by Lexy Timms
“Go to Germany and audition for opera houses. They’d take you in a heartbeat.”
“I haven’t had a formal singing lesson in years,” she said.
“Then start taking them. You’ve got the money, Anna. Take them for a year, and then take some time off and go to Germany. If you don’t get anything, you can come back to your job, and if you do get something, you can quit.”
“I can’t just go to Germany, Hailey. I’m not you.”
“I’m not asking you to be me,” I said. “I’m asking you to be yourself.”
The silence on the other end of the line caused me to hold my breath. For the first time in my life, I felt I finally had Anna’s attention. She was a grown adult. She no longer had to bend to the wills and sways of Mom and Dad. If she wanted to go take a vacation to Germany, then she could. If she wanted to take voice lessons, she could.
But the hope was short-lived because when I heard her sigh, I knew she’d already talked herself out of it.
“I’m so excited for you, Hailey,” she said. “When I draw this paperwork up, we’ll get together and sign it.”
“All right. There’s this cute little retro diner across the street from the gallery that backs up to the ocean. We can eat there, and then you can come see the place.”
“I can’t wait,” she said.
“I do have one more question, though.”
“Before you even ask it, no. I haven’t met anyone.”
“Oh, come on, Hailey. You’re in San Diego, for crying out loud. Your gallery’s going to be across the road from the beach. You mean to tell me no hot man has attempted to snag that beautiful body of yours?”
“I’m more than just my body, Anna,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you’ve got killer looks. You’ve always had them. Your curvy frame, your wacky dyed hair, your light blue eyes. Come on. Someone’s looking at you, right?”
“My concentration’s on the gallery right now. You know this,” I said.
“Well, don’t let any more hunks pass you by. You’re in your prime. Allow yourself a time or two to simply enjoy yourself.”
“Look at the pot calling the kettle black!”
“Shut up,” she said.
“A corporate attorney telling an artist to live life to the fullest. Just spectacular.”
“You’re a dick, you know that?”
“Nope. But according to my little sister, I need some,” I said, grinning.
“I hate you. I’ve got to go, all right? I’ll get that paperwork done and text you when it’s ready.”
“Thanks. For everything,” I said.
“Get yourself some dick.”
“Get yourself a life that makes you happy.”
I hung up the phone with my sister as I meandered through my studio apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and it allowed me to penny-pinch every single cent I could. I walked to the window that overlooked the quietest street I cornered, and I hunched over at my table. I’d had this image swirling in my mind for days, an image I needed to get out onto paper before it drove me absolutely wild.
I could still remember his tattoos. The way they cascaded up his arms as he raised his beer. The Guinness can held proudly as his chest puffed out. His dark hair was pristinely cut, almost like someone had molded clay onto his head, and his fiery dark eyes held secrets that screamed to me during his speech. I sketched out his long legs, his feet planted firmly on the stage as a proud smirk graced his cheeks. I smudged a bit of a shadow around his figure, his body standing in front of the darkness that inevitably swallowed him after he was done.
I sketched the faint outline of the microphone held in his arm, remembering how etched his muscles were. He was beautiful. Kind. Though his eyes seemed to have been searching for something in his speech. I could still remember the way his words rang with emotion in my ears, the way his brother’s voice did when he was still alive.
I felt guilt clench my heart, startling my pencil right from between my fingers.
I’d wanted to go up and talk with him. Right after his speech. I wanted to stop him and tell him who I was. I wanted to look into his eyes and see the memories of his brother sparkle. I wanted to introduce myself, tell him my name, and shake his hand. He looked so much like his brother it was sickening, and the moment he backed into the shadows, I could no longer contain my own emotions.
My own guilt.
My own fear.
I threw back the rest of my IPA at that memorial service and left through the side entrance. I told myself it would’ve made things awkward and that my involvement in his brother’s life would be blamed for his death. I wanted to remember the better parts of John, the part that poured his heart into his paintings, that saw the world from a completely different perspective, and that found solace in the brushes and canvases I had to offer him while he was trying to get himself clean—had gotten himself clean.
I reached for my pencil, my hands shaking as the tip descended back onto his arms. He had this lovely and intricate tattoo on his right arm. A spiral, or a swirl, that looked like it was descending right into the depths of his body. When he raised his beer, I could see a rose emerge. Just the tip, but I knew it wasn’t just any old rose.
It would have to be for now, however, because I wasn’t close enough to see the pattern on the petals of the tattooed beauty.
The one that entranced me, however, was the geometric patterns on his left arm. It started in the middle of his forearm and cascaded all the way up past his t-shirt. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to conjure the memory before my pencil started fluttering over the page. Diamonds and cubes and triangles emerged, all melding together in one fluid piece of artwork that draped over his skin.
The sketch I was doing didn’t hold a candle to the intricacies and the beauty of that particular tattoo.
I wanted to study it up close, to memorize it and pick apart its shapes. I wanted to ask him questions and figure out how he came up with the pattern. Ask him if he drew it. If he designed it himself. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen, full of colors that faded into one another. The tattoo had almost glistened underneath the spotlight, like his eyes when he was telling that story of his brother.
I felt a sense of dread waft up my spine, and I put my pencil down before I messed it all up.
Had I made a mistake in moving to San Diego? I had to get out of Los Angeles. After everything that had happened. My instincts had always been spot on, and in some respects, I believe I moved here because of how John always talked about it. He talked about his brother. About how he was successful and wanted to model his life after him. He told me that the San Diego sun felt different on his face than the Los Angeles sun had, and had it not been for his parents living there, he would’ve moved back a long time ago.
I thought it was a brilliant way to memorialize the one rehabilitation patient I’d had who’d affected me the most.
I’d always trusted my instincts because they’d never gotten me into trouble. The only time I ever found myself in trouble was when I strictly went against them. It’s how I ended up in a pre-med program I almost flunked out of. The moment I dropped out and focused on my art, my career took off. People saw the passion in my work and were more than willing to pay for it. I found my passion for art therapy and using it to rehabilitate people in the areas I was settling in, but I never did stick around for too long.
Until I moved to Los Angeles and met John.
Until I made the biggest mistake of my entire life.
A car horn ripped me from my thoughts as I looked down onto the picture of John’s brother. Bryan, I think he said his name was. My tears clouded the pencil marks, bleeding one into another until the entity of his torso had been ruined. I sobbed, my elbows planting into the table as I put my wet face in my hands.
“I promise I’ll pay you back,” I said as I sobbed. “I promise I’ll make it up to you somehow.”
I couldn’t save John. No matter how hard I’d tried, I si
mply couldn’t do it. He had been reaching for me, screaming out to me and begging me with his eyes. I’d put him in front of every single canvas and used my own personal money to purchase every single color of the spectrum I could come across. The pictures he painted over the last few months of his life had made it into my moving van, and all of a sudden, a thought crossed my mind.
That could be my first gallery.
The first profitable movement of the business.
I could showcase and display the beauty John brought to the world. The beauty he wanted so desperately to give back, even though the darkness of this earth consumed him whole.
I wanted John to know his beauty was still going to be witnessed, and in some respects, I wanted Bryan to know that someone else bore witness to John’s beauty.
Someone else saw the good in him, even though the darkness hung heavily in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, John,” I said breathlessly. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Chapter 5
Bryan
I drove into the small beachside town, inching closer to the diner I was meeting Drew at. It really wasn’t a town. It was all swept up until the city of San Diego. But this little stretch of land seemed to depart from the usual hustle and bustle of San Diego itself, so people usually referred to it as a town of its own. It was quiet and the beach the diner sat on was rarely occupied. The sand here wasn’t as soft, which repelled most of the tourists.
Which was perfect for the locals who kept this small slice of paradise alive.
I saw the neon sign for Drew’s Diner up ahead. I figured Drew probably loved this place because he got a kick out of the name. He had this running joke that he would eventually buy the place out and never have to change the name of it. He’d laugh and laugh, wiping the tears from his eyes while reliving a joke that had long since been played out.
I came because they had incredible homemade milkshakes and freshly cut fries I could dip into the house-made whipped cream.
I pulled into the parking lot and looked over at the abandoned building across the street. Drew and I had bets on what that place used to be. I thought it was an old, run-down gas station, but Drew thought it used to be an old bank. I had no idea where the fuck he’d get the impression it was a bank, but I left him to his own ideas.
But as I got out of my car and took a good look at it, I noticed something different.
A sold sign was sitting in the window.
Holy hell, someone actually bought the place. Every business that had tried to set up there in the last decade had gone belly up. I felt for the poor sucker who was duped into buying that place, but I’m sure the owner was finally glad to get it off his hands. I can’t imagine a dust house like that going for more than twenty thousand dollars, but the property taxes alone with being so close to the ocean would be a fun surprise come next year.
The first business I remembered there had been this little antique shop. Closed its doors within a few months. Then a pet daycare tried to make its way in there, attempting to profit off the beach goers with pets that never quite made it down this far onto the coast. Closed within a year and never came back. The place had been vacant for over a year before an elderly couple invested their retirement savings into opening a bar, and that actually flourished for a bit. But when the husband died and the wife hired someone to take over the place, the new manager eventually bought them out and then drove the bar into the ground.
Ever since, it had sat vacant. It had been vandalized time and time again. I’d seen people scurrying out with old bar chairs and the older-than-dirt cash register. I’d seen people busting out the windows, and I’d try to shoo them away. It really was a decent building with good bones, but it just sat in a terrible part of town.
I couldn’t imagine anything other than a bar surviving in a place like this.
I headed into the diner where Drew flagged me down. We sat down and ordered and then got straight down to business. We had some places I scouted that I wanted to talk about developing, which meant taking on more projects.
And at the rate we were going right now, that meant bringing on new hires.
“So, whaddaya got for me?” Drew asked.
“There are two other places I’m all for building up,” I said.
“Any chance they’re commercial properties?” he asked.
“No. They’re not. They’re still residential. I enjoy the idea of helping people find a home. An affordable home, especially in a bustling city like this one. There’s no reason why we can’t get them affordable housing. San Diego is booming and is hiring more people than ever, but they can’t get anyone to work here because they can’t afford to live within the city limits. I want to change that.”
“I totally hear you, dude. I’m just saying. You could really rake it in with the commercial properties. Especially if you rented the shit and stuff,” he said.
“Then why don’t we create a new division? You head up commercial properties, and I’ll head up residential properties?”
“Dude, are you fucking serious?” he asked.
“You gotta help me with these two projects, and then we can talk,” I said.
“You got it. So, whatcha thinkin’?” he asked.
“That mobile home project is almost finished on the other end of town, and I’m liking how it’s turning out. I was thinking about taking this bigger property here and doing another mobile home one and then taking the slightly smaller property and doing tiny houses.”
“What?” he asked.
“Tiny houses. You know, houses less than one thousand square feet. That shit’s all the rage right now. We could offer people plans and floor layouts, and we’d get the same amount of money out of the smaller property as we would the larger one. Homes would still be affordable, these would still be customizable like the mobile homes, and since these tiny homes are stationary, they’d still be outfitted with all the modern amenities.”
“Like internet and plumbing,” he said.
“Yep. Thoughts?”
“I think the tiny house movement is still a small movement. You’re dedicating yourself to selling, what, twenty of them? Twenty-five?”
“The lot would hold twenty-three,” I said.
“You think you can sell that many tiny homes to people? People with kids?” he asked.
“The jobs opening up in San Diego aren’t jobs people with kids usually take, though. Delivery drivers, full-time cashiers, delicatessen experts, which is just a fancy way of saying ice cream scooper. All these jobs need to be filled, but where are these people going to live in a city like San Diego working for twelve dollars an hour?” I asked.
“You got a point.”
“If we could keep these tiny house monthly payments under three hundred a month, they’d sell like fucking hotcakes. I’m tellin’ you, it’s going to be big. Affordable housing, lower bills, more people get to have a roof over their heads they can be proud of, and everyone wins.”
“I’ve always trusted your instincts, man,” Drew said. “If you’re good, I’m good. Though I don’t really get why you’re still so hands on.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’m over here workin’ all the higher-up business stuff, dude. Corporate shit. That life’s much easier than what you’re doing. Not as many hours, not as much stress. Why are you so insistent on staying so hands on?”
“Someone’s got to be,” I said.
“You don’t wanna take it easy? At all? I mean, you’re workin’ yourself to the bone, my man. It’s time to take a breather and bask in your glory.”
“It’s never been about the glory and attention. You know this, Drew.”
“I’m just sayin’. At least take a fucking vacation. You look like shit,” he said.
“You just wanna have time to take advantage of this weather,” I said, grinning.
“It’s prime surfing weather, dude! I can’t have a job that takes me from my first love now.”
“I still don’t kn
ow how you do that,” I said.
“It’s all about being one with the waves, dude. Riding its current instead of trying to control it.”
“And not being a meathead who breaks a board when he stands on it.”
“I still don’t know how you did that. Never seen it in all the years I’ve been lovin’ those waves,” he said.
“To each their own,” I said as I grabbed my milkshake. “And speaking of, did you see our gas station across the street?”
“You mean our old bank?” he asked.
“You’re an idiot. Have you seen the sold sign in the window?”
“No way. Someone actually bought the place?” he asked.
“Apparently. What do you think they’ll turn it into this time?” I asked.
“We haven’t seen a craft shop yet,” he said.
“Or a hardware store.”
“Oh, maybe they’re gonna turn it back into a bank.”
“It’s never been a bank, and it’ll never be a bank,” I said.
“Says you. You don’t know shit,” Drew said, grinning.
“Maybe it’ll be some rich yuppie that’ll turn it into one of those legal pot shops.”
“Rich yuppie? Who the hell are you? Some crotchety old rich woman who hates millennials?”
“You hate millennials, Drew.”
“We are millennials, Bryan.”
“But not the kind people hate,” I said.
“I fucking hope not,” he said. “A pot shop? Really?”
“They’re all over the place now that it’s legal for medicinal purposes,” I said.
“You think they’d give some to you for having bullshit parents? Because your family gives me headaches.”
“Because they hate you,” I said.
“I still don’t know why. I’m so kind to them when I went over there more.”
“Because you’re a surfer dude who hangs out with me, that’s why,” I said.
A silence fell over the conversation. I knew it was about to take a turn for the worse, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to go there. I knew Drew didn’t see them at the memorial service, and I knew he wanted to ask me why.