Linc: Fair point.
He wiped his palm on his thigh and ran his hand through his hair. He pulled the quilt down from over his head and tucked it under his arm as he typed, lying on his side. He had no idea how long they’d been chatting, but the room was dark and his stomach growled.
Linc: I keep losing track of time when we talk. I’m starving!
Elizabeth: Nope, not letting you change the subject. Eat if you gotta eat, but you’re telling me about the artist.
Linc: Fiiiiiine. Okay. He’s a largely unknown Irish famine artist. Or at least, he was. He died in 2019. Self-taught, he didn’t have much by way of formal education most of his life. His name was Oliver Curran. He wasn’t widely known, blue mountains were his signature ‘thing’and while he had a couple of exhibitions both here in the states and in Ireland, he didn’t really do a lot of shows.Balloons Over Franceis my favorite picture of his.
He sent her a link to check it out.
Elizabeth: Wow, those blossom trees!
Linc: Right? I don’t know what it is about his work, but I love it. I keep threatening to try to do one of his pictures, and then I talk myself out of it. If you can believe it, I found him on a random Google search when I was researching a paper.
The pressure of having revealed such a raw part of his soul pressed against his chest, blasting the air from his lungs. His heart thudded. He needed to turn attention from him, to put back into place the comfortable mask he hid behind.
Linc: What about you?
Elizabeth: I told you who my favorite artist is.
Linc: Nah, not art. What’s the one thing that you’re passionate about? That you love.
Elizabeth: Uhhhh… Reading?
Linc: I’m groaning right now. Out LOUD. I get that you love to read, Miss Bennet, but surely there’s something else that you enjoy? Crocheting? Needlework? Walking through fields in the rain?
Elizabeth: I write short stories…
He rolled onto his back lifting the phone in front of his face to type. A recipe for disaster, he’d had too many instances of phone-meeting-face from a height, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to say goodnight and stop the conversation.
Linc: Do you do anything with them? Submit them for publishing?
Elizabeth: Do you submit your art for exhibitions?
Linc: My art isn’t good enough to be put on display.
Elizabeth: Neither is my writing.
Linc: Isn’t that for the reader to decide?
Elizabeth: Shouldn’t your work be judged by others and not yourself, too?
Linc: Touché. Does anyone know you write?
His heart thumped. She was coming at him with logic and other than a raging case of not-good-enough and ‘my father might very well disown me’, he didn’t have a good reason why he didn’t share his art with anyone.
Elizabeth: My mom. I told her once and she shut me down. She said it was a silly pursuit that wasn’t going anywhere. My best friend knows too. She keeps trying to read over my shoulder when the mood strikes and she nags at me to publish. You?
Linc: My roommate. My dad thinks art is for (and I’m quoting here) ‘pussies’.
Elizabeth: Ouch. I’m so sorry, Mr. Darcy, but your father is very wrong, and you have serious talent.
His face, neck and ears burned hot under her praise. It constricted his chest like a shirt that was too tight. He shifted on the mattress, unsure of how to respond.
Elizabeth: You’re freaking out, aren’t you? I get it. I don’t get praised much by my parents either. It’s a weird feeling when someone sees the real you, isn’t it? At least for me it’s uncomfortable. Well, whoever you are, thank you for showing me such a secret piece of yourself, I think it’s beautiful, brilliant, and brave and I hope someday you step out of whatever shadow you’re living in and show the world. The world needs more art like yours, Mr. Darcy.
He blinked back tears. He read her message over three more times and still had no idea what to reply. His dad had made himself very clear on the subject, and as long as he felt that way, Linc could never step into the sun and show the world his art.
