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I mean, he’s a Mitchell. He’s going to keep coming back here, year after year, and do I really want to continue having to avoid town every time I hear he’s around?
Hopefully it will be just…simple, unemotional. And by being so simple and unemotional, maybe all the pain will leak out, just leaving behind two boring people talking about boring school stuff.
But then I think about the way my emotions overtook me when I saw him…just how un-unemotional it was…and I can’t help but wonder if I’m hoping on a lark.
“You two will figure it out,” she says. “But remember, if you ever need someone to hide a body, I will come along for emotional support but don’t want to do any heavy lifting.”
I laugh, and we move on.
Eventually, Nicole takes off—making me promise not to skip yoga ever again, even if it’s for work—and I head into my shed. On top of completing work for clients who are waiting on commissioned pieces, I also have to finish some of the adjustments I’m making to a set of vases that are getting displayed in an art show in November.
It was Leah who encouraged me to submit my portfolio, which I never would have thought about doing on my own. She’s had her macrame pieces featured in magazines and museums over the course of her life, and she told me those doors opened for her because of art shows she was featured in, times she networked and chatted with donors and other creators.
Just the idea of the whole thing makes my stomach turn over, but I’m trying to push myself harder when it comes to my art. I’ve been really fortunate so far to have a bit of luck take me a long way. If I want that to keep taking me places, I need to make sure I throw in a few challenges to prompt growth.
That’s what this art show will be: a challenge. Not the art, but the networking. I’m not good at easy conversation. Never have been. Not like, say, Bishop, who could make a cement wall laugh.
I shake my head, not even sure where that thought came from, but before I can manage to shut him out completely, memories of what it was like to be on Bishop’s arm—things I haven’t thought about in years—come rushing back.
High school dances.
Dinner with his family.
Community gatherings.
Baseball events.
I always dragged my feet at first, complaining about all the people and all the talking and how I had homework or wanted to draw instead.
Secretly, though, I loved being at his side. My introverted nature was always exhausted when I got home, but there was a tiny well within me that was filled up any time we did something like that together.
Conversation always felt easier.
Laughter always hit harder.
Joy lasted longer.
That fear I shared with Nicole earlier still lingers in my spirit, whispering about the pain I felt all those years ago, but at this wave of good memories, those voices quiet.
Even if there are some awkward, uncomfortable moments with Bishop doing these meetings, surely there will be some positive ones, and maybe it would do me good to spend a few months dulling the rough edges of that bitterness that’s still lodged in my chest.
Sighing, I tug out my phone, pull up Bishop’s contact info, and give him a call. It rings three times before he answers, and I can hear the surprise in his voice when he does.
“Gabi. Hey.”
“Hi, Bishop.”
“How have the last few hours been?” he asks, his voice slightly teasing.
My lips curve. “Good. Hung out with Nicole for a bit. I was thinking about this whole…NSP thing.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it, too. If you want to go to Principal Cohen and tell her we’re not doing it, I’ll support that. I’ll say the same thing.”
“I appreciate that. But…I’ve decided I’m okay with it. Maybe it’ll be a good thing, us spending some time together while you’re home.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and I know I’ve surprised him again.
“Why do I feel like you’re secretly plotting my murder?”
