“I love your happy dance.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. I can’t believe it, Til. It’s funny, because you work your whole life for something and then can’t comprehend when it actually happens. Aside from you, I’m not used to my dreams coming true.”
“Believe it, you charmer. You deserve it. This is so amazing; my cheeks are hurting because I’m smiling so much. When can I see you? I can’t wait to celebrate in person.”
“I know. I need to see you for it to become real. You make everything real for me.”
“You do the same for me. Be prepared to be squeezed so hard. I can’t wait to hear all about it. Are you free now? I’ve just finished apologizing to Mrs. James so I can jump in the car and meet you.”
“Oh, how did that go? I’m so sorry I forgot. Forgive me.” His misplaced remorse is palpable through the phone.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve had more important things on your mind.”
“No, that isn’t how this works. One is as important as the other. Your news means as much to me as mine does to you; it doesn’t matter how small or big it is. It’s yours, so therefore it’s mine. So tell me all about it.”
“I’ll tell you more when I see you, but it went well. She loved the card.”
“Good, I’m glad. Do you want to meet at our spot on the beach? Otherwise, I can come to you?”
“No, that’s fine, I could use the drive.”
“Okay, Baby Bear. See you soon?”
“Sounds good. Well done again!”
“Thanks, hurry up so it can sink in. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
On the drive down to the beach, I can’t stop smiling about Tristan’s news. It helps that the sun is shining, making it difficult to be anything but happy. His career has become so successful in such a short amount of time. It’s well-deserved though. He’s the current darling of the art world, not just in America but internationally. Pride seems like such an empty word for the feeling that flows through my veins whenever I think of how well he’s doing and how talented he is.
The fact that it’s pure, raw talent and he hasn’t had much formal training is what people love the most about him. They love the artist, but I love the man, so I’m happy to share that tiny piece of him with others.
The saying about love being unselfish is wrong; love has made me more selfish than I’ve ever been in my life, especially when it comes to Tristan’s time. I resent every smile he gives someone else, gaining only slight comfort from the fact that his special deep-dimpled ones are reserved only for me. And I mourn the deep loss of each minute he spends with someone else that we’ll never be able to get back.
After half an hour, I pull up across the street from the beach. Crossing the road, I see Tristan already waiting for me on my dad’s bench and start to sprint toward him. Hearing, or more likely sensing me, he stands and turns, opening his arms just in time to catch me as I fling myself at him in delight.
He spins me around on the sand in a moment of pure, uncensored joy as we whoop and cheer in between ardent kisses.
“I’m so proud of you,” I whisper against his neck.
He crushes me against him and buries his head in my hair, inhaling. I wonder what we must look like to people on the beach, him in a suit and me in a t-shirt and shorts with my bare legs wrapped around his waist.
I lift my head to kiss him again, slower this time as I let my mouth say everything my heart feels. His soft, firm, lips press against mine, his tongue caressing my own as we speak without words. I communicate my pride as he communicates his love. I tell him he’s extraordinary as he lets me know he couldn’t have done it without me.
As a man shouts, “Get a room!” while he skates past us on the boardwalk, we break apart with guilty grins and I untangle my legs from around him.
Laughing, we walk hand in hand to the bench, where Tristan pulls me down to sit sideways on his lap with my head pressed against his chest. All is still as we breathe in the salty air and let the vast majesty of the waves and the world calm us.
“So tell me all about the meeting. What did Pierre say? Did he know it was coming?”
“He said he had a feeling that was what they wanted to talk to me about, but he didn’t know the details. He was great, he pushed for the best terms possible. He’s made the perfect transition from mentor to manager.”
“Good, I’m glad. You don’t think he’s vicariously living through you?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. I mean, I’m sure he would have liked to experience some of the things that are happening for me in his own career, but he’s not resentful at all. He’s been nothing but supportive.”
“That’s great. What are the exact details then?”
I listen enraptured, as he explains the incredible terms of his art residency at one of California’s biggest art galleries.
“Artists spend their whole lives hoping for an opportunity like this, I can’t believe I’m receiving it at twenty-three.” The shock shaking him reverberates through his words.
“Believe it. It’s a testament to how amazing you are. This is so brilliant. When does the residency begin?”
“December. They have to give me some time to complete the new work they’ve commissioned for the launch.”
“Will you be able to finish it in time?”
“With you as my muse? Of course.”
I blush as snuggle deeper into him. He doesn’t allow me to hide though. He never has. Tristan tugs on my fishtail braid to tilt my head backwards.
“I’m serious, Til,” he says looking down at me. “All of this is happening because of you.”
“Um… I’m pretty sure it’s happening because of your incredible gift and hard work.”
“No. It’s because of you. I was good before I met you, but I wasn’t happy, and it showed in my work.”
“Artists don’t have to be happy to be great, Trist. Look at Van Gogh. In fact, it seems to be better for their work if they’re not happy.”
“That’s not true. What makes artists great is their ability to feel. Emotion is what makes art; it doesn’t have to be negative. So many famous works were created out of love, happiness, passion, or excitement. Amazing art is full of feeling, average art lacks it.”
“So you’re saying you weren’t feeling before you met me?”
“Exactly. I was alive, but I wasn’t living. You showed me how. You taught me how to feel. Now it’s showing in my work, which is what everyone is seeing. If you compare my art three years ago to my art now, the difference is huge. For the better. You make me better. You make everything better.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m just telling the truth.”
“I love you so much.”
“I love you too. Even if you aren’t always the obvious subject, know that you are in everything I will ever paint. You are every color choice, every stroke of my brush, every ounce of feeling the painting evokes. It will always be you.”
God. This man and his words. He’ll never know what they do to me. Never have someone’s words had so much power over me. With just a whispered phrase, he can set my soul on fire. The sounds that leave his lips can make me laugh, cry, angry, calm, happy, and sad, all in a single breath. Love is giving someone the power to destroy you and trusting that they won’t. If I have to give anyone power over me, I’m glad it’s him. It will only ever be him.
But at this moment, my heart can’t take any more of his beautiful words; it’s so full of them that it’s close to exploding. So I kiss him to silence them.
“So tell me all about Mrs. James,” he says once we break apart, running the back of his fingers down my cheek.
“It was great, she was so happy. She said I didn’t have to apologize, but I’m glad I did. I could tell it meant a lot to her.”
“I’m glad you did too. It’s such a great feeling, isn’t it? I think even if they’re over what you did to them, it m
eans something that they still crossed your mind. Everyone wants to be thought of sometimes. I think that’s what makes them happiest, that they left enough of an impact for someone to still think of them.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. She was touched that I’d thought of her, maybe even that someone still did. And that I thought enough of her to humble and humiliate myself.”
“I’m happy it went so well, Baby Bear. Sounds like it was a good day for both of us.”
“The best day.”
“Hopefully it’s going to get better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. What are you doing tonight?”
“Spending it with you? Did you want to go to dinner to celebrate?”
“Something like that.”
My nose crinkles in confusion. “Okay, well I’m up for whatever you want to do.”
“Perfect. Let’s go somewhere fancy for dinner and spend some of the ridiculous amount of money people have paid for my art, and then we can go for a nice moonlit walk along the beach.”
“That sounds like a plan. I’ll need to go home and change though.”
“I think you look beautiful, but if you insist.”
“I’m in a t-shirt and shorts! Anywhere fancy is going to kick me out on sight!”
“Well then we’ll just get takeout and eat it on the steps of their fine establishment.”
“That does sound like something I’d do. Although I’m shocked at your rebellious thoughts, Mr. Isaacs.”
“I told you you’d changed my life. I didn’t say it was for the better.” He laughs as I stick my tongue out at him.
“What do you want to do now, Diablo?” he asks as we both stand and stretch.
“I thought we’d seen the end of that nickname!”
“Well, I brought it back. It seemed relevant.”
“It’s not. Get rid of it. We could drive to your house to pick up Leo, and then take him to mine so I can change my clothes?”
“Sounds good, angel.”
“That’s more like it.”
He chuckles as he wraps his arm around my neck while we walk up the sand toward the sidewalk. His fingers fiddle with the chain that forever resides around my neck as his other hand strokes the skin around my waist under my t-shirt.
I don’t know if it’s the summer sunshine, Tristan’s good news, my apology to Mrs. James, or something intangible, but positivity reflects and refracts off every available surface, searing into my skin. I just feel light, free for a second of all burdens and darkness. I know they aren’t far away, but they don’t exist in this moment. Right now, I’m happy.
As we cross the road to reach our cars, my stomach hurts with uncontrollable laughter as Tristan starts telling me this hilarious story about how Leo has befriended a squirrel in the nearby woodlands. We’re both so caught up in the story, in the moment, in each other, that we don’t notice the frenetic car hurtling toward us until it’s too late.
We’re ripped apart as we fly through the air like acrobats.
Soaring, gliding, twisting, twirling.
Weightless.
Hopeless.
Lifeless.
As we land face down on the concrete and glass to the gasps of the audience, the curtains fall and my world of light fades to black.
COMA.
My new, least favorite four-letter word.
My forever lies in limbo as I sit here in a clinical white corridor shivering from the inside out. Blaise wraps his arm tighter around me to warm me up, but I know this is not that kind of cold. It’s the kind of cold that freezes your heart in mid-motion, leaving you unsure if it will ever beat again. No, the chill enveloping me doesn’t come from my skin, it comes from my soul, forming icicles in my bloodstream and making each breath an icy blast of fearful air.
The accident plays in my head like a damaged videotape. Even though I wish I could forget and focus on something else, my sensory memory won’t let me. With the momentary darkness that comes with each slow blink over my dry eyes, I hear the sickening thud as Tristan’s body takes the brunt of the impact from the car, the horrified gasps and yells from bystanders, the earsplitting screech of brakes that came two seconds too late. It. Won’t. Shut. Up. Like the world’s worst soundtrack stuck on repeat.
But the sounds aren’t the worst. The worst are the feelings. As if it is still happening, I experience the scrape of my bare skin across the tarmac as I landed, the explosive pain in my right arm as it broke in two places, and worst of all, my stomach remembers with crystal clarity, the unfamiliar feeling of weightlessness as I soared through the air like a bird.
I was always envious of birds. I longed for the ability to fly as my superpower.
Be careful what you wish for.
I just can’t get over it. How we could go from happy and laughing, to hanging onto life by the worn down whites of our fingernails. You hear that life can change in the blink of an eye, but you don’t fully comprehend the truth behind the sentiment until it’s your eyes that have blinked from a scene of joy to one of devastation. If only we could see life through the eyes of others. Then we would understand. How I wish I were still ignorant.
The last thing I remember, before darkness descended, was being face down on the ground. Tristan was a few feet away, and even though he was unconscious, his bloodied face was turned toward me with his arm outstretched in my direction as if seeking me out. I looked down to see my broken arm was doing the same. We were far away yet almost close enough. Almost always, always almost. I’d like to think it means something that we flew apart, but landed together, subconsciously reaching for each other even in the face of oblivion.
It’s funny because I’m always armed with a profound and meaningful quote for every situation, but no amount of words will soothe me right now. What a time to realize that sometimes words aren’t enough. And what are prayers but words infused with hope and desperation? Right now, my beloved words feel futile.
What I find paradoxical is that I’m so numb, and at the same time, I’ve never felt more. Shock, horror, sadness, desperation, despair, fear, regret, anguish, and anger all fight with each other for dominance.
But the guilt wins. A numbing sense of guilt, deeper than the ocean, that Tristan took the majority of the impact, shielding and protecting me even on instinct. We used to joke about how I lived life with my head in the clouds. ‘My little balloon,’ he’d call me. ‘You’ll have to come back down to earth sometimes. But don’t worry; I’ll always catch you when you fall.’ I guess he lived up to his promise. He’s always been a man of his word.
But who’ll catch me if he doesn’t regain consciousness?
And even then, will I ever want to fly or float again?
Right now, I’m well and truly grounded. Not only that, I’m sinking. Despair is pulling me deeper into the earth like quicksand. I sink with every second of silence.
As if I am being suffocated by an avalanche of sand, I begin gasping for air. Darkness encroaches on my vision as my frantic heart beats out of control.
“She’s having a panic attack!” I hear Blaise yell through the ringing in my ears.
At once, I’m surrounded by people when all I need is space. But I can’t move the words past the imaginary chokehold on my throat. Thankfully, Blaise knows what to say and do.
“Everyone needs to take a step back. Crowding her will only make it worse.”
The authority in his voice and his imposing size makes everyone listen and make a reluctant retreat to their seats in the waiting room, casting me surreptitious glances full of anxiety.
“Hey, Woodstock?” he croons like a snake charmer, bringing my unfocused and dilated gaze to his bourbon browns. “I need you to breathe for me okay?” Somehow, he understands the furious shake of my head to mean that I can’t. “Sure, you can. I know you think you’re dying, but I promise you, you’re not. I just need you to breathe. Come on, do it with me. In for me, out for you. In for me, out for you. That’s good, keep going…”<
br />
The chokehold loosens a fraction, but it’s not enough. I’m suffocating in my own sadness. He sees this and moves onto his next tactic. “Okay, Coachella, let’s try this. Stand up for me.” He takes my hand and pulling me to my feet. “Now, let’s do jumping jacks.”
Blaise laughs at my bewildered expression, and ignores the worried looks of our friends behind him.
“Blaise…” a voice says in warning, I think it’s Maia.
“Trust me; I know what I’m doing. I’m no stranger to these,” he whispers the last part under his breath so that only I can hear. Shaking off the doubt of our friends, he bends his knees to meet my eyes and swallows my free hand in his large one.
“Come on, I’ve never known you to turn down an adventure, don’t start on me now. One of the many things I love about you is that you’re up for anything. Even if it doesn’t make sense you do it ‘just because’ and go with the flow. Where’s that free spirit now?”
I want to tell him it’s in the middle of the road, lying between unswept fragments of glass and metal, but I still can’t speak. Plus he said those magic words, almost as if my father used him as a conduit to deliver a message to me. I’ve never told Blaise about that memory. Right now, I’ll cling to any sign, any symbol that seems to tell me everything will be okay. I’m hallucinating meaning.
“Woodstock, I’m serious. Jumping jacks. Now. I know you have only one good arm but spread out your non-broken wing. Do it with me and let’s count. One, two… that’s it, there’s my girl… three, four… I need you to count with me… five, six… louder, that’s better… seven, eight… look at us embarrassing ourselves in a waiting room… nine… this is why I love us… ten… ah, she’s laughing again… eleven, twelve, okay let’s try for twenty… thirteen, fourteen… my sporting days are behind me and this is bringing back traumatic memories of drills… fifteen, sixteen… the things I do for you, Woodstock, only you… seventeen… okay you count the last three, nice and loud. That’s it. Good job. Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” I say as my head collides with his chest in a tight side hug, careful of my broken arm between us. Overwhelming gratitude sweeps through me for the air that is refilling my lungs.
The Counting-Downers Page 20