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“Am I that transparent?”
“To other people? No, probably not. You’ve grown to have one hell of a poker face when you’re in curator mode.”
“But to you?” I ask, and when another rush of cool air breezes past us, I shiver.
“Poker face or not, I can tell.” He winks, tucking me closer to his side.
We stay silent for another block, until Luke pops the quiet bubble with one hell of a question. “Why haven’t you been painting?”
“I don’t know.” My eyes move to the ground, watching my stiletto-covered feet tip-tap across the damp sidewalk. “I guess I just haven’t had time.”
“I don’t think that’s why.” I can feel his eyes on me. Staring at me. But I refuse to make eye contact. The whole source of this line of conversation is highlighted with shame and guilt and confusion. “And I know it’s been over a year since you last painted anything.”
That grabs my attention. I look up and meet his eyes. “How do you know that?”
Luke just smiles, a tender little curve of his lips. “Because I know you,” he says, simple as that—He knows me. “And I know the last painting you did was the one of your mom when she was pregnant with Kate.”
He’s right. The last painting I did was based on a candid photo of my mom, smiling with her hands on her rounded belly, and Em and me standing near her, our smiles mirroring hers.
Sadly, I haven’t painted anything else since.
“I used to love going into your spare bedroom and seeing what new things you’d created,” he comments, his voice quiet but still loud enough to hear over the street traffic. “But…it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything new.”
I don’t know what to say to that. How can I add to the conversation when I don’t understand it myself? It was like, one day, I just stopped. Stopped painting. Stopped sketching. Just…stopped.
Because you don’t think you’re good enough.
A few moments later, we come to a stop at a crosswalk, but Luke doesn’t lead us across the street. Instead, he asks, “Do you feel like going on an adventure?”
I tilt my head to the side. “What kind of adventure?”
“One that will not keep us out in the cold.”
“Okay…?”
“You in?” he asks, and I shrug one casual shoulder.
“Sure. I’m in.”
“Stay right here,” he instructs and nods toward the Duane Reade just behind us. It’s basically New York’s version of a Walgreens or CVS. “I have to run in and grab something.”
“But I can’t come with you?” I question, my voice both amused and curious. “I thought you said this adventure was going to avoid the cold?”
“Sorry, Ace. It will ruin the adventure surprise.” Luke just grins, and then he’s off, several steps across the sidewalk and through the automatic sliding doors of the convenience store.
It only takes a few minutes before he’s stepping back outside with a paper bag clutched in his hand.
“What did you get?”
“I’ll show you in a minute,” he says, smile engaged again as he reaches out to grab my hand. “But first, we have to get to our final destination.”
Luke leads us to the closest subway station, and we jog down the steps toward the platform.
Since it’s eight in the evening and the hustle-bustle of rush-hour traffic has morphed into a quiet, uncrowded lull, it’s not long at all before we reach the platform and are stepping onto an awaiting train.
Luke guides us to two empty seats in the middle, and the instant we sit down, he reaches into the paper bag, pulling out his goodies—a sketchbook and a pencil.
“What are you doing?”
“This,” he says, setting the sketchbook on my lap and the pencil in my hands.
My chest grows tight with anxiety. “This is the adventure?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, nodding and pulling his cell phone and headphones out of his pocket.
“Luke.” I sigh. “I’m not doing this.”
But he doesn’t respond. In fact, he just kind of ignores me and places one earbud in my ear and one earbud in his ear. Within seconds, the sound of Trois Gymnopédies: Gymnopédie No. 2, one of my favorite classical pieces by Erik Satie, vibrates inside my ear.
This, him sitting beside me, a sketchbook in my lap, sharing music from his phone, holds so many memories.
We did this often when we were at Columbia together. I’d drag him to the subway with me so I could sketch portraits of people on the train. And we’d sit like this. For hours. Music in our ears. Me sketching and Luke watching me sketch.
But God, it’s been so long.
I just stare down at the blank page, pencil in my hand. “I…I…don’t think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” he gently whispers into my free ear. “And you’re going to.”
“Why?” I ask and turn my head to search his eyes.
My emotions feel like a damn roller coaster. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to flee. I want to…draw.
