by Lily Summers
I comb the last of the tangles out of my wet curls and twist my hair over one shoulder. Since I’ve already gone this far, I might as well put on something besides yoga pants. My drawers are nearing empty – I really need to do laundry – but I manage to find a long tunic and some leggings. They’re like pajamas that you can wear outdoors without getting pitied stares.
Once I finish dressing, I look at the drawings of Iris on the wall. They’re watching me, smiling, laughing, crying. I pull in a deep breath and hold it in my lungs until it’s warm, then release it.
I’m so tired of being haunted.
The first piece to come off the wall is the one of the both of us watching the salmon run through Puget Sound when we were kids. The water sprays around us and the fish leap through the air, all pink and green from the spawning. Next come the ones with her sad eyes, then those of her laughing. As I pull each drawing down, I feel the memory seep into my skin along with the graphite and charcoal. Their job is to remind me, but do I need reminding when the tragedy never escapes me?
They’re too personal to let anyone else see, and people have been getting too close lately. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds their way past my door. When Iris watches me from these pages, she’s just mine, exactly the way I want to remember her.
Exactly the way I need to remember her.
Ever since Damien showed up at the shop, my mind has been repeating the night I lost her, playing and replaying like a broken record. She never should have been in that car with him. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the stack of drawings in my hand.
A clatter at my window startles me so badly that I almost drop my pages everywhere. I ignore it at first, but then it happens again. And again. It’s too rhythmic to be accidental. As I watch, a pebble strikes one of the panes and I realize someone’s throwing rocks at my window like I’m in a teen rom-com.
I slide the drawings under my bed before pulling open my blinds and opening the window.
Far down below, Ezra grins up at me and my heart leaps to my throat.
“Good,” he says. “I got the right window this time. The woman a few doors down isn’t super happy with me right now, sorry to say.”
I gape at him. Stupidly, the first thing that comes out of my mouth is, “This isn’t the 90s, Ezra. You could have texted me.”
Ezra looks bemused. “I did,” he says. “About twenty times.”
He’s right. I look back at my neglected phone guiltily. I’m grasping at straws here. “What… how did you know which apartment I’m in?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, the hint of a laugh lighting up in his eyes. “I may have called in a favor from your roommate. She gave me her number in case I needed it.”
“Audrey doesn’t give her number out,” I say automatically.
“I guess she thinks you’re worth it,” he responds. “I can relate.”
Silence stretches between us like a too-tight guitar string. I’m so glad to see him, but simultaneously embarrassed about how I acted the last time we were together. Not that I could help it exactly, but that sort of freak-out is hard to overlook.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He raises one of those flawless dark eyebrows and it’s so goddamn charming I can’t stand it.
“I missed out on spending some quality time with you the other night and I’d like to make up for it. Can I come up?” he says.
A flush spreads across my chest and up my neck. I really ought to say no, to set him free. Instead, I hear myself say, “Yeah, okay. I’m in 240A.”
“Be right up.”
I pull the window closed and consider trying to put on some quick makeup, but I don’t really have the energy. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He probably wants to get some closure and end whatever this is on good terms. Seems like the kind of thing he’d want to do – be everyone’s best friend until the bitter end.
I’m tying my hair into a bun at the base of my neck when there’s a soft knock at the door. I close the door to my bedroom tight behind me as I go to answer.
He’s standing there bright as the morning, his tanned skin practically glowing in the dim light of the hallway. I doubt there’s ever been a more attractive combination of friendly brown eyes and dimples in the history of the world. His hair is tied back like mine and he’s wearing a blue and green button-down flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks good.
Understatement of the year, Mia.
Vaguely, I realize I probably look the opposite of good. But, hey, at least I’m clean.
Ezra leans against the doorframe. “Could I come in?”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” I step aside and tuck an escaped curl behind my ear. He smells like wood smoke as he brushes past me.
He looks around our living room, taking in the bright fabrics we’ve hung from the walls to give the room some color. I suddenly find myself embarrassed, worried about what he’ll think of our decorations. His aesthetic is so effortlessly cool, so perfect. Ours is…well…
His eyes linger on the ceramic chicken Audrey insists on displaying on our breakfast bar, but he doesn’t ask questions. It was apparently a gift from her grandmother, and she loves the thing. I feel like it stares at me while I eat.
“Huh,” Ezra says. “This place is nice.”
I lean against the bar and laugh under my breath. “It’s affordable.”
Once again, an uncomfortable quiet fills the room, and Ezra clears his throat to break it. He seems to be building up to something. I tense up, waiting for the “I can’t handle your baggage” speech.
“I came here because I’m worried about you,” he finally says, running his fingers along my upper arm. The pressure is delicate, as he swirls light circles against my skin, like he’s trying to pull the tension out of me. “I want to know what happened the other night, but if you’re not ready to talk about it, I’m okay with that. I’d really like to keep you in my life. You’re so… raw. I’ve never met anybody more real, definitely not anyone who keeps me so real.”
I hear his words, but don’t process them. They’re so far from what I expected that I can’t wrap my mind around what he’s telling me. That he doesn’t care about how broken I am. That he wants to stay.
“Your authenticity is a work of art. It’s honest, so vulnerable and strong. It’s beautiful.” Ezra’s gaze is steady. “Whenever you’re ready to share, I’ll be here.”
Warmth blooms in my belly. “You’ll be here?”
“Did you think you scared me off?”
“Well,” I say. “Yeah. Not many people would stick around after that.”
“I already told you.” He holds his hands out to his sides and gives me a charming one-sided smirk. “I’m not many people.”
Most people would take this opportunity to seal the deal with a kiss. That’s how these things usually play out, after all, isn’t it? But I surprise us both by jumping up to pull Ezra down into a hug. Leave it to me to dork out and bear hug my very hot and very willing make out partner.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
“I meant what I said. Whenever you’re ready to tell me what’s going on, I’ll listen.” He straightens back up and looks me in the eye. The warmth inside me starts to heat up.
Ezra reaches up to tug on my loose curl. “We never did get to catch that movie. What do you say we make up for it?”
“What?” I say. “Now?”
“Sure. I hear there’s a new exhibit down at the Modern Art Gallery. Want to check it out?”
If something better could have come out of his mouth just now, I’m not sure what it might have been. Maybe “I brought an IPA variety pack, a litter of puppies, and a unicorn for your own personal enjoyment?” Nope, not even that wins out.
“I love the MAG,” I admit.
His devilish grin is back. “Your roommate might have mentioned something.”
I look down at his arm and trace my fingers
over the fish in his tattoo. “Are you sure you want to deal with all this?” I gesture at myself. “I’m kind of a mess.”
He shrugs. “We’re all a mess. At least you’re honest about it. So? What do you say?”
My mind’s still reeling from this unexpected turn of events. I was so positive he’d bolt that I didn’t consider that he might stay. I didn’t let myself imagine a future with him, let alone one more date. Should I risk this? He’s seen me totally cracked open. He’s seen the pulpy mess underneath. And despite it all, he’s still here.
When I look at him, at his fiery warm eyes and his incredible openness to the world, at the strength that radiates from him and his handsome, assured expression, I know my answer.
He’s worth it.
“Give me twenty minutes to find something gallery-worthy in Audrey’s closet,” I say.
He runs his thumb along the line of my jaw. “Take all the time you need. I’m not in a hurry.”
13
Even though I adore the MAG, I never really come to their big exhibition events. I prefer to stop by in the morning before my shift at the bookshop. There are far fewer people, so I don’t have to feel intimidated by the usual contingent of super talented artists that hang around the gallery in the evenings, smoking cloves outside and having deep philosophical discussions in front of the latest pieces, many of which they themselves created.
No, I’m more of a come when it’s quiet and listen to Explosions In The Sky with my headphones on kind of gal. That way, I don’t have to make awkward small talk with real artists. Or anyone, really. What would I say to them?
This is what’s running through my brain as I pause with Ezra outside the gallery and glance over the clusters of people chatting outside. Inside, people mill about the upper section, sipping wine and eating canapés. I feel a mild but persistent panic well up in my chest.
Ezra brushes my arm. “You okay?”
I turn to look at him. With his hipster-handsome looks and relaxed confidence, he’s going to fit right in amongst the beautiful people. I force a smile across my lips and give a tight nod.
He traces his fingers down my arm until he’s holding my hand. I don’t know what kind of magic he’s working, but his comfort seeps into my palm and I start to relax.
“Shall we?” he says, and I follow him through the doors and into the throngs of people.
Portland’s MAG isn’t anything like the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Instead of a sprawling museum, it’s a small gallery located beneath a record store. When it’s not full of artists, it’s full of vinyl devotees, mostly dudes older than my dad and 20-somethings obsessed with recapturing the true essence of music. The record store likes the increased foot traffic during these events, so they let the gallery crowd bleed over.
Ezra leads the way past displays full of CDs, though we stop no fewer than three times so he can talk to people he knows. It figures. No matter where he goes, he knows people. When I watch him illuminating the room, bringing smiles to the faces of everyone around us, I’m in total awe of his ease. That seems to be who he is – the light at the center of the room.
He’s becoming the light at the center of mine, too, and I try to ignore how much that scares me.
We reach the steps and walk down to the gallery below, weaving around a couple headed the other direction. When we reach the bottom, Ezra takes off to get us some drinks while I fidget in a corner, picking at my nails. There are so many pieces that catch my eye. A tall, metallic sculpture, with a mechanical arm that swings back and forth like a pendulum. Paintings that escape the confines of their frames and bleed color onto the wall. I even see the flickering lights of a video installation in the back room. I’m itching to go explore, to lose myself in the art, but all of the strangers overwhelm me. There are so many more people here than I’m used to.
Thankfully, the director, Angela, spots me and comes to say hello. She moves through the gallery like royalty, her bright floral dress making her glow in the sea of black and grey overcoats.
“Mia, it’s so nice to see you!” she says. “You haven’t been by in a while.”
I take her offered hand in mine. “I know, I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy with work.” That’s a lie, but it’s prettier than the truth, which is that I haven’t had much energy for anything lately. What’s not a lie is the fond smile we share. Angela has given me so much: a sympathetic ear, a comforting presence who never pushed too much, a safe space where I can ogle at art for hours like the huge dork I am. “I’ve missed this place,” I tell her. “Who’s featured tonight?”
“Belladonna Sraffa,” she says, waving her hand behind her to indicate the most prominently displayed pieces for the night. “She’s from Chicago. It’s gorgeous work. Mixed medium. You’ll love what she’s done with the color palette, I bet.”
Right then, Ezra returns with our drinks. He hands me what looks like an oatmeal stout and clinks his glass of amber ale with mine. “Friend of Mia’s?” he asks Angela.
“Friend and fan,” she says. “She refuses to admit that she’s an artist, but I can tell. Her eye is impeccable.”
“Don’t I know it,” Ezra agrees.
Being complimented by both of them at once is a little too much to bear so I divert my attention to my stout, taking a long pull. Yum. Definitely oatmeal.
Angela wags a finger at me. “One day, I’ll convince you to bring in some of your pieces, and then we’ll be having one of these events for you.”
Ezra stands straighter and looks at me sidelong with a smirk. “Oh, so it’s not just me she refuses to show her work to, then.”
I force a laugh, studying the tops of my shoes intently. “There’s really nothing to show,” I insist, “but I appreciate your faith in me nonetheless.”
“When someone has your appreciation for art, it’s not faith. It’s fact,” Ezra says as he raises his glass to take a drink. He brushes his free hand over my lower back and sends tingles up my spine.
Angela pats him on the cheek and says to me, “I like him. Keep him, he’ll be good for you.” She tells us to enjoy the show and moves off to mingle with other guests.
After she leaves, there’s a long pause where I try to suppress the hysterical giggle bubbling in my chest. There’s something about Angela approving of Ezra that’s got me a little moonstruck, like I didn’t realize how much that would mean to me until right now.
Play it cool, Mia.
“So?” Ezra says, peering at me over the top of his beer. “Will you keep me?”
His hand’s still resting on the curve of my back, warm and welcoming. My heart jumps in my chest, but I manage to muster an aloof expression. “Hmm. I’ll seriously consider it.”
We move on to the photography and lithograph displays before we approach the main exhibit. The artist, a handsome woman with black curls framing her head, shakes hands and chats with people about her work. I pause in front of the first painting, taking it in. The director was right. The use of color is incredible to behold.
The artist employs the negative space with incredible skill, using acrylic paint, burlap, and metal to bring out the spirit within the canvas. Bold colors grab the eye and distract from the real core of the work. Subjects occupy the empty space, their bodies twined with flowers or covered in brushstrokes of the Milky Way. Material twists to represent buildings, history, interference. It surrounds the subjects, forms their bodies, but they’re not tainted by it. Their purity shines through.
Ezra’s breath is hot against my ear as he leans in to say, “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you’re losing yourself in art?”
My breath catches from the wave of desire that courses straight down to my toes. I turn my head and find myself an inch from his lips.
The barest dusting of freckles scatter across his nose.
My voice is a whisper. “No, they haven’t.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “It’s the truth. Will you tell me what you see?”
I can do
that. What I can’t do is look away from him, or wipe this huge dorky smile off my face. Without turning away, I gesture toward the painting.
“It’s a commentary on not letting the chaos that surrounds you affect you,” I explain, and regretfully, tear my gaze away. I point out the empty white silhouette of a woman. “We’re all surrounded by society, our past, and our demons. They’re a big part of shaping who we are, but they don’t define us on the inside.” I spread my hands out to indicate the messy tangle of wire and burlap all around the white space.
He looks back at the painting for a moment and breathes a small “huh.” Then he says, “It’s incredible to look at this again through your eyes. I was focusing on the technical work, but now that you’ve pointed it out, I can see the message. The silhouettes are our souls, untainted by all the shit that gets thrown our way.”
“Exactly,” I say a little too fast, excited we’re on the same page. “She’s incredibly talented, and her technical skill is impressive. The thing about technique is that with enough practice, most people can master it. Skill alone isn’t enough to make your art sing, though. That comes from in here.” I put my fist over my heart. “She’s nailed it. When I was at art school, I saw so many incredibly talented artists turn out work that had no heart behind it. It was flawless, but sterile. Nothing like this.”
Ezra raises his eyebrows. “You went to art school?”
My smile fades and I mentally kick myself for letting that slip. I look away from him and lick my lip. “Only for a little while. I left. It doesn’t matter.”
I worry for a minute that he’s going to push for more details, but he doesn’t. After that, the tension in my body fades and we continue moving through the rest of the exhibit. There’s another piece that really gets to me – the silhouette of a young girl surrounded by purple and red lights that burst and smear her with bloodlike splatter. This girl isn’t untouched. The world has hurt her, made her bleed. It’s impossible not to think of Iris when I look at it. I wipe a tear from my eye when Ezra’s distracted, and once we’ve seen all the paintings, I make sure to find the artist and let her know how much it moved me.