“I do.”Not as much as I wanted to see her to make sure she was okay, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about her work.
Nadya stepped aside and let me into the studio where every light pointed at the canvas in the middle of the room.Everything else in the room spoke volumes about how Nadya had spent these last few hours.Art supplies, an empty bottle of whiskey, and two protein-bar wrappers on the floor.The air was thick with the smell of paint and alcohol.
The canvas was a horror show, but in a good way: blue and yellow slashed with streaks of bloody red.The bottle looked half-melted, like even glass couldn’t withstand all the pain Nadya spilled onto the canvas.The symbolism wasn’t subtle.
I nodded at the empty whiskey.“Did that help?”
She gave me a sideways look.“A little.”
I scanned her face.No smudged makeup, no raw skin from crying.“Did you eat?”
“Protein bars,” she said, gesturing at the wrappers.“Very nutritious.They have vitamins and everything.”
I sighed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.We lapsed into silence, her staring at the painting, me staring at her.She didn’t look drunk, only tipsy, which was probably worse because that much whiskey should’ve flattened someone her size.That meant she had the kind of tolerance that came from frequent drinking.
She sat down on the drop cloth cross-legged, hands in her lap, and for a second she looked like a little kid with too many wounds inside and out.I crouched so I was level with her.
“You want to talk?”I asked.
She smirked, but the humor was thin.“Sit.But don’t talk.Talking’s dangerous.”
So, that was what we did.We just sat there, shoulders so close I could feel her heat, and looked at the painting about crappy coping mechanisms.
“I kept thinking if I could just pour enough of it out, the tank would go empty,” she said finally, staring at her paint-splattered hands.“But there’s always more.”
I got it.You worked in trafficking long enough, you learned that people were bottomless wells of pain.
“You know, I see doctors regularly for consultation, but it’s not necessarily for my own health.Sometimes, I just need to ask questions about how something works for my cases,” I started, hoping she’d listen to me if I presented it the right way.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.I mean, let’s take your old therapist.She sucked at listening to you, but she still gave you one good advice about art, right?”
She gave me a suspicious look.“I’m not going to a therapist.”
“You don’t have to go for therapy per-se.Think about it as mining for better coping mechanisms.Make it your goal and go from there.”I shrugged with one shoulder.“It’s up to you what you want to talk about, so talk about coping mechanisms.”
“Why would a therapist do that?”She rolled her eyes.“They want to make a buck and to do that, they have to have a whole bunch of sessions.If they just give up all the good stuff on the first day, no one will come back for more.”
Damn, she was a tough cookie to crack.
“My therapist would.Want her number?”
Nadya chewed on her lip for a moment.“Maybe I could do one session.But only to get some tips.”
I fished my phone from my pocket, thumbed through my contacts.“I’ll text you her number.”
“You know what would really help my healing process?”she asked while hopefully saving my therapist’s number to her contacts.“Greasy food and the company of a man who knows how to kill someone with a spoon.”
I smiled back, for what felt like the first time all day.“I could make that happen.”
We left the studio, locking up behind us.The painting wasn’t dry yet, so we’d have to come back for it tomorrow morning.For now, we just needed to find someplace to eat within walking distance.There was no way I would let Nadya ride while she was still drunk.Hopefully, she could get some help soon.
