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And here I go again, thinking that Elias is here for me.
Why would he be? I’m a nobody. A freshman. An introvert with an art obsession.
I don’t look back.
I run up the stairs, reaching my studio and unlocking it with the little fob I’ve hooked to my backpack. Once I’m inside, I close the door, leaning up against it.
Thank you thank you thank you. For this room and this door that locks.
It’s something I do.
It was some lady I didn’t even know very well, some acquaintance of my mother’s at the funeral. She was a seasoned New Yorker, you could just tell by the stylish cut of her black clothes that you’d never find anywhere else, by the world-weariness that’s cooler than you’ll ever be, by the raspy voice of a nicotine habit she still hadn’t quite kicked, by the old-soul eyes. I’m sure she was an art person, maybe a curator at the Met who’d lived on the upper east side for forty years, who knows. She looked me straight in the eye and she said, it won’t make any sense to you today, or maybe even a year from now. But one day it will. Remember this word: gratitude. If you practice gratitude, for having her, for all the years the two of you spent together and for all the memories you shared, she’ll feel closer to you. Gratitude is powerful. All you have to do is say thank you three times in a row and you’ll have all the fortune the universe can possibly provide. It’s as simple as that.
It was an intense little speech on a very heavy day in the pouring rain and it definitely stuck with me.
Ever since then, I do it all the time. At least a few times a day, it helps in a thousand little ways. I find some random thing that I can appreciate and I say it. Thank you thank you thank you.
Sometimes it’s for something as mundane as the beauty of a patch of dappled sunlight in the late afternoon. Or the sound of my dad’s gruff laughter when I hadn’t heard it for a while. Or the feel of my favorite paintbrush in my hand and the comforting glide of smooth paint on rough-textured canvas.
For a while, the daily barrage of grief, shock and anger really were more than I could bear. But it’s been a long time since that day.
I’ve found that there’s such a thing as empathy fatigue.
I have empathy fatigue. For myself. There’s a limit and I reached it a long time ago.
But I still use that little mantra when I’m feeling closer to the edge than I want to be.
So I find something to be thankful for.
My brand new studio. It’s filled with early September light. It’s got a window seat with bright cushions that’s big enough to sleep on if I want to. Which I will when I want to work late into the night. It’s a little creative haven and has an awesome view—BANG BANG BANG.
It’s more of a pounding than a knocking and it startles me.
Go away, I’m thinking. I need time. I’m not used to this extroverted lifestyle of spending all my time with a lot of people.
I hope it’s not Christopher. I’m annoyed that he practically dissed my painting. The whole “Matisse, obviously” comment pissed me off. Okay, yes, it’s sort of true, but it’s not like his paintings are all that freaking original either.
I know it’s not Christopher. Or Gwen. Or Maeve, even though I feel like we’re destined to become friends.
I open the door.
Why is he playing with fire? It doesn’t make any sense.
I sigh deeply, like this was inevitable, and take a step back from the doorway, opening it for him. I knew he’d come.
Elias O’Shea walks into the small space and I don’t know why I close the door behind him but I do. Something about us is already linked. I guess I was hoping he’d run away from it and do the things common sense would tell him to do.
He hasn’t. Obviously. Because here he is.
All 6’4’’ of more perfection than anyone has any right to own.
I allow myself a few seconds of taking it all in. The height of him and the sheer amount of space he takes up.
He’s got presence. The kind that insists you notice it. The wide, sculpted shoulders. The muscular chest. The thick dark hair with its ridiculously appealing wave to it that your fingers crave to just bury themselves in. I wonder how many women have run their hands through that hair.
The dark blue of his eyes—okay, would you stop staring? You’re making it obvious.
So I drag my gaze away from him and walk over to the window seat, where I sit in a ray of sunshine.
