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It requires a lot of focus, so when my phone chimes again ten minutes later and my eyes dart that way, I can tell instantly that I’ve made a mistake. I slow the wheel entirely so I don’t risk damaging the piece and having to start fresh, then I use my elbow to wake my screen.
Bishop: You working?
I nibble on the inside of my cheek, warring with myself as I try to decide if I want to text him back. I’d have to wash my hands and pause my project for even longer and give in to the idea that I want to talk to him.
Ultimately, I let the screen go dark and begin spinning my wheel again.
It’s been three weeks since Bishop and I had our first meeting, and it’s been…surprisingly easy. We chat for a few minutes while I throw something on the wheel—a maneuver I drummed up so I didn’t spend our first meeting together just staring at him—and then I type up some notes to send to Principal Cohen. It’s been friendly and simple, and I don’t mind them at all.
Which is maybe the problem. It’s nice chatting with Bishop, sharing what’s going on with my students and hearing about how things are going with his team. Listening to that deep voice of his is just…
I shake my head. I think it’s a fair assessment to say I still find Bishop attractive. I mean, I’m not blind, and he’s still…him. Kind and attentive and funny. God, he’s funny. I’m not one to laugh a lot, but the things he says always seem to hit me in just the right spot.
I blush at that thought and try to return my attention to my work, but Bishop is still there, hovering in the back of my mind. And then two more texts pop up on my phone, back to back.
Bishop: I have an important request
Bishop: (image)
My curiosity finally gets the best of me, and I growl, letting my wheel slow and crossing to the sink to wash my hands. This better be good.
Grabbing the phone, I open my texts and pull up Bishop’s message. The picture is of him with a group of people I don’t recognize holding up a bunch of canvases that look very similar. It looks like one of those wine and paint nights, and everyone has some sort of yellow-orange sunset background with palm tree silhouettes.
Except for Bishop, who clearly didn’t follow directions. His sunset is more brown than orange, and his trees look more like a trunk with a scribble at the top than actual palm fronds.
He’s never been particularly good at art—his words, not mine—and he barely passed the art class we took together junior year.
“Art requires a delicate, gentle approach,” he said to Mrs. Gardner, who stared at him, unimpressed. “I’m more of a bowling ball than a paper airplane.”
I’d forgotten about that, and I grin to myself at the memory as two more texts show up on my screen.
Bishop: I’m doing a paint thing Sunday night with Bellamy and a group of people, and I don’t want to make a fool out of myself.
Bishop: Will you come and sit next to me and provide me with your secret art tips so I don’t look like a complete neanderthal?
I shake my head, unable to keep the smile off my face.
Me: Isn’t that the instructor’s job?
Part of me thinks art classes like this are stupid. The people who organize them usually provide what is basically finger paint and then have everyone create the exact same image. It completely flies in the face of what makes art special—the unique quality.
But I also understand that it’s more about socializing, and it makes art feel more accessible to people who don’t have the tools in their home. Blah, blah, blah, I get it, though I’m not sure any of those reasons are enough to convince me one way or another. What might sway me is how I’ve felt about spending any more time with Bishop outside of our weekly meetings.
When I’m around him, I find myself beginning to forget about the past, and I don’t want to forget about it. It needs to stand like a firmly rooted tree in the middle of the road between us as a reminder of something I never want to feel again in my life: discarded.
I felt it before as a child, when my dad left me and my mom. Then again in junior high, when my mom dropped me off at Leah’s and never looked back. I thought that was it. No way could someone get hurt like that again, right?
Then Bishop dumped me, and I felt all those same pains anew. It affected my life, my relationships. I dated around quite a bit.
Okay, I slept around quite a bit.
I felt lost and alone and discarded again, and I didn’t want to open myself up and get hurt. I tried to convince myself that sex could be an emotionless thing, just to get that physical release, to be wanted.
Eventually, I made it through that season and ended up in a relationship, though not an entirely appropriate one. Garrett was one of my professors, and what we were doing was a secret. Which is, I think, what made it so fun at first. It was an affair.
There was something enticing about it, sneaking around to have sex but not having to get too deep emotionally. Garrett essentially became my chance to get that physical release without having to trudge out to bars to find it.
I never felt the things I did with Bishop. Obviously. Garrett constantly commented on the fact that I wouldn’t open up to him, and I made it clear that I didn’t plan to. The last thing you want to do after you’ve felt such pain is open yourself up to it again.
