio in Jackson’s old bedroom, if you’d like. We love having you here. “

  “I know, Dad. Thank you.”

  He and I do the dishes together, and he tells me he’s checked the oil in my car and filled it up with gas for me as he helps me get
my things together to head back to school.

  “You don’t care that he’s got a mohawk?” I ask him, giving him one more hug before I get in the car.

  “As long as he treats you well, Livvy, no. I don’t care.”

  “I love you, Daddy.” He shuts the door after I settle into the driver’s seat. He knocks on my window before I back out. I press the button to roll it down. “Yes?”

  “Remember. Hair grows back,” he says with a wink. I decide not to mention the piercings and tattoo. I mean, he accepted Jon’s tattoo, anyway.

  “Bye, Dad,” I laugh.

  Back at the dorm, Katrina and Rachelle give me all of five minutes to unpack my things before dragging me into the bathroom we share, bottles in hand. “You’re gonna do this with us, right?” Rachelle asks.

  “It’s less permanent than this awful cut, so why not?” I nod and smile. I’ll be ready to remind Dad of that next weekend when he sees the new addition to my own hair.

  Emmanuel wasn’t in class the following Tuesday, but he was waiting outside the room before our professor arrived today, just wanting to confirm our date for tonight. He’d taken one of the blue streaks of my hair between his fingers, smiling in approval. A few times during the lecture, I caught him looking my way. Rachelle had noticed, too, pointing it out to me more than once.

  “Are you nervous?” she asks as I get ready. I consider her question, feeling very calm and collected.

  “Nope.”

  “Good, you shouldn’t be,” she says. “The way he couldn’t keep his eyes off you today makes me wonder if he’ll be able to keep his hands off you tonight,” she jokes.

  “He better,” I laugh back, now suddenly feeling anxious. Emmanuel isn’t shy. He is very self-assured and confident. I can tell he’s experienced, more so than I am. What if he does expect something from me tonight? I hadn’t considered that until now. Two friends, talking about photography. Of course I know it’s more than that, but if I just keep telling myself that, it eases my fears.