Freedom in Falling

by J. Emery

  You couldn't choose your blood, but you could choose your home. This gallery was his. His safe place in a storm. His foundation.

  He'd pulled an entire show's worth of work out of his ass. Soon it would be on walls for people to see and admire. He was pleased with that. His work. He hadn't believed he could do it until it was done. Two boxes of prints waited in his apartment. Some of his ugliest, dirtiest truths were in there. He felt... light. Well, lighter. For the first time in a long while he could see that there was something beyond this wasteland of feelings and it felt good. He imagined this was how people felt when they talked about runner's highs. He was a little high. Dizzy with this sudden realization that things had started to get better without his noticing.

  What the fuck.

  His face cracked into a smile all on its own. Just... what the fuck.

  "MOM'S BEEN ASKING WHERE you are," Charlotte said in between noisy slurps from her blended coffee.

  "I know. She called me yesterday." West's resolve had remained surprisingly strong despite the increasing annoyance in her last three messages. He hadn't called back. Yet. He had to get used to being on his own first. "She's not giving you any extra shit is she?"

  Charlotte shrugged. "The usual. She's actually been so busy talking about you that she hardly even noticed that I'm getting a C in Chemistry."

  "Sorry."

  "If you were really sorry, you'd do something really big and take the heat off me for another couple months." She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him. "Dad says hi, by the way. I think he secretly supports your abdication but it was hard to tell because Mom was glaring at us."

  "When did he get back from his business trip?"

  "Which one?"

  "Good point." West sat back in his chair.

  This was the first time he'd been back to the coffee shop. His coffee shop. He'd tried other places. None were as close to his apartment or as good as this one. They were all too loud or too empty. One had coffee with a distinctive burnt flavor that he had hoped he might acquire a taste for with extended exposure—he hadn't—and was perpetually out of blueberry muffins. Another kept their air conditioning set at arctic which seemed a bit excessive for barely June. It felt good to be back where things were right.

  Except they weren't. Not quite.

  Noah wasn't here. There was no sign he'd even been in for weeks. The photos on the walls were the same ones West had seen last time he came. He didn't even know how often he swapped them.

  "West." Charlotte waited until he met her eye again. "You're acting weird again."

  "Yeah, I—uh." He flinched as the bell over the door chimed. It was faintly Pavlovian the way his stomach dropped and his heart simultaneously leapt into his throat. Silly, ridiculous hope. The man coming through the door was short and heavily tattooed, his long black hair silver streaked, and the stare he pinned West with could have withered crops. West immediately dropped his gaze back to the mug pinched between his hands. Swallowed. "I broke up with Noah. Or... maybe I didn't. I'm not even sure if we were dating..."

  "According to Viv, if you have to ask if you're dating, you're not dating, but this is you. You sounded like you were dating," Charlotte volunteered. "And I figured as much."

  "What? How?"

  The look she shot him was almost as withering as the tattooed man's had been. "Because I looked at you?"

  "Oh."

  "You have no game face at all, West. Babies could tell you're moping."

  "I'm not—okay, I might be moping. A little." There was no point arguing with her over things that were probably true.

  "So, what happened?"

  "You don't need to hear about this."

  "No, no. You can't back out on me now. That's the rules."

  "I thought the rules were that I owed you a bagel every time I snapped at you."

  "That too. But dating drama first."

  A wry smile crept onto his lips. He hadn't expected the rush of relief at finally saying the words. "I was an asshole."

  "As usual."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "You're welcome. But you know it's true."

  The sad thing was he did know. He had known what he was doing as he walked into the studio and tore everything apart. He just hadn't been able to stop himself. For years, West had one recurring dream. He was walking with his family. Sometimes they were in different places. A parking garage. A park. It didn't matter. They were walking. And between one step and the next, his feet stuck to the ground. He couldn't free himself. He couldn't move. All he could do was scream. No one ever heard. His family continued on without him, unaware that he wasn't beside them anymore, oblivious to the desperate screams tearing from his throat. They didn't remember that he was there. Maybe they couldn't even see him. They kept walking, leaving him further and further behind while he screamed and screamed. Eventually they were too far away to see and he was alone. Still stuck in place.

  The argument at Noah's studio had been like that dream. Except this time West was screaming at himself to stop, please wait, while everything he wanted disappeared and he was forced to watch. Trapped by his own body.

  West dragged in a shaky breath. "Yeah. I... said some things."

  "As you do." Charlotte shrugged. "So, you should apologize. Tell him you're sorry. Maybe do a little groveling. That always works in books. People love a good grovel."

  "It's not that simple."

  "Sure it is. It's as simple as you make it. Unless you don't want to get back with him."

  "Charlotte—"

  "Weston." She leaned an elbow on the table and stared into his eyes, ruining the seriousness of the pose by slurping from her drink as she did. "Frankly I shouldn't have to tell you all this because you're older and supposed to be the mature one, but you have the emotional maturity of a bread box, so here we are."

  "What does that even mean?"

  She held up a hand. "Don't change the subject. I swear. You're worse than my friends. Either you want to try it with him or you don't. You can't have it both ways."

  Another protest stopped up his throat. Each one was a reason why it was pointless, why it wouldn't work, why he shouldn't bother. And each sounded annoyingly like his mother or Reese. He had cut them off and they were still right there, in his head, making the worst of every situation.

  West shoved back his chair. "Let me get your bagel."

  "And another coffee." Her straw poked around the slush at the bottom of her cup before she slurped it up. "I'm out."

  "I don't think you need that much caffeine."

  "This is nothing. Have a little faith. Oh, and make sure they toast the bagel, please. Thank youuuuu."

  "You're welcome, your majesty."

  She grinned at him, big and bright as the sun as he turned to the counter, almost colliding with someone behind him.

  West barely had an impression of curly blond hair and a square body too large to match the tiny yelped out "Sorry!" before they were past. The person stopped by the counter, waving a stack of postcards at the girl working the register and leaving a handful before moving on. A second, smaller bundle of cards was dropped at the back of the shop on the table that sat between the bathroom doors. A promotion of some sort probably.

  The rear of the shop held a large corkboard where people were always hanging posters to promote things like high school plays and dog walking services. He usually passed them by. He didn't have a dog to walk and he was at least forty years too young for senior water aerobics classes. They were set dressing, another puzzle piece of the shop along with the bud vases on the tables and the blue accent wall hung with antique bakeware. This time he looked. He couldn't help himself. The stack of cards left beside the register were faintly glossy but no amount of gloss could cover Noah's name at the top. A gallery address beneath. Today's date.

  Noah's show opened tonight.

  The irony was almost painful. The gallery was only a few blocks away, a walkable distance. He could be there in fifteen minutes. The gallery opening
wasn't for another few hours, granted. Most likely the place was empty now. Or closed. There would be no one there to see him standing at the window like a lost puppy in the rain, hoping for one glimpse of Noah. West knew if he saw him he might do something terrible. Like beg. Or cry. God, he might really cry if he saw Noah again. Which was why he shouldn't go. It was Noah's night. He'd talked about it, speaking in hushed tones while they lay curled together and languid after sex and West had gotten the impression that it was the most important thing in his world, close to a religious experience as he presented his work and collected his adoration. He knew how much Noah liked to be adored.

  Had Noah kept any of their work or thrown it all away? He had every right to do either. But West wanted to know. He wanted to see if there was anything left to save. Anything he could save.

  West slid the postcard onto the table. "Come with me. To this."

  "Oh hell yes." Charlotte's eyes sparkled as she snatched it up. "But only if I get to pick your clothes."

  "My clothes are fine."

  "West. Don't insult us both. You dress like a math teacher. Which is fine for every day, whatever, but this is a Thing. You have to dress up." She stared him down until he finally agreed. "This is so excitinggggggg."

  People had started to turn in their direction and he resisted the urge to shrink under their stares. He'd have to work on that too. Especially with Charlotte around. If he could handle her, he could probably handle anything.

  "I'm only going to look."

  Charlotte stared at him.

  "At the art. Not Noah," he lied. Obviously. "And if he's open to it I'll apologize."

  "Make sure to grovel."

  "I'm not—I can't—" He took a gulp of air. "I'll try."

  "Gonna go get your boy," she whispered, dancing in her seat.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Curtain

  Noah circled the gallery for the final time. The overhead lights were mellow, track lighting spotting the pieces on the walls and casting long shadows. The old hardwood floor creaked and popped as it settled, but for the moment everything else was quiet. One last moment of peace.

  His reflection flitted through the glass on every piece he passed. Sometimes it bore a smile so big it had to explode outward or consume him. But just as often he saw a frown. A grimace. Wide eyed terror. Nearly show time. Time to sink or swim.

  He'd dressed carefully for the reception. He had to look the part. Hair shoved back off his forehead, clean jeans, floral blazer so he could be seen from every damn corner of the gallery because tonight he was a part of the show. No one bought art from the human equivalent of those sad velvet clown paintings that populated thrift stores everywhere. He had to look good. Approachable, but not too approachable. Fuckable, if possible. He had to look worth it. He had to be worth it. It was the unfortunate nature of the world that some people only bought because it made them feel like they were buying him along with the work.

  Noah was splashed all over the walls, new pieces and old. Liam had talked him into using all the dawn photos, had even paid to get them framed up right, under glass, row upon row of skies that ached to look at. They were a pop of pastel color among the predominantly black and white work. Like candy coated misery. The long exposures he'd taken in the studio were beside that, stretching across the walls in jagged lines of movement until they were caged by the white mats and black rectangles of their frames. Others that he had taken in the weeks without West.

  There was only one trace of him left in Noah's show now, the print small and hidden in a corner where he didn't have to see it if he didn't want to. It hadn't felt right to leave it out. Despite everything, West was still the root of this show. The photo was there, that one last truth he hadn't wanted to share, and when the show was over he would take it down and pack it away. Let it pass on to wherever broken dreams went when it was time to move on.

  A box partially full of extra pictures sat on the floor beside him. He'd brought them with the intention of hanging them even though they were a pack of pleasant colors and mediocre skylines and flowers, none of which were his usual thing. They never left the box. Imagining them on a wall felt too much like an apology. Slotting purple crocuses and misty Instagram-ready mornings between his rougher shots. Sorry I have too many uncomfortable feelings. Sorry I'm always too much.

  Fuck that.

  He'd spent weeks on this show. Tonight was his. His time. His work. His... self. Fuck them if they couldn't take it. Fuck every single person who had ever made him feel lesser. Fuck them all.

  "Welcome to the carnival of fucking feelings," he muttered as he surveyed his temporary kingdom.

  Then he went to check in the back for Margot. She hadn't arrived last time he looked and she still owed him a box of wine. And maybe a hug. Bravado was easier when he wasn't alone.

  The back door off the alley closed with a metallic clump before he got there.

  "Margot? That you?'

  "Not Margot," someone called back.

  Noah went white hot and ice cold at the same time, staggering under the sudden weight of expectation brought on by the low voice. Then he rounded the corner in the back hall and saw it was only Carter. Good, dependable, barrel-chested Carter. No one else.

  "Shit, I'm so glad to see you." Noah threw himself on Carter's neck like a wilting maiden in a gothic novel. He actually felt faint. His head was spinning. In that moment before he'd recognized Carter his heart had soared with hope. Stupid, silly, inexplicable hope.

  "Whoa. What's this—what're you—?" Carter put his hands up and held perfectly still as Noah clung to him. It wasn't the same and for once Noah was glad. He didn't want sameness.

  There was another thump from the back door as Margot let herself in. "Leave the poor boy alone, Noah," she called automatically before shrugging out of her coat to hang it on the rack beside the door. Her girlfriend, Anaia, slid in the door in her wake, waving once from the hip like a shy gunslinger. They were both in dresses, Margot's a sweetheart neckline in black with red polka dots, Anaia wrapped up in high necked royal blue lace that popped against her dark skin. Her braids were coiled into a crown atop her head.

  "I didn't do anything," Carter said. He smelled like hard work and cheap shampoo. Even that was comforting.

  "We know you didn't, dear. Noah's just being dramatic." Margot strode over to pull Noah off him.

  "Just give me one more minute. I needed to see something." Noah rested a cheek on Carter's broad shoulders. He had no idea if Carter had ever actually played football, but he looked the part. Even if he probably would have apologized for bumping into the other players let alone tackling them. Carter patted his back with all the awkwardness Noah had come to expect.

  Noah released him with a sigh. The hug had been, ultimately, disappointing, but that wasn't Carter's fault.

  Margot opened her arms. "Come on."

  Noah slunk over and deposited himself in the circle of her embrace, Anaia adding a one-armed hug so that he was completely surrounded.

  "Hey, Margot?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Where's my wine?" Noah asked, face still buried in the folds of the scarf wrapped around her neck.

  Margot snorted. Anaia laughed. "I left it in the bag by the door," she said.

  LIAM ARRIVED PROMPTLY at six wearing another stylish ensemble from the Cool Teacher department. The wind outside had whipped his hair into a knot of curls and he had ditched his contacts for glasses. The lenses reflected the light as he swiveled to take in the interior of the gallery. He'd seen it all earlier when he helped Noah hang everything, but it always looked different lit and populated. It was the people that made it real.

  Liam made his way over, weaving around the clusters of people, mostly friends of friends who had arrived early and would leave just as early. If Noah was lucky, one of them might buy one of the cheaper pieces before they departed for the night, but he wasn't holding out much hope. He knew his friends. None of them had two pennies to rub together.

  "Wh
at happened to the other pictures? You didn't hang them?" Liam asked.

  "Pieces," Noah corrected automatically. "Some of them met an untimely and tragic end. They're back in the box in my trunk."

  "Ah."

  Someone waved to Noah. "Be right back. Duty calls." He pinned on a smile and slithered off to earn his living.

  An hour disappeared like that, maybe more, while Noah circled the room, explaining what colors or titles meant, complimenting shoes and outfits. Small talk. Laughing. Flirtatious hands resting on arms as he leaned in to whisper in ears. He'd missed this. Depression and work had kept him holed up in his apartment and the studio too long. Burrowing like a little rodent. He'd missed the people and the noise and the attention. Excitement fizzed in his veins. That and the knowledge that he'd sold three pieces (cheap ones, but still, three.)

  Liam laughed when Noah returned to his side to check in. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you? It's like the school talent show all over again. I half expected you to whip off your jacket."

  "I still hold that that dance was perfectly within school regulations and I deserved to win. They were just intimidated by my raw physicality. You need anything? You should've brought a friend or something. I didn't even think. I feel bad ditching you in the corner while I mingle."

  "Don't. This is your night. I'm just enjoying the show." He grinned in a way that suggested he was still imagining the talent show. Fair, since so was Noah. He'd been robbed.

  The door dinged with a new arrival and Noah turned towards it automatically. The sound was Pavlovian. The jingle and the retail-ready smile. The words "welcome to the store" were already on his lips before he met familiar brown eyes. Noah's smile splintered.