Chapter Seven
When I woke up, I did as I usually did. Work out. Breakfast. Shower. Clean out the refrigerator and write a grocery list. Doing it all in quietude. I liked my silent mornings. Often I opened the window and listened to the streets. Today I didn’t. Left the windows shut and turned on the ceiling fan. Listening to that while thinking about what food I’d buy. What I’d want to prepare for myself. Eating half the fig with a pear and some honey. Standing at my kitchen window. Looking for the smoking girl. Disappointed when I didn’t see her. Tipping my chin up to look for the smoking man. Not seeing him either. Sighing, feeling lonely. Oh god, was it even loneliness if they weren’t aware of my existence?
After a few days, I invited Killian over for dinner. Specifying that I’d be cooking again. He agreed. Said he’d missed me. Which raised my hackles. Still, I was going to do as Conchata had said. Communicate like an adult. I was one– I had to act like it. And I was merely assuming that he wished for a rules change. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was still hurt and making assumptions based on previous pain.
He helped set the table when he got in. I brought out plates and bowls. He raised the blinds.
“I can’t open the window tonight,” he said. “It stinks. Does every summer stink?”
“In ways both ever-new and endlessly nostalgic,” I said, laughing.
We sat down and I kissed his cheek. He smiled at me. And as per usual, we just kind of ate dinner and people watched. Commenting briefly. One or two words. A snort of derision. Little hoots over people’s silliness or riskiness.
As we finished, he sighed, kicking up his feet on my coffee table. I always got vaguely horny seeing him in dress socks. Especially the plain dark ones. Black or navy. Navy today. I sighed myself, tapping my bare toes against his.
“You never did tell me how that gallery visit went,” he said.
“Good. Uh. Fine, really,” I said. “The guy they sent was nice. And he agreed with you that the triptych ought to be the centerpiece.”
“So then he was in your bedroom,” he said.
And it wasn’t accusatory. I could tell by his tone it was merely a joke. I sucked my teeth, leaning a bit away from him and turning my face away.
“What’s wrong, little girl?” and he said it gently.
“During our first conversation,” I asked. “Did you think you were just going to make me happy by agreeing with me that this would just be sex? Were you just lying or unaware of the fact that you couldn’t actually be casual about sex?”
He sighed, shifting to face me better, knees toward me, feet still comfortably propped up.
“I did neither,” he said mildly. “So I’ll repeat myself… What’s wrong, little girl?”
“I can’t…” I sighed heavily. “The… You know, making me dinner and checking up on me. Making sure I eat breakfast and feel ready for work. Looking at me and just going ‘oh, you don’t look so good’ and checking in all the time. Why do you do that? What’s the point? Are you catching feelings? Because I like you, I do. But I will not be another pyre you throw yourself on.”
He blinked at me a few times. Sighed. Shifted. Opened up his arm along the back of the couch. Not resting a hand on me but opening himself to me.
“I didn’t intend to… Like you as much as I’ve come to like you,” he said. “But what I said remains true. My intentions are to have casual fun with you for so long as you would like to.”
“But if my want for casual were to change to serious? That would be just fine for you?” I shot back. I watched his eyes flutter briefly closed. He was perhaps getting irritated with me.
“What do you want me to say, Nika?” he asked. And he sounded exhausted.
I felt like Jonas suddenly. Cruel and lashing and thoughtless.
“I don’t know!” I said, throwing up my hands. “That daddy isn’t just playing for you. It’s serious. I’m a duty, not a joy. Poor, sick, lonely, weird little Nika. Have to make sure she has a nutritious breakfast, have to make sure her imposter syndrome doesn’t cripple her, have to give her the sex she wants. Or otherwise she’ll leave, and I’ll be alone again.”
“Do you think that’s what this is?” he asked, gesturing between the two of us. “Do you think that’s what you are to me? A project and a crutch?”
“Kind of!” I cried again. “I think you need to feel needed. And I think you want to be used. And I won’t be a party to that kind of self punishment. You can’t lose yourself to people. I did that. I won't let anyone else do it.”
I listened to him breathing. Tracking the traffic on the sidewalk. Choosing words and being patient and thoughtful. The way he always was.
“Some people are meant to take care and other people to be cared for,” he said.
“I don’t like that,” I interrupted. “That just means every partnership is one martyr, one child. And are you saying you’re always the one who cares? That I’m the one who gets cared for? Or that I must have been bad at doing the care-taking, if my previous relationship fell apart?”
“No,” he said. Still slow, still patient. “You didn’t allow me to finish. It goes in a never ending circle. Or at least, it ought to. One needing care, one giving. And going turn and turn about as necessary. And we all need and are good at different things. And you just try your best to find a good match. You care for me when you talk to me. And when you listen to me. When you teach and respond to me. When you hold me and give me your time and attention. All of that feels so precious to me. And I’ll bet that doesn’t even feel like taking care to you. That maybe all it feels to you is like basic kindness. Or like you’re doing nothing at all. Because it so happens to be what you’re good at. Just like how feeding you or asking you how you are or taking you out, or fucking you doesn’t feel like care to me. It’s not even something I’m truly giving. It’s just what you need, and I happen to have it.”
I started crying. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been facing me.
“You’re overwhelmed,” he said.
I waved my hand in frustration at him.
“Don’t do that!” I said, still crying.
“Why won’t you just let me take care of you?” he said.
Sounding even more tired than before. Trying to pull me into his chest. But that was a trap.
“I had sex with the guy from the gallery,” I sobbed.
Unsure if I told him because I was feeling guilty and the bad-sex was floating to the top in a needed confession. Or if I was just trying to hurt him enough to leave of his own accord.
“You what?” he said.
“I knew it,” I said, still crying, hiccuping now.
“Knew what?” he asked.
“You were just looking for another wife,” I said, breathless and hoarse now. “Liking cuddling and dinner dates. Pressuring me into meeting your son and everything.”
“Do you think that’s how I wanted you to meet my son?” he asked sadly. “About to go to your knees?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it would be good for him to see you with a woman who appreciates you.”
“Crudity is unnecessary. It’s cruel to talk about either my ex or my son in that fashion,” he said.
I wished he’d raise his voice. I wish he’d even touch me with the intent to hurt, like the asshole had. Because then I could get really angry.
“You still want to be doing that,” I said. “Being everything. I won’t allow it.”
“All right,” he said.
“All right?” I asked.
“If I can’t be everything, I don’t want to be anything at all,” he said.
“All right,” I said, crying anew.
He got up, circling around the little table in front of my window. Bending at the waist and kissing the top of my head.
“I wasn’t lying, Nika,” he said, only a few inches from my hair. “I was honest when we started. I only became dishonest as we continued. And I didn’t intend to. I can’t help that things changed. But I am sorry that they did.”
“Me too,” I said.
Trying to get a hold of myself. Swallowing tears and trying to take a deep breath. He kissed me again and then let himself out.
Chapter Eight
I got back some of the first sample pages from the book. They looked beautiful. I finished my Classic International Street Food book. Moved onto Contemporary Italian. Skipped the pasta primavera recipe. It wouldn’t stand up to his. Was asked about the minimal catering for the show. I said whatever they usually did would be fine. Lee reached out to ask if it was all right if he did the pack up. I said of course and I meant it. He came with one other guy to crate up. I helped. He said he’d be back the next day with the truck to move things. He gave me an up and down.
“Can I take you out to lunch?” he asked.
I glanced at him and then nodded. We just walked to a sandwich shop a few blocks away.
“I really liked my portrait,” he said as we walked.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” I laughed. I’d sort of forgotten it.
“Since I’d never be able to afford one of your paintings, I appreciate it,” he said, also laughing. We walked comfortably along together.
“You don’t look so good,” he said.
“I’m not,” I sighed.
“Serious troubles?” he asked.
“Mhmm,” I said.
We went inside, ordered our food. Decided to sit outside to people watch.
“Is this what you do?” he asked, eating hungrily.
“Every day,” I agreed. “After sketching it’s probably my favorite thing to do.”
“Does it make you happy?” he asked. Eyes tracking someone trying desperately to juggle bags and books and an iced coffee.
“I don’t know that it makes me happy,” I said carefully. Sinking my teeth into my sandwich. Feeling my stomach growl. I didn’t realize how hungry I’d been. “But I like it. Yes. I definitely like it.”
“Are you happy when you’re making your art?” he asked.
“Focused,” I said. “I’m focused. It’s the one thing that makes me happy when it’s over though. I like the fruit of it.”
“You felt better after drawing me?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, shyly.
We both ate hungrily. Destroying our food quickly. Scooping up crumbs and stray ingredients from the butcher paper wrappers.
“Thanks,” I said to him.
“Friends?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
When he left me outside the front door to my building he stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“If painting helps… Paint,” he said. “Up until the day of your opening you can swap something out. So–” He shrugged.
I nodded. Gulping compulsively.
I was beginning to get nervous. Not in any placeable way. Just anxious. I’d be cooking or running or walking around the neighborhood and suddenly feel uneasy. Unsure if it was because I was feeling watched, or lost or sick or tired. And then my head would play a countdown of how many days and hours until the show. And I’d say to myself ah-ha, that is the nervousness.
Killian said that before matches, when he was still an athlete he’d feel that way. And he said he imagined it in the palm of his hand. Something he could observe and react to. If he thought it would help him perform, he’d accept it back in. If it would only harm it he would put it on the ground and step on it.
So I’d touch my chest, where my heart beat hard. Or my stomach where acid sloshed. Or my face if I became clammy. And pull that anxiety right out. And I knew it wasn’t helpful. So I’d throw it with prejudice to the ground and stomp it out like a cigarette.
And then I’d miss him, miss him, miss him.
When Lee came over the next day with the promised truck to load up he let me help. Not with any big pieces but still. It was fun and helped me to feel in better control. Less nervous to be able to take part in it. I had started sketching something the night before. But I kept my easel covered while they were in there. As we finished, I listened to Lee pulling down the slammer door of the truck. Looking around to make sure we hadn’t trashed the steps or stoop of my building. Heard a low, feminine curse. Looking into the alley around the side of my building, I saw the pretty girl who worked at the deli patting down her pockets, digging into her apron.
I nudged Lee.
“Hey,” I said, dipping my head toward the alley. “Go offer her a light before you leave.”
He glanced at me. Looked at her doing the pat, pat, pat and frustrated groan. Grinned at me in that devilish way he had.
“She’s cute,” he whispered.
“Right,” I said, rolling my eyes and impatiently shrugging toward her. She was turning for the door.
“Hey,” he said, cutting down the alley as she gave up her search. Digging in his own pocket. “Need fire?”
I climbed back upstairs. Peeked out my kitchen window ever so briefly to see them sharing a smoke. Leaned up against the walls opposite each other. I quickly pulled my curtain and went back to my front room. Kept working on the canvas I was doing.
The show opened on Thursday. I was on a street with three other galleries that also had shows opening that Thursday. Zech’s was sort of right in the middle. Which meant that I would sort of be in the middle of an evening out for people. Which also made me very nervous.
The director had been incredibly accommodating when I said I wanted to do a swap. We didn’t even really have to do a swap, we just nudged things around. The new piece wasn’t all that big, after all. Just a small portrait-sized piece.
At first, I considered having a strong dose of allergy medicine or something– something to stupefy me. That seemed like a bad idea. Didn’t want to fall down or fall asleep at the show. I then briefly considered having a belt of something like vodka. That also seemed like a bad idea. I didn’t drink, and today wasn’t the day to start. So instead, I just raw-dogged the nervousness. But it turned out the worst part was actually that hour before the doors opened. Getting ready and showing up. Bouncing around in the pumps I was wearing. Feeling like I was sweating under the lights. Then I thought about the fact that Lee had set and moved the lights. That made the room feel cooler.
And the designer walked me through again. She was a remarkably astute woman, and I think she guessed after my first walk-through that I had a tendency to get worked up and wound tight. She told me how shows usually went. That she’d be walking the floor the whole time if I needed her. That her office door was unlocked if I needed to sit down by myself. I reminded myself to paint her a good thank-you letter after all this.
I panicked, briefly, when the doors unlocked. Picturing a Black Friday kind of rush on the door. But people just trickled in. And I didn’t have to perform. Very few people came in alone. A lot of clumps of students. I knew they’d just be going to all the openings this evening. They moved through quickly and loudly and kept each other entertained. A lot of people clearly on dates– ditto, they conversed quietly among themselves. A few people came up and introduced themselves. I shook hands and thanked people– and that was usually it. I didn’t have to be a salesperson, or be entertaining. The assumption was that I’d be a weird little artiste, and everyone seemed pleasantly surprised that I wasn’t feral. I was pleasantly surprised by myself.
Tomorrow was going to be even easier. Conchata would be here, and we’d be able to go out to dinner. And since it was sort of a trip for her to come to me, she’d be staying over with me too. And we could have our first sleepover in years. And wake up and have a nice pancake breakfast. It was all downhill from here, and it was going to be okay.
Admittedly, I had my eyes open. Waiting for someone particularly broad to come through the door. But he didn’t. Which was only fair. I was wrong and he was right.
I got to run screaming down to the sidewalk to let Conchata in. We’d be able to get ready together tonight. Do that kind of makeup that takes hours and dressing that takes even longer. She kept trying to turn the conversation to me– to the book, to work, to Killian. But I didn’t want that. I just wanted to hear about how her husband couldn’t find things, but he always brought her coffee in the morning. Her two daughters. They were fighting all the time but smarter than ever. Her own work. That was interesting, and I enjoyed her storytelling. I told her I’d been in my own head and playing my own imagination games too long, and it was just better to hear her talk.
Going to the gallery was even easier today. And I’d already specified I wasn’t likely to be there up until the very end. I’d already gotten us reservations at a restaurant I knew she’d love. Besides, Saturday was the actual reception. I was getting a little nervous about that as well. But everything else had gone so swimmingly that I wasn’t terribly worried.
Lee had been shocked when I told him everything was for sale. There was nothing I wasn’t offering up. Having the thing after it was done wasn’t really important to me. And I just didn’t think sales would be gang-busters anyway. He said the reception was where the bulk would be sold, so if I changed my mind I might still be able to take something out of the catalog. But I just shrugged. I’d already discussed all this with the director.
Friday was much the same as Thursday– perhaps a little quieter, since it was neither the opening nor the reception night. But fine. Conchata and I talked more than was necessary, but she always gracefully absented herself if we saw someone lingering or hovering nearby.
Nobody weird, nobody cruel. Mostly just nice compliments or strange and strained artiness.
We ducked out a few minutes before the doors closed. Rushing to the train and taking it a few stops down to our dinner. Over-indulging. Groaning and making jokes about how we’d have to be carted out of the restaurant. Returning home again and dropping our formal clothes all over the place, getting into pajamas. Curling up in my bed. Watching a little movie and whispering some more. Just so good to have her and hear her voice.
We went out to breakfast. Having a good time there too. And I felt a little sad, knowing that when we went back to my place, she’d pack up and leave again. But it was okay. And I was less anxious about tonight and more irritable about it. Knowing the reception was far more of a social engagement than anything else.
We went back, got her situated to leave again. She cried, I didn’t, which was par for the course.
And then I just kind of killed time around the house. Doodling, drinking water, standing at my window. Musing a little about the book, but not in any kind of focused way. Then I got dressed and ready to leave.
Saturday was bad, but not terrible. It was far, far more crowded. Because of course today there was food and drinks on offer. And it was Saturday night. Much more date-y than the other nights. And more “serious” single people moving through a lot. I was much more likely to be cornered by these people for a long period of time. However, it was relaxing to realize most of them wanted to do most of the talking. I generally just had to nod or murmur agreement. Once I realized I didn’t have to hold forth or philosophize, and just allow them to do it, I did.
I’d always been so worried about coming off uneducated or not playing the part. Like I should be floating around with a cool haircut and a creed about art. It turned out, other people wanted to be the ones with cool haircuts and to spout a manifesto. I just had to be the sounding board. Just like the internet, I thought, soothing myself. Well, this wasn’t so bad and while boring, it wasn’t hard. And everyone remained nice overall. They had high-top cocktail tables all over the place. The designer eventually pushed a little plate into my hand with a few things on it.
“You’re allowed to have some too,” she teased.
I smiled at her. Poked at a little chocolate something. Spent the rest of the next few hours wandering around with a steadily melting and cooling plate. Finally, I left it at one of the tables. Slowly sipping seltzer water. Looking forward to going home and making myself a little French bread pizza and indulging on my couch. Not eating these fancy little noms.
I clapped and got excited when I saw Lee come in. Back in that button-up and everything.
“Hey, man,” I said, shaking his hand and then giving him a high-five that made a few people raise a delicate eyebrow.
“It looks good, it looks real good,” he said.
“You knew that,” I said.
“Sales are good, too, apparently,” he said.
“You know I don’t care about that,” I said, shrugging.
The idea was exciting though. Less about the money but because I didn’t think that anything I had would inspire want or tenderness in anyone– not enough to write a check, anyway.
“Buzz is good because you have a book coming out, so the director thinks that’s leading the charge,” he said.
“Good point,” I agreed.
“Show me the new thing,” he said, shrugging toward a wall.
We weaved our way over, with him snatching hors d'oeuvres as he went. I was glad someone was getting their fill.
We stood in front of the ‘new thing’ together.
“A painting to help?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
Just titled Love Story of Maplewood it was from the viewpoint of my couch. The window looking over the intersection at low sundown. Red and gold and fire-rimmed. Just a pair of legs, two socked feet propped and crossed on the coffee table, the sun shining in such a way to create a halo around the figure. No facial features, really nothing past a few inches above the elbow. A hand, broad and strong and at rest in its lap.
“It’s serious,” he said.
I smiled sideways at him. He looked handsome and out of place, just like he always did.
“As a heart attack,” I agreed.
“Now it’s time to do the work,” he sighed. “And stop just painting and watching.”
“I know,” I said.
He smiled again and moved off, seeing that there was another patron lingering outside of our closed circle to talk to me.
I practically dragged myself home. Overwhelmed, throat feeling sore from talking to so many people. Cheeks aching from smiling. But not bad– just done in. Ready to do exactly as I planned and then sleep in the next day.
I kicked my shoes off with violence. They looked pretty, but god they were uncomfortable. Preheating my oven. Humming and getting naked. Deciding against showering, but at least managing to remove my makeup. I couldn’t be a total animal. Taking my little rat-dinner straight to bed. Looking at the blank and bleached spot where the triptych used to be. Wondering if it was going to come home to me.