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And in some form or another, the paintings are all inspired by Indy. They deserve to be cherished by someone who sees their real value.
“When you’re in your studio, do you have a specific routine when it comes to painting?” Lily asks, and lamentably, I take my eyes off her sister to look her in the eye.
“A certain routine?” Like fucking jumping jacks? What in the hell is she talking about?
She nods. “Like a certain time of day you always paint, or do you just paint when inspiration strikes? What’s a normal day look like for Ansel Bray?”
“Let’s see.” I hum. “When I’m inspired, I’m generally in my studio for hours, surviving off water and granola bars and the musical genius of Chopin or Vivaldi, while I paint until my fingers threaten to fall off.”
“So music is a must for you in the studio.”
“Definitely.”
“You know,” Lily continues and glances at her sister. “Indy is a classically trained musician. She’s even played with the New York Orchestra.”
My heart trips over its own rhythm, and it takes everything inside of me not to choke on my wine.
A specific painting pops into my head, and I force myself to push it away and act like I haven’t just been punched in the gut with the undeniable realization that I know Indy Davis far more than I even realized.
Holy shit.
Indy’s shoulders are rigid with tension and discomfort again.
“I don’t play professionally anymore,” she comments faux-casually. There’s a pain rooted there, deep in the bowels of her response, but I don’t pry. Clearly, the last thing she wants is to go into it.
“What do you do now, Indy?”
“I’m a music teacher.”
“Really? Where?”
“Great Elm School. It’s a private school in the Bronx.”
I grin at the thought of her with children. “Do you like it?”
“I hate my commute, but, yes, most days I do like it.” She shrugs and smiles at the same time. “Although, there are some days I wonder why I didn’t try harder to become a YouTube Influencer instead.”
What the hell is a YouTube Influencer?
I raise my eyebrows, and she laughs. “It’s a thing, trust me. You’d think it’s the kindergarteners that give me the most trouble, but honestly, it’s the smartass eighth-graders. Especially, the boys.”
I laugh. “Hormones and puberty, a deadly combination.”
Indy opens her mouth to respond, but the sounds of a phone ringing pull her attention toward her purse. When she takes it out of the front pocket, her mouth forms a tiny little O of surprise. “Shit,” she mutters, and her sister glances at the screen.
“You should get that,” Lily says. “I’m sure Ansel will understand that you need to answer Matt’s call.”
Matt?
Who the fuck is Matt?
Indy glances at the screen and then at me, and eventually, she gets up from the booth. Her eyes are apologetic, but I offer an understanding smile as she excuses herself from our table.
Once Indy is out of sight, Lily gives me all the details I wish I could unhear. “Her boyfriend is on a work trip in Europe for the next few weeks, and the time change isn’t the easiest to manage.”
I nod, but on the inside, I’m dying.
I’m officially jealous of a man I’ve never met.
Indy
I glance up at the clock above the door to my classroom and see it’s already 2:15. Only ten more minutes to go until I send my last class back to Mrs. Thomas’s homeroom and finish up my day.
For a Friday, this day is dragging on like a migraine.
The morning started off a bit rough when I had to discipline Austin, one of my second-graders, for singing “Mary Had a Little Fart” instead of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
When I sat him down for a nice little chat and asked him what prompted him to come up with his own creative arrangement instead of following the one provided, he told me that “snitches get stitches.”
Is it just me, or are second-graders seeming older these days?
It took pretty much everything inside of me not to laugh.
Unfortunately, Austin set the tone for the day, and I’ve had to spend the last six or so hours trying to wrangle what might as well have been a hardened, gang-sign-repping herd of feral cats.
Needless to say, these kids are ready for the weekend, and I am too.
While the first-graders from Mrs. Thomas’s class put their instruments back in the bins, I grab my mug from my desk and take a sip.
“What are you drinking, Ms. Davis?” Olivia asks, and I look up to find her back in her assigned seat.
“Coffee.”
“Ew, gross!” she exclaims, and her face pinches in disgust. “Coffee gives my mom bad breath!”
“You should drink beer instead, Ms. Davis,” Kyle chimes in as he settles into his seat. “My dad does all the time. He says it takes the edge off.”
Kyle’s dad is the father of three rowdy boys who are all under the age of ten. Surely, the man deserves to have something in his life that takes the edge off.
