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“What did you say would fix this?” I ask while staring down at the floor. I don’t tell Ash that I’m going to have to leave sometime tonight or tomorrow to check on my dad.
Because he’s alone, and I’m worried about him. I go to his house every other day to do some meal prep and cleaning and also try and get him to say something. Anything.
My boss knows where I am, so I don’t have to worry about that. My apartment is pretty barren and soulless because I have no one depending on me—no one who would be sad if I suddenly had to leave to go somewhere. I’ve made it that way, I realize. No cat, no dog, no bird or fish, and no plants. I always wanted to be a journalist, and I wanted to work with my dad—working side by side with him, writing stories that made a difference, and making him proud. Instead, I write for a sleazy, online publication that just wants to rock the clickbait and would pass up anything with any sort of meaning because meaningful isn’t what they’re in the business of.
“Food,” Ash announces proudly.
My head jerks up. “Food?” I’m not even hungry. I can’t be hungry when I’m drowning in emotions because it makes me completely nauseated.
“But I have to admit all I have in the fridge is healthy stuff you wouldn’t like. I know because I can barely stomach it. If you don’t want some juiced-up grasses and vegetables, then I suggest we order something before the hanger gets real.”
“Order something?” I hate that I sound so dumb, but all I want to do is wash my face.
“I can get something, anything. Just not something fried. It has to be semi-healthy.”
“Hard pass.”
Ash makes a sound in his throat, and I finally look up at him. He’s trying. He really is. Something in me softens even though I want it to stay hard as iron, resolute as granite, and stubborn as sludge. All that good stuff. Or should I say, bad stuff, such as dislike. That’s what I need to cling to. Not this creeping warmth that is slowly invading all the crevices, cracks, and also big deep holes that I know are inside me. And not just physically either but mentally and emotionally, too. All the real crackly cracks, holy holes, and creaky crevices.
“Art then!” Ash blurts, looking me right in the eye. I think he realizes that a challenge is something I will always rise to. “You said you could create something better, so I’ll get the canvas set up and the paints ready. Then, I’ll go order food, and you can get started.”
“Just because art is a crutch that makes you…” The words die, strangled in my throat. I feel all soft and melty inside, but old evils die hard. “Sorry. Just…that’s not…forget it. We’re not doing that anymore, being mean. But it’s going to take some practice.”
“It’s fine.” Ash shrugs. “I’ve used it in the past to deal with all sorts of stuff. I think a lot of people do that. Isn’t that where everyone says good art comes from? Places of pain?”
“Uh, I wouldn’t know. I think people can make good art when they’re in good moods.”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“But you are right. Even in a good mood, they’re probably drawing on past experiences and sources of pain. Things that made them think about something deeply, something that inspires them, something they came through. So I guess maybe both?”
“This is getting deep.”
“Yeah,” I mutter as I scrub my face. “Alright. Go set up the studio or whatever and make sure I can’t do any harm by flinging paint around on the rest of your canvases.” An evil grin tugs at my lips. “Although, I’m sure it would be an improvement. I’m going to wash up.”
“That’s a good idea, but keep those clothes on. You’ll get messy, I warn you. You’ll need a second wash up.”
I tilt my head down, suddenly so embarrassed that Ash is seeing me like this, I can hardly stand it. I mean, I was embarrassed before, but geez. I must look truly nasty. I never let anyone see me like this. In fact, I never even let myself see myself like this, so I draw on my inner snarky and find comfort in the sassy me that I can usually effortlessly channel.
“Uh, how long will it take for the food to get here?”
“Maybe half an hour?” Ash shrugs. One big shoulder goes up, and his t-shirt flexes and tightens over his abs. A hint of bronzed skin shows between the hemline and the beginning of his jeans, and suddenly, it’s even harder to swallow. “Why?”
“I’ll be finished by then.”
“The painting? Your painting?”
“Yeah.” I look up at him with my dried tears, nasty snot, and all. I’m finding my sass and reclaiming it, and it feels good. I can be strong without being mean, can’t I? Yes! Yes, I can. And I’m going to. “What? Afraid I’ll outdo you?”
