I pushed back the threat of tears. “You’re right.”
Slowly sliding my finger under the flap, the paper split at the seam. I pulled out the letter, heart thumping in my throat.
Dear Miss Richardson,
It is our pleasure to inform you that you’ve been chosen for a full scholarship.
“Oh my gosh, I got it!” I shouted.
“I knew you would!”
She grabbed me, and we screamed, jumping up and down in the middle of the kitchen.
A full ride. They’d offered me tuition, fees, and housing. My portfolio must’ve knocked their socks off. I’d never felt so high on life.
After our celebration dance in the middle of the kitchen, I leaned against the counter and reread the letter.
“Mom, I can start in January. Are you okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t believe you.”
She let out a nervous laugh and flushed. “Why?”
“Because you’re answering my questions with questions.”
Shaking her head, her bewildered expression went flat. “Dad would be so proud of you.”
“I know,” I said, gently. “I’ve never questioned that. But are you proud of me?”
She snapped to attention. “I don’t have the words to tell you how proud I am. Elsie, I’m in awe of you. I’ve never had the courage to be the person you are. Whether you’re running for dear life or making the most beautiful picture I’ve ever seen, you have everything inside of you that I wish I could’ve been.”
Tears filled my eyes. “Mom. You still can.”
She gave me a weak smile. “We’ll see. It’s not about me right now. Enjoy your moment. Seize your opportunity and make the most of it.”
I walked across the room and wrapped my arms around her. She held me tight.
“Now, you have a date tomorrow night,” she said. “And I think it would be a great time for you to go check out the city.”
I pulled away. “What do you mean? What date?”
“Didn’t you tell me a few months ago that Tyler bought you tickets for a Bears game?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. But why would I go?”
“Because you need to see him. You need the closure before you start school.”
“I pissed him off.” I took a sharp breath. “He hasn’t even let me apologize.”
“Maybe you can work it out.”
“He won’t show.”
“What if he does?”
“I’ve never driven in the city.”
“It’s not that hard. Just follow I-57 to the Dan Ryan and exit downtown. You’re going to have to get used to it.” She smiled. “You’ll be living there in less than a month.”
Butterflies fluttered in my belly. Chicago. Me in the city, living downtown, studying at one of the best art schools in the country. I could check the area out.
“Can you come with me?” I asked.
“I have to work Tuesday morning.” Her eyes were sympathetic. “You know, I still have Tyler’s number. You could always try to call him.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The hole inside me pulsed like an abscessed wound. What if he did show? What would I say to him?
I thought of his words the day he gave me the tickets, “Promise me you’ll be there... Death is the only excuse.”
Nothing had gone as we’d planned and this was my last chance to make it right. If he didn’t show, at least I’d know I tried. Mom was right, as always, I needed the closure so I could finally move on.
Chapter 39
April... Six Months Later
Chicago, Illinois
I jogged across Michigan Avenue to Madison Street. Morning traffic in full bustle, everyone hurrying to work, horns honking, tires screeching, rumbling machinery, repetitive beeps from trucks moving in reverse. I loved the sounds of the city. The lights. The energy. No crickets. No snakes. And most of all—freedom.
Running up to my apartment complex, I finished my work-out by taking the staircase instead of the elevator, all the way to the sixth floor. Within minutes, I unlocked my door and stepped in my efficiency apartment which SAIC provided for scholarship students. I loved my tiny, twelve-by-sixteen space. In the corner, I kept my easel and paints, papers scattered along the wall next to stacks of canvases and prints. I had just enough room for a futon couch and an old trunk which I used for a coffee table. I pressed the start button on my coffee maker. The north wall was covered with my favorite paintings and drawings, not an inch of plaster could be seen. The east wall was all windows where I loved to sit and watch the traffic on State Street.
I pulled off my jogging clothes and climbed in the shower. By the time I’d finished getting dressed, the coffee maker beeped. I poured a cup and looked around my little apartment. My heart sank. I had to move out in a month. Mom wanted me to come home for the summer, but after living in the city, the idea of being in the flatlands of corn and beans sounded like torture. If only the scholarship covered housing in the summer, too. Move in. Move out. Move in. Oh, well. That was college life.
Taking a sip of stout, black coffee, my navy-and-orange coffee cup made me think of the night of the Bears game...
Tyler was standing outside Gate A, dark eyes watching me walk toward him. Heart racing, I took deep breaths as I moved closer. It didn’t help that he stared at me with no smile and his arms crossed. The sight of him felt like a dagger was being shoved through my chest. Crowds of people walked past, laughing and chattering, ready to watch the game. I held my breath as I stepped in front of him.
A light stubble covered his face again. It was almost like his alter ego stood in front of me. Dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans with no coat in the middle of December, his icy stare was as cold as the breeze rolling off Lake Michigan.
“Well, I see you’re not dead,” he said.
Of course, he remembered those words. I returned his unamused stare.
“I’m here to illustrate what a promise looks like.”
A hint of a grin. “You are a girl of your word.” His melodic drawl was like candy for my soul. I couldn’t let him break me. He ran his right hand through his hair and said, “I reckon this is a little awkward.”
“You ditched me.”
“You dumped me.” A frosty smile. “I got a cryptic note and an iPhone? What was that?”
“Your parting words were, ‘Fuck you.’”
“I believe my last words were, ‘I suggest you go back.’ You told me to fuck off.”
“Whatever. I tried to call you for ten days,” I said. He looked down, cheeks filling with color. I held out the envelope he’d given me months before. “Here. Enjoy the game.”
He ignored the tickets, taking my hand, instead. A tingling current ran up my arm. I craved his warm touch. A gust of wind moved his cologne through the air. His scent. I yearned to be in his arms. I wanted to bury my face in his chest and forget all about our mistakes. I jerked my hand. His grip gently tightened.
“You don’t understand.” His voice shifted from defensive to pleading.
“I understand perfectly. I pissed you off. I made a stupid mistake, and you wouldn’t even let me apologize.”
“I don’t need an apology. I need... ”
“What?” I snapped. “You aren’t going to stomp on my heart again. I can’t take it. The past month has been complete hell.”
“I... I was testing what life was like without you.” He winced, like he felt a sharp pain. “I real–really don’t like the guy I am right now.”
He stuttered. Tyler never stuttered or stammered. His hand trembled, holding mine. He hadn’t been taking care of himself. His eyes were sunken and the scruff on his face was an obvious sign that he didn’t care. Where had my strong, confident Tyler gone?
“Sorry to hear that.” I said, softening my tone as I looked away. Only the sounds of the crowd lingered for a few moments. Cautiously, I lifted my eyes to his. “You said you loved me unconditionally.”
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His intense gaze brightened. “I do.”
“Well, you’ve got a terrible way of showing it.”
I pulled my hand away. He let me go this time. The crowd cheered in the background. People were ready for Monday Night Football, and I was ready to leave. Pivoting, I started to walk away.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Explosions of fireworks echoed above. The stadium roared. Tyler’s warm touch grasped my wrist after a few steps. I spun around. Orange and blue sparkles crackled in the sky above us, casting shadows over Tyler’s striking features.
“Elsie, please. Don’t go—”
Honk! Tires squealed outside of the apartment on State Street, snapping me back to reality. I flinched. Coffee splashed on my arm. Shit. I grabbed a dish cloth and wiped it off, then glanced at the clock. Seven-fifty. Oh crap, class will start in ten minutes. I hurried around, slid on my shoes, grabbed my bag, and headed out the door.
By eleven-thirty, my stomach wouldn’t stop growling, and the longer Ms. Allston droned on about Art Nouveau, the heavier my eyes felt. Finally, she said her parting words.
“Now, shoo.” She waved her hands like we were annoying her. “Go make some art.”
When I stepped outside, I took a deep breath of the cool, spring air. The wind blew through the streets off of the lake, washing away the smell of fuel and exhaust fumes. Even the city couldn’t resist the clean birth of Spring. I headed north toward Starbucks.
“Elsie, wait up!”
I turned around. Sarah. Good. I needed to talk to her about the exhibition tomorrow night. Sarah and I weren’t like a lot of the students at SAIC. We wore jeans and T-shirts, no tattoos, and kept our hair natural. I loved how her Julia Roberts smile and eyes had a way of putting everyone at ease. Compared to the people who thought art belonged all over their body, as well as their work, she helped me not feel out of place.
She caught up with me and we started walking.
“Is Ms. Allston’s class a drag or what?” she said.
“No doubt. I need caffeine after that.” We stopped at the corner and waited for the signal to cross. “I have my piece ready for the exhibit. I can run it by the studio this evening.”
“Good. I was worried you were backing out.”
“No. I had to do some touch-ups.”
“Is any of your family going to make it?”
“No. My mom has some conference she has to go to.” The light changed, and we started across the street. “And my brother lives too far away.”
“What about your dad?”
“He passed away last October.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
I opened the door and we entered Starbucks. People stood shoulder to shoulder, various shades of black and gray suits waited in line. Loud chatter competed with the song Heartbeat by The Frey, blaring from the overhead speakers.
Tyler. I remembered the night when he had stayed at my house, and we’d listened to it.
“You okay?” Sarah asked.
Loud voices, machines grinding coffee, clanking of metal. A deep voice yelled out, “Number eight-six!”
I shook off my thoughts. “Of course.”
“Isn’t your brother getting married soon?”
“Yeah, in August. I’ll be in a wedding one weekend and moving back the next.”
“Where’s it at?”
“Nashville. He met a girl when we lived in Tennessee. What’s funny is he hated it there, but he moved back within months because of her.” I laughed. “But Megan’s really sweet. She’s already like a sister to me.”
“Can I help you?” a petite, red-headed barista asked Sarah.
“A large mocha latte.” She paid the girl and stepped away.
“For you?” the girl asked me.
“Large, mocha Frappuccino, please.”
“Three dollars and seventy-two cents.”
After I paid, we stepped aside to wait for our order.
“Hey, Dad wants me to go out to dinner tonight,” she said. “Wanna go?”
Sarah grew up in Evanston, within walking distance of the lake. Money was no object, and she frequently took long shopping sprees downtown. The last thing I wanted to do was listen to her dad go on about his job as the chief editor at the Chicago Times.
“Thanks, but I have some things I want to work on tonight.”
“We’re going to the Cheesecake Factory... ” She raised her eyebrows like I wouldn’t be able to resist. “Dad’s buying.”
“That’s sweet of you, but not tonight.”
She shrugged. “Your loss.”
Three men, wearing different shades of gray, tailored suits walked past me. A cedar-laced, woody scent filled the air. I glanced over my shoulder. Was he here? The last guy stepped out, blocking the view of the other two men. I shook my head and turned back to Sarah.
It’s Dior, Elsie. Plenty of men wore Dior cologne, especially in downtown Chicago.
“Why are you so tense?” Sarah asked.
“Sorry. Just can’t stop thinking about someone.”
“Oh, really?” She grinned. “Andrew?”
“Yuck. Hell, no.”
“He’s totally into you.”
“He’s covered in tattoos. And I’m a bitch to him.”
“He likes that.” She frowned.
“Number ninety!” a deep voice called out.
Sarah grabbed her drink. A few minutes later, they called my number.
Outside, the noise shifted back to the hum of the city – screeching tires, honking horns, buzzing machinery. I took a swig of the mocha and coffee all slushed together in the icy drink.
“I’m gonna head home,” I said. “I’ll drop off my painting later, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll be at the studio until six.”
My cell phone rang. I grabbed it out of my back pocket. Mark.
“Hi!” I answered.
“What’cha doing?”
“Nothing. Just headed home. How are you guys?”
“Oh, we’re good. Swimming in wedding shit. Don’t you have an art show tomorrow?”
“Yep. You gonna drive up?” I joked. “Starts at six.”
“Sorry, sis. Mom told me she couldn’t make it, either. Just wanted to wish you luck. “
I stopped at the crosswalk. Cars sped past, blowing my jacket open.
“Aw, thanks. How’s Megan?”
“Great. She got a job at the hospital. They want to send her to school to become an RN.”
“Oh, that’s cool. How about you?”
"I was accepted to Tennessee State! I'm also going to try out for the football team. Maybe I can be a walk-on."
"I'm so happy to hear that, Mark! Good for you. You really deserve it."
Chapter 40
April 25th
Gala Exhibition for 1st and 2nd Year Students
I gazed at the sign outside the studio, taking a moment to gather my nerves before I went inside. My first art show. I’d worn a simple, dark blue, Indian cotton dress – and finally, after months of waiting, I had an occasion special enough to wear my black Louboutins. With my red bottomed shoes boosting my confidence, I pulled the brass handle.
You’ve got this. That’s what Dad would’ve said. You got this, Elsie.
Stepping inside, the open space was constructed of red brick walls and weathered plank flooring. Paintings were hung in gallery fashion, and pedestals displaying sculptures from ceramics to marbles were strategically placed for people to observe from every angle.
Sarah stood in the corner by an installation of shattered glass. I cringed. Shattered glass? How dumb. The girl who decided to break glass and call it art had a dark approach to life, from her Marilyn Manson wardrobe to the constant frown on her face. Someone had evidently shattered something inside of her. Huh. Maybe it did make sense.
“Elsie,” Sarah called out.
She wore classic black slacks and a cream, button-up blouse. Her long brown hair fell in locks over her shoulders.
“You look great,” I said.
“You, too.” She smiled. “Love the dress.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you looked for your painting yet?” She pointed at the other end of the room. “Hopefully someone will buy it.”
“That would be cool.”
We started across the room. I’d submitted a drawing of a staircase. Inspired by the tessellations of MC Escher and a quote from Martin Luther King Jr. about faith, I’d drawn the piece with pastel and charcoal – a curving staircase shrouded in an ultramarine background. Some of the steps were cracked, one had an ominous black hole, others were bright and shiny-looking, and the final step faded to black, reinforcing the need to have faith to take the next step. I called it, Life Happens on the Stairs.
“I really love it,” Sarah said. “What’s your inspiration?”
Tyler.
“Um... A quote from Martin Luther King and a conversation I had with an old friend.”
“It turned out great. Kind of dark and haunting. How much are you asking?”
“Five hundred. I could use the cash,” I said. “But there’s a part of me that hopes it doesn’t sell. That’s kind of why I priced it so high.”
She snorted. “You’re in Chicago. That’s chump change.”
As the evening moved on, I stuck close to Sarah and watched the crowd. She introduced me to a few of her associates who promoted all the studios in the city. By nine-thirty, my head was spinning with all the opportunities and different conversations. I grabbed a drink and walked over to my painting.
Looking over the abstract print beside mine, I saw vivid primary colors fighting for attention – the polar opposite of my dark pastel. I stepped back and tried to look at my work with fresh eyes. I should’ve shaded more in the corner. Oh well, too late now.
I sensed someone step behind me. Inhaling an earthy, cedar-laced scent, I smiled.
“This painting screams Tyler and Elsie symbolism,” a low, Southern drawl whispered in my ear. “You should rename it ‘Tysie.’”
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