by Mia Garcia
Ryan brought his head closer, whispering, “You think I can do it? The resolution?”
“Yeah.”
He looked up at the stars, and Jess hoped he imagined good things. Of galleries filled with his art. Of happiness. Of love.
Jess thought of the summer ahead. She pictured efficiency. She pictured herself tackling each responsibility like it was nothing more than a stone to be stepped on.
But then she stumbled. And the stones turned to mountains. Jess shut her eyes, driving the image away. “You think I can do it?”
She held her breath.
“Yeah.”
They linked hands and squeezed.
Ryan
JESS AND BETH took turns driving his parents’ minivan. If they were going to make this trip, their parents insisted on using a car that hadn’t broken down recently. Ryan would’ve volunteered to drive, but he still wasn’t sure about this whole gallery thing and they suspected he might just drive in circles for hours.
And there was the second failed attempt for a Jason hangout. Ryan had thought that they could swing by Boulder first and have a totally-not-awkward group coffee date during one of Jason’s internship breaks, but once again Jason was too busy, and the timing didn’t work out.
Internships, family events, summer courses . . . everything in Jason’s life seemed designed to keep them apart. Now you’re being dramatic, he thought.
Nora kicked his seat and he turned to look back at her, catching Blake’s eyes as well. After another failed platonic date he’d decided to kill two birds with one stone and invite Blake along. Nora was obsessed with his hair the moment they met, which now included a stripe of cobalt blue.
“Are we almost there?” Nora said.
“Is that why you kicked me?”
“Yes, plus I like kicking you.” She stuck out her tongue.
“Well I don’t know how long, let me ask navigation.”
In turn Ryan kicked Jess. “Hey, Navigation, how much time left?”
“Twenty minutes,” Jess said. “And no kicking.”
“That was Nora.”
“Nora’s all the way in the back.”
“Right, but she wanted me to kick you.”
Jess rolled her eyes then went back to watching the little dot on her phone get closer to the other dot on her phone. Not that she needed to—the voice always popped up and told them what to do—but she’d been particularly focused on the task.
Ryan: You OK?
Jess: No texting while I’m navigating.
Ryan: OK, just . . . I know you didn’t plan for Blake to come.
Jess: It’s fine.
Ryan: I know you . . .
He could see Jess shift, her shoulders sagging as she texted back.
Jess: Yeah. OK, maybe I was thinking of more of a just the four of us bonding time.
Ryan: We can still bond. I promise. He’s a nice guy, I swear.
Jess: I believe you, and Beth’s here anyway, so.
Jess turned in her seat a bit as the next text came.
Jess: You like him?
Ryan: Don’t start. Just friends.
She smiled and turned around.
Jess: Just checking—now stop texting me.
Ryan had been to plenty of galleries before, walked around streets where people displayed their art, visited art museums, but today felt different. Before he’d see the pieces and think, Maybe one day, if I’m brave enough, this might be me. But now it would be him. If he followed through with his resolution, his art would hang on a wall for people to walk around, judge, point to. . . . What would they say? What would they think? Would they see the hesitation?
Jess bumped against him, looping her arm around his. “Ready?”
Probably not. “I think so.”
She gave his arm a gentle squeeze, and they started to move, eventually breaking off into groups of three as they explored: Ryan, Jess, and Blake. Nora, Beth, and Lee.
The exhibit was amazing, and soon Ryan turned into an unofficial tour guide, pointing out the brilliance in each piece. Once or twice he caught Jess and Blake sharing a smile as he bounded from piece to piece. Each artist had started their work with an iconic piece of art as their inspiration, then brought their own style or medium to the work. One artist re-created incredibly detailed Renaissance paintings but replaced the figures with pop culture icons. Lee squealed when she saw the portrait of Princess Leia—General Organa—as the Mona Lisa.
As he walked from piece to piece he wondered how he would reinterpret the portraits. The image of his grandmother as the Mona Lisa came like a spark. He had promised a portrait, after all. She would love it, claiming it to be better than the original itself. It would be perfect.
When he imagined putting brush to canvas he faltered, feeling old insecurities rise up. Sketches and doodles of old trees and inanimate objects were fine, but a portrait? A portrait would reveal to the world what he knew in his heart: he wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t enough, period.
Blake’s hand slipped into his, pulling him out of his own spiral and into the next room.
“Just wait,” Blake said, pointing to the different sculptures hanging by the ceiling. As he led Ryan around them, they started to coalesce into a familiar figure.
“The Scream,” Blake said with a megawatt smile. “I kind of want to bow down and worship this piece.”
They went round and round the piece, viewing it from every angle. Ryan turned to study the latticework on the left side when he accidentally slammed up against Blake, their faces close for just a second. Their eyes locked, and when Blake’s eyes flicked down to Ryan’s lips, he leaned forward and closed the gap.
Holy shit was all Ryan could think as Blake returned his kiss, taking it from tentative to full-on heat. Hands slipped up shirts and they leaned on each other for balance. When Ryan’s tongue gently pressed against Blake’s lips, the resulting moan sent shivers up Ryan’s back.
Ryan stepped away from the kiss with reluctance, his mind a confusing mess of want and worry. What did this mean? Why had he done that? He wasn’t ready for another relationship. He wasn’t even sure he even had anything left to offer in a relationship, and Blake didn’t deserve that. He took a breath, his body screaming to close the gap once again, to feel that good again.
Ryan took a step back, keeping his heart steady. “I’m going to, uh, see what else is around. Want to come?”
Blake smiled, but Ryan could tell he was disappointed. He wished he was ready. He wished he knew what it would even mean to be ready. “I’ll stick around here for a while.”
Ryan walked out of the room, hoping he hadn’t just messed up a friendship, when the next room took what remained of his breath away. There were no lights save for the ones coming from behind the stained-glass pieces: three giant works of art that took up each wall. In the middle of the room was a set of benches perfectly positioned to sit in awe, which is just what Ryan did.
As he sat there, Ryan began to understand what Jess saw when she looked up at the night sky. He understood how darkness could soothe and light inspire.
Whoever the artist was, she was a genius, transforming The Starry Night, Guernica, and Water Lilies into revelations of light. It reminded him of Glacier Melting, one of his favorite series by artist Marlene Tseng Yu. Like her series, each piece felt as if it were on fire as the light shone through it. If he could move his bed and center it in the middle of this room he’d die happy. He sat by The Starry Night, taking in every cut of the glass and how the metal seamlessly joined the colors when a couple walked in, moving around the room, taking in each piece.
As they moved Ryan could hear their conversation.
“Originality is dead, I guess,” the man said.
“You don’t like it?” his date replied.
“It’s just a copy.” The man waved his hand around. “The others had some form of interpretation, but this . . . I understand it was a lot of work, I just don’t think it shows the artist’s originality.”
Not original? What kind of stupid comment was that? The couple left, and Ryan sat, fuming. How could anyone think the piece was anything more than stunning? Yes it re-created something done, but how could anyone look at this fusion of glass and iron and not be awestruck? If anything, the piece drew you to the power of light in the original pieces.
The comment lodged in his brain, picking away at the piece even as he stared at it. If this wasn’t above judgment, how would he be? What’s to stop anyone from ripping his work to shreds?
“There you are.” Jess came around the corner as his mind reeled with thoughts of inadequacy. “You okay?”
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Do what?”
Ryan told her about the couple. “If something this beautiful can get comments like that . . . they would tear me apart, Jess. I don’t—I don’t think I can do it. Let other people—random people—decide something is not worth it. Fuck that.”
He waited for Jess to say she believed in him, that he was being silly, but he wasn’t expecting her to smile.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“I would never—not even if you told a joke.”
He put his head in his hands.
“I don’t know how many times I can tell you how amazing you are, for you to believe it.” She leaned on his shoulder. “But I’m not going to stop—I’m going to keep saying it.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m relentless.”
He relaxed. “You kind of are.”
As they were about to exit, a woman about his mother’s age came into the room, right up to The Starry Night, took a deep breath, and sighed. Not again, he thought, hurrying to leave when she caught his eye.
“What do you think?” she asked, pointing straight at him. “Be honest.”
He squared his shoulders. “It’s fucking gorgeous.”
Then the woman laughed, turning back to the piece. Ryan wasn’t sure what to say to that, when she said, “Fuck yeah it is. Took me almost a year to finish it.” She scratched her head. “More than a year, come to think of it.”
“You . . .” Ryan pointed to the piece then back to her, shock and embarrassment mingling on his face.
She smiled. “Thank you, by the way. This piece was an asshole, but it was worth it.”
“It’s . . . I mean, I love it.” He fumbled over his words, struggling to find a way to tell her how amazing it was, how the play between light and color took it to another dimension.
She laughed again. “You better stop before I take you home with me. I need you for the times I can barely stand my work.”
“You have those?” Ryan looked back at the intricacy of each piece. How could anyone hate work like this?
“Of course.” She walked over to Ryan, coming up to his shoulder. “I almost threw the Water Lilies out twice, I was so angry at how the blues played together, pieces kept shattering in the wrong places, I kept burning my arm, it felt like I was cursed. You an artist?”
Was he? Ryan didn’t know how to answer that. Who determined that?
“I paint.” He shrugged. “Or at least, I’m trying to get back into painting.”
She nodded, gently squeezing his shoulder. “I hate that question too. Don’t let it mess with your head—validation and all that. It’s a bitch.”
Ryan couldn’t help but laugh. He should sketch it: validation is a bitch.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“How do you put your work out there? Isn’t this scary?”
“Absolutely—and this isn’t even the worst part. Now some critic is going to come in here and tell the world if this is worth it or not. And it’s terrifying.”
“So it doesn’t go away?” He’d hoped it would with time.
“No—never—not for me at least, and I’ve been at this for twenty years.” She waited for him, seeming to see he had another question brewing inside him.
“What if you aren’t good enough?”
She motioned around her, implying the gallery. “For this?”
“For your art,” Ryan whispered.
“Shit.” She looked taken aback. “That’s intense and not something I can answer for you. I imagine you have to look at where those feelings are coming from and ask yourself who is doing the judging. Because, I’ll tell you this, a hundred percent of the time it’s going to be you.”
THE CAR RIDE home was quiet. They each zoned out to Nora’s playlist as the sunset played with the sky. Ryan drove back with Blake by his side. Behind him Jess listened to Lee’s glowing review of the General Organa portrait (of which she now owned a print) and Nora and Beth cuddled all the way in the back.
Though the kiss played over in his mind, it was the thought that he was judging himself that took up the most room. Of course painting wasn’t the problem, he was. But how do you move past an obstacle you put in your own path? He’d had Jason and he’d lost that. He’d had painting and he’d put it aside, and now that he’d picked it up again it felt like something was still missing.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he flicked it to voice mail without looking. His parents never liked him to talk and drive. When it rang again he took it out: his dad. The previous call had been from his mom.
“Jess?” He held the phone out. “Can you answer this while I’m driving? Just let them know we’re, like, forty minutes away.”
Jess took the phone.
“Ryan,” Jess’s voice was soft. “You should pull over.”
“What?” He found Jess’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s about your grandmother.”
Nora
NORA HID HER phone before her mother could see her on it again. She’d been texting all morning in between taking pans in and out of the oven. It was a miracle that she hadn’t baked it into one of the batter trays. Ryan’s grandmother had broken her hip and gone into surgery, and everyone was checking in on their text thread. Ryan had just checked in and said she was recovering in the hospital, in good spirits and praising the hospital’s pain medication in particular.
Nora wondered if she should try to make a batch of his grandmother’s favorite Taiwanese pineapple cakes but instead promised to send her polvorones when she had a moment to breathe, though it didn’t feel like that would be anytime soon.
She placed the last batch of pastries on the tray and covered it with foil. She would dust them with a sprinkling of powdered sugar once she got to the venue. If she did that now it would soak into the warm dough and she’d have to dust them all over again. She checked the clock and took off for a quick shower back at her apartment as Hector and Astrid loaded the van.
Nora would rather stay at the store, but as La Islita’s future owner she needed to get used to being front and center during catering jobs.
“Who knows?” her mother said as they got home for the shower. “You might be running the place sooner than you think, and I can retire somewhere in Culebra.”
Nora rolled her eyes. As if her mother would ever retire. “You’ll be working there until you can no longer stir that giant caldero spoon.”
“True, that’s why I have you. You can stir, and I’ll just supervise.” Her mother laughed as she entered her room. “Salgo rapidito.”
Nora closed the bathroom door and pulled off her dirty clothes, a dusting of flour littering the ground as she did. Her hair smelled like frying oil; it usually did on catering days when they all took turns dipping morsels of food into the oil. But it bothered her recently, how it followed her. No matter how many times she’d shampoo, the smell of oil clung to her.
Nora hopped in the shower and scrubbed everything away. Catering was good for business, and business was good. Good enough to keep Nora busy, and more tired than usu
al. She worried the summer would pass her by as she filled in orders and plated food. But what if it was more than just summer that passed her by?
She tied her hair up in a bun so tight it made her scalp hurt, but it looked professional. For a moment she fantasized taking her scissors and cutting off the bulk of her hair until a halo of wild curls adorned her head, too short to be pulled back. She imagined the curls bright pink and smiled. Pink hair felt like her—even though she knew her mom would hate it.
Her mother knocked on the door, reminding her of the time. She stored away the pink-haired Nora for another day.
LOOKING HAPPY WAS exhausting. But it only took one slip of your face for someone to call you surly or tell you to smile, so Nora made sure to always set her face in a pleasant way as she continued to reload the trays and walk people through each of the items on the table. She wasn’t sure how many times she could list every single ingredient in a dish and made a mental note to tell her mother they should print out ingredient cards for the next event to avoid these sorts of questions.
“Excuse me,” said someone to her left as Nora reloaded the tiny cups of tembleque on the dessert table.
“How can I help you?” Nora said instantly, wondering what question it would be this time.
“I just want to say that this is fucking delicious,” said the lady, who was maybe in her late twenties. She placed a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to curse. What are you, like, fourteen?”
Nora sighed. “Seventeen.”
“Well, Seventeen, these are amazing.” She took a sugary bite of the pastelitos de guayaba, leaving a trail of powdered sugar along her top lip. “This is my third one. What do you put in them?”
Nora handed her a napkin for her lip. “A lot of sugar.”
The woman nodded and finished off the pastry. “This might be rude, but could I steal the recipe? I would love to have my students try and make this.”
“Your students?”
“I’m a pastry chef.”
Nora perked up and for the first time took a real look at the woman. Her long black hair hung past her shoulders, and her eyes were bright green and kind.