Skin: He wanted full contact

by Johanna Hawke

  Sure, I could wait, but then I ran the chance of someone else snagging this gem up. Linfield was a small town. What were the odds that another building even half as good as this one would pop up for rent or sale within the next few days? Roni was only growing more and more distant. I had to do this now. It felt like the right place and the right time.

  With a little extra pep in my step, I walked back inside and leaned against the counter, the old woman awaiting my words. “How does a year-long lease sound?”

  The look on the woman’s face sealed the deal. She went on and on about how she would give me the best possible deal and that she was thrilled to finally be able to retire and travel. “I have a lease drafted, if you’d like to look it over,” she said. “Do you want some time to think about it?”

  “I’ll look it over right now, if you don’t mind,” I said. The barren shop around me told me that she wouldn’t. I scanned through the document and sent a picture of each page to my dad to look over. I told him it was a favor for a friend, since I knew he’d try to talk me out of renting the space for Roni. It was what it was, and maybe it wasn’t so bad having a lawyer for a dad, after all.

  Everything appeared to be in order. The lease was a standard agreement, like something I’d seen in one of the legal books in the prison library. The rent was right within the range of what I’d hoped to spend, another reason, in my mind, that this location was fate. My dad sent me back the go-ahead, so I returned to the counter ready to sign. I chuckled to myself as I just pictured my dad mumbling, cursing under his breath about his twenty-something son who’d interrupted his busy day for immediate legal advice.

  I felt pretty up on my luck, so I felt confident making one more offer. “Ma’am,” I said, realizing for the first time that I’d never asked for or been offered the old lady’s name.

  “Berta,” she said.

  “Berta, I have a quick question before we sign.”

  She smiled sweetly at me. “And what is that, my dear?”

  “How about a five percent discount if I pay now for the entire year?” I knew it was a long shot, but I figured that paying upfront would ensure that Roni would accept my gift. It wouldn’t leave her much of a choice.

  Berta was elated. She immediately began talking about all the trips she could take now that she would have extra money as she drafted the changes to the contract. “I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “You, my dear, are an angel. My friends are all going on a cruise in the spring and I wasn’t going to be able to go because they require a deposit by the end of the year, which I didn’t have. They’re going to be so excited that I can join them! I’m so excited I can join them.”

  The pure joy on Berta’s face made me forget for a moment that this was a business transaction. I hoped Roni would have the same look on her face when I told her about her new art studio. Berta told me that, pending a credit check, the place was mine. I was ready—and made sure that she knew I was ready— to come back with a check for twelve months’ rent as soon as she called.

  I spent the next hour until my client was due to arrive mapping out plans for the studio. Sure, I wanted Roni to have most of the say, but I wanted her to at least be able to envision it as an art studio when I showed it to her. I wanted more than anything for Roni and I to get back together, to work past this bump in the road and be as happy as we’d been a few weeks earlier. If Roni couldn’t get past this, though, I hoped she’d at least accept the rental space as an apology for the pain I’d caused her.

  It was going to be perfect. I had to believe that. It took three hours from the time I left the flower shop for Berta to call. “Mr. Parker, the shop is all yours. I hope you’ll have as many great years in it as I did.”

  Chapter 29

  Roni

  “Alright, everyone,” I said to the group of eighth graders that surrounded me. “Welcome to the first meeting of art club. I know most of you know me, but, for those of you who don’t, I’m Miss Vance. I’d like us all to go around and say our names and an interesting fact about ourselves.

  It was harder than I’d expected to pretend to care about a student’s guinea pig’s name or how many bones a student had broken. It was a nice distraction from the disaster that was the rest of my life. Besides, it was nice to be around people who shared my love of art, even if they were ten years younger than me and half of them were probably only joining for extra credit.

  Being a club advisor didn’t pay much, but, considering I had a sick father and only about four friends in this town, I’d decided it was worth the extra time commitment. What I hadn’t anticipated, however, was how antsy students got after already spending eight hours a day in the classroom.

  Hoping to break the ice, I said, “Now is your chance, your only chance, to ask me anything about myself. I think that knowing about your teacher can help you feel more comfortable in their classroom. Of course, nothing lewd or inappropriate.”

  A student I didn’t recognize, one I assumed had art second semester instead of first, raised her hand. Upon my nod, she stood up from her chair. “What’s art school like?” she asked. “Did you only have to take art classes all day?” Around her, students nodded, which I figured was their way of signaling that they also wanted to know the answer to those questions.

  It was a good first question, I had to admit. I’d heard horror stories in the teacher’s lounge when I’d mentioned the activity. While some teachers agreed that it was a way to build trust and form an open relationship with students, others had been hounded about their love life one too many times. I listened to the ones who were on board, mostly because I hadn’t come up with an alternate plan.

  “Art school was an incredible experience,” I said. “I attended school in New York, so it was a completely different atmosphere.”

  “New York?” another student chimed in, as if it was some foreign land. I supposed that, compared to small-town Linfield, it kind of was.

  “That’s right,” I said. “New York is full of incredible artists and tons of museums to visit. Unfortunately, even as an art major, you still have to take core classes like English and science, but not nearly as many as other majors. You can take classes in whatever area of art you want. I took painting classes, silk-screening classes, classes about color. Since I also wanted to teach, I took some classes about methods for teaching art.”

  Another student, the only male student in the room, raised his hand. “What if you love art but don’t want to be an artist?”

  “That’s a great question,” I said, turning the timid look on his face into a smile. “You can always minor in art in college, but you guys still have a few years before you have to worry about that. And you can always do art for fun. Build a small art studio in your garage. Take some classes at a local art studio. You guys are all well on your way just by coming here today.”

  I was surprised by the depth of the questions, having been sure that I would’ve been asked something silly like my favorite color or favorite movie.

  “Who’s your favorite sports team?” another student, a girl named Madeline from one of my advanced classes, asked. Everyone burst out laughing.

  “I wish I had an answer,” I said. “I’m not really a sports girl.”

  It seemed Madeline had opened the floodgates, because the next two questions I got were what my favorite food was and what three things I would take on a desert island. I indulged and answered their questions as if they were serious ones, until a third student asked if I had a boyfriend. That was a road I didn’t want to go down.

  “Alright, that’s enough. Who’s ready for some painting?” I knew these were teenagers, not young kids I could distract and coax into doing something, but, for whatever reason, they obliged and took their seats.

  I had fifty-four minutes left until the afterschool buses would take the kids home, and I wanted to make the most of it. I placed three objects—an apple, an old-fashioned telephone, and a watch—on the table in the center of the room and told the students t
o paint whatever came to their mind.

  “Do we have to paint exactly what we see?” one of the girls asked.

  “Not if you don’t want to,” I said. “You can paint a still-life of these objects as you see them, or you can incorporate them in some way into a different scene, or you can simply paint something inspired by what you see here.”

  As much as I wanted to sit down and paint right alongside the students, I greatly enjoyed watching them work. Ellie, one of the girls whose canvas I had featured in the fall art show, painted a tree line, with an apple tree, a telephone tree, and watch tree. As silly as the idea may have sounded, she executed it beautifully. Five of the dozen or so students painted the objects on the table exactly as they saw them. That was fine for now, I decided, hoping that, over the course of the school year, I would help expand their willingness to take artistic risks. Art was something that was important to me, and I was excited to help make it important to these students.

  Silence filled the last few minutes of my car ride, having finally gotten tired of hearing love songs that made me miss Jesse and breakup songs that made me resent him. I’d gotten over him once, and I had to do it again. As I stepped out of my car and leaned into the backseat to grab my tote bag, I saw movement from the corner of my eye. Dad was normally asleep around this time, so that only meant one real other possibility.

  Jesse emerged from behind the giant oak tree on my front lawn, holding flowers, like something out of a movie. In the movies, girls immediately fell to the guys’ feet and forgave them, but I wasn’t about to be another one of those girls. I couldn’t shake the words I’d heard around town, like a permanent gossip reel that filled my mind. What could he possibly want? I was sure that, after the awkward night at the art talk, he’d finally taken the hint. Well, he’d always been pretty thick-headed.

  I drew in a breath and readied myself for a conversation that would surely not be pleasant. “What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought I made it clear that I think we should stop seeing each other.”

  “C’mon, Roni,” Jesse said. Damn it. It was so hard to look at him, with that perfect, slightly crooked smile and tanned body, and not just fall to pieces.

  “Don’t do this to me, Jesse. Let’s not make it harder than it has to be.”

  Jesse took a step closer to me. “Can we just talk? I think we need to clear the air about some things.”

  I shrugged and decided that would be my only answer. Part of me wanted to hear what he had to say, but the other part was worried that I would fall for it all over again. He hooked up with half the girls our age in town, plus plenty that were older and younger, and some on the West Coast, and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move past it. Deep down, I was fairly certain he hadn’t cheated on me—if I could even call it that—while we’d been seeing other. But did that change anything?

  “Fine, just listen,” Jesse finally said. “I care about you. You have to know that. I know what my reputation is around here. People think I’m some sort of a playboy. And, if we’re being honest, I suppose that was true.” I exhaled, glad that we could at least agree on one thing. Jesse pushed the bouquet of flowers into my hand and continued. “But that was before you came back, Roni. That was before I knew what real, actual romantic feelings felt like after all this time.”

  “Why me? Why now?” I asked.

  Jesse shoved his hands in his pockets as he looked around the yard, clearly looking for something to say. “Ever since we broke things off—”

  I angrily said, “You mean you broke things off.”

  “I’m sorry, Roni,” he said. “I’ll admit it, I dated around a lot. I’ll even be open with you and say that I slept around a lot. I’m not proud of it. I was just trying to fill a void, a hole in my heart that’s been there since we broke up. But none of those girls meant anything to me. It’s always been you.”

  I couldn’t even keep track of the mix of emotions that were swirling around in my head. I’d gotten confirmation from the man himself that Jesse had been a serial dater, but he’d also said sweet things about me. How was I supposed to deal with that? I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only thing I could think of. I put up a wall in my mind and told myself that there was no way Jesse was getting back in.

  “What does that matter? I guess I was just another one of your conquests after all.”

  “I have a surprise for you,” Jesse said.

  I took a seat on the top step of the porch and groaned. “I don’t want another one of your surprises. I think I’ve had enough for one lifetime.”

  Jesse smiled as if we hadn’t just been arguing. “You’re going to have your very own art school.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious,” Jesse said. “I found the most perfect spot. It has private rooms that are perfect for classes, and a big, open main room, and it would be great for—”

  I thought Jesse was joking at first, especially given our current circumstances, but the look of pride on his face told me he wasn’t kidding. “Do you understand how insane you sound?” I said. “I’m not just going to waltz in and buy an art school. I know you, and I know you’re just trying to deflect. It won’t work this time.”

  “Roni.”

  “Jesse.”

  “Hate me all you want, but the first year’s rent is already paid for.” Jesse stared right into my eyes. “It’s all yours. The old flower shop up on Lockwood.”

  I wanted to be excited, and ask more, and start planning. It had been a dream of mine for so long that even the tiniest step toward making it happened seemed like a leap. But I knew I had to stand my ground. “Take it back. I don’t want it. Not from you.”

  “Be rational, Roni,” Jesse said. “It’s a great opportunity.”

  “And how convenient that you just happened to be the one on the lease,” I spat back.

  Jesse put his hands on his hips, seemingly for dramatic effect. “I can take my name off the lease if that’s what this is about.”

  “You know that that’s not what this is about.”

  “Roni, let’s work this out,” Jesse said. “Please.”

  I was so far beyond frustrated that it took everything I had not to lay years of baggage on Jesse right then and there. How dare he take a dream of mine and dangle it over my head like some sort of bargaining chip. “Go home, Jesse,” I shouted. Without waiting for a response, I walked inside the house and slammed the door shut behind me.

  Chapter 30

  Jesse

  I was sure Roni thought I was heading home, ready to give up on us, but she hadn’t the slightest clue that I was heading to my parents’ house. I still wasn’t completely sure what I was doing. I was invigorated, and intimidated, and completely out of my mind, but I was going to keep Roni in my life no matter what it took. I hated those women around town who had nothing better to do than gossip. But, more than that, I hated who I’d been in the years without Roni in my life. Each time I pictured those empty, meaningless nights with girls whose names I couldn’t even remember, I wondered how I had let myself become that person.

  Roni was my chance at redemption. She was my chance at the love I’d always hoped for, with the girl I’d always dreamed would come back around. If there was any way to show Roni how much I truly loved her, how much I cared about her and thought about her every day, this was it.

  I threw my car in park and ran into my parents’ house, thankful they weren’t there to strike up a conversation. All I could hope was that my mother had left the letters where I’d put them before I moved out. I jogged up the stairs to my old bedroom, which looked exactly the same as it had since the eighth grade, and made my way past the DVD collection I spent years building up.

  As my heart pounded faster and faster, I flung open the door to the closet. I reached my hand into the back corner until I felt the dust-covered shoebox beneath a pile of old clothes and the cigarettes I’d hidden from my mother. It had been at least six or eight months since I’d seen the box of letters, or ev
en given them any thought, but I hoped they would serve me well.

  Deciding that I should make sure the letters were appropriate before showing them to Roni, I took the top envelope out of the box and unfolded the letter inside. There, in my handwriting, was the unappealing blue-black colored ink of the pens I had been allowed to use in prison. My hand shook as I read the date, four days into my prison sentence.

  Dear Roni,

  I don’t know where to start, so I’ll start with this. I love you more than you could ever know. I’m sorry it took getting arrested for me to realize how horribly I treated you. You’ve been nothing but a wonderful and loving girlfriend, and I completely took advantage of that. Turning you away when you came to visit was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I know that trying to move on from you will be even harder.

  I lied when I told you that I never cared about you. I lied because it was easier than facing the reality—that you’re too good for me. You’re smart, and kind, and beautiful, and talented, and I knew that, if you stayed with me, I would only hold you back. I guess I didn’t realize that in trying to let you let go of me, I’d end up making you hate me.

  I don’t think I’ll ever send this letter, but, in case I someday get the nerve, I want you to know that our relationship was one of the best things that ever happened to me. You make me want to be a better person. Even though we’re broken up right now, I want to become someone worth giving another chance. I’m not sure if that’s me or the prison talking, but I will change. I promise you that.

  I hope art school treats you well. You deserve nothing but the best.

  I’ll love you forever.

  Jesse

  Using the ink color to determine how old each letter was, I picked another, far more recent letter from the pile. It was dated ten months earlier, almost three and a half years after I first said goodbye to Roni. At that point, I’d been sure that none of the letters would ever get mailed, but, sometimes, it felt nice to have an outlet for my feelings.