AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What an asshole.”
“It was for the best. I needed to be knocked down a few pegs. It made me reevaluate my work. Made me realize that I wasn’t painting anything original or true to myself.”
I think of the painting in his cabin, the one that felt like the wild ocean. “That’s when things got really difficult for you, right?”
“Yep.” Alden’s focus drifts off into the distance. “That was when I felt at my lowest. I almost stopped painting altogether. But I didn’t. Instead, I became obsessed with finding the truth of the art. I painted over my canvases so many goddamn times that I lost count. At first, the layers of paint felt like evidence of my mistakes, until I finally learned to accept it. To embrace it as my process. My style.”
I wait for him to continue, absorbed in every word he’s saying.
“Months later,” he goes on, “when I emerged from my cave, I had a dozen works that looked nothing like the realistic, careful work I’d done in school. The new paintings were abstract and moody, the paint so thick that I’d drained my bank account from buying so much of it. This time, the art world responded. Overnight, I went from being a nobody to the hottest thing in the art world. But with that success came a level of fame that I despised.”
“That sounds overwhelming.”
“It was ridiculous. I was being hounded for interviews. Nobody gave a damn about my personal space. Someone even broke into my studio and tried to steal one of my canvases, but I came home just in time and they fled empty-handed.”
“God.”
“The worst part was that it changed the way my friends acted around me. All of a sudden it was like I wasn’t one of them anymore. Either that, or they’d ask me for money. Between that and all the attention I didn’t want, it became too much. I used the money from my first couple shows to buy the cabin up north and find refuge.”
I nod, not saying anything. My heart is pounding away, all the feelings I’ve already developed for him swirling in my chest. I set down my bowl of ice cream, and take Alden’s bowl from his hands and set it aside, too. Then I straddle his lap and press my lips to his.
“I’m so sorry I can’t go back with you, Alden,” I say softly.
8
ALDEN
It’s gotta be at least three in the afternoon, because Sasha has been at work for what feels like ages and the hue of sunlight streaming into her apartment has yet to change.
I’ve got nowhere to go, but I can’t lay here staring at the damn ceiling any longer.
With a grunt, I haul myself up from the bed, the mattress sighing relief from the withdrawal of my weight. My pencil sketches of Sasha are strewn across the bedsheets, my morning’s work in disarray. Drawing her from the curves I have memorized was a decent way to pass the time at first, but eventually the suffocating noise of the surrounding city blocks eclipsed the pleasure of it. When I broke the lead in my pencil for a third time, I took that as a sign that it was time to take a break.
I gather up the sketches and toss them on my suitcase. Then I try to straighten up the bedsheets, but it doesn’t look as good as when Sasha does it.
When Sasha does it. I say that as if I’ve been living with her for years. In reality, I’ve only been here at her apartment for two days. It feels a hell of a lot longer than that, though. I mean that in both good and bad ways. The good parts are all with her—her mouth on mine, her laughter sweetening the air, her crying out my name when she comes.
The bad part is being away from her while she’s at work, and having nothing but that damn brick wall to look at out her window.
I still don’t get how she can enjoy living in a place like this. But if it’s what she likes, it’s what she likes, I guess.
I plod over to Sasha’s tiny bathroom, take a piss, then stare at myself in the mirror that’s poorly bolted to the wall. I don’t look like myself. I’m a man lost in obsession, torn between two impossibilities. I can’t stay here for much longer without going crazy. But I can’t leave, either—not without Sasha by my side.
There’s no going back to the way things were before I met her, and yet there doesn’t seem to be any damn way to move forward, either.
Aren’t you going out of your mind, being cooped up here all day?
Sasha’s question echoes in my head, as clearly as if she was standing right beside me asking it again. I answered truthfully yesterday when I told her I was fine. But, overnight, things have changed. The walls of this studio apartment have been feeling more claustrophobic. The room more airless. The muffled sounds of her neighbors more grating on my nerves.
Fuck it. I’m going out.
Grabbing the spare key Sasha left for me in a ceramic dish by the door, I step out of her apartment for the first time in forty-eight hours. A couple of her neighbors are standing in the hallway, and their conversation falls silent as they see me walk out, their two pairs of widened eyes both on me.
I lock Sasha’s door, shove the key into my pocket, nod at her neighbors as I pass by.
Downstairs, someone’s left the front door to the building propped open for something, and I resist the urge to slam it closed. Instead, I keep walking, heading straight over to where my truck is parked. It’s a relief to see that it’s still there, but there’s a bright yellow slip of paper tucked under one of the windshield wipers.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, grabbing the ticket. I’m parked too close to the fire hydrant? Seriously? How far away do you fucking have to be?
