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Evenhours later, the words still have the power to make my stomach turn over.Thesympathy in the woman’s expression as she broke the news to me only made it worse.I’dgone in for my pre-application portfolio review atBarringtonCollegeofVisualArtswith such hope and come out utterly deflated.
NowI’msitting at my easel in the living room of my slightly shabby yet homely apartment with the lights off and my curtains open to let in a little ambient street lighting.Thepainting in front of me is hard to see in the dimness of the night, but that’s kind of the idea.What’sthe point in throwing myself a pity party if the room is bright and cheerful andIcan see exactly what a mess my artwork is?
FromwhatIcan make out, it’s about as messy as my life is right now.
Yeah.Sometimesbeing in the dark is better.
Feelingreckless,Igrab a tube of paint without looking and squirt a generous amount onto my palette.It’shard to make out the color, but it looks like a dark blue, probably the byzantine blueIstocked up on the other day.
Iload my brush with the added color and slap it on haphazardly, then pick up my glass and take another long sip of wine.Thisisn’t my normal painting technique, but considering the feedbackIreceived today, a night of alcohol and not actually caring about whatI’mdoing feels warranted.
Ishouldn’t be wallowing.I’vetried so hard to build myself back up over the last year—or at least convince myself thatI’mmaking progress—but this last rejection has pushed me over the edge into tearful self-pity.
BeforeIcan drain the last glass of cheap merlot, the shrill ringing of my phone startles me.
Whowould be calling so late?Clutchingthe stem of the wineglass more tightly soIdon’t drop it,Itransfer my brush to that hand, awkwardly working it between two fingers soIcan hold both objects, and pick up my cell phone.
Myheart gives a little pulse of excitement whenIsee the name on the screen, then plummets.There’sno wayDevonwon’t clue in to my precarious emotional state ifIanswer.
Iconsider ignoring the call.Butit’s been too long sinceI’vespoken to him, andImiss hearing his voice.Imisshim.JustlikeImissBeau.
Iswipe the screen and hit the speakerphone option soIcan continue my tipsy painting.
“Hey!Areyou finally home?”Imake my voice as light and breezy asIcan.Alongwith not wanting to get into whyI’mupset,Idon’t want to bring him down when he’s probably still riding the high of the tour and just calling for a quick catch-up.
“Gotback an hour ago.Beau’scrashed already.Butyou know how he is.”Devon’sdeep voice is always guaranteed to make me smile, even when my cheeks are still wet with tears.
“Howwas the rest of the tour?”Iask.
“Great.Thecrowds were fucking awesome.Tonight’sshow atMadisonSquareGardenwas phenomenal.”
Myheart swells at the pure joy in his voice.HeandBeauhave worked so hard for this.Theydeserve all the success they’ve had over the last few years.Atthe same time,Ican’t stop another tear from welling up and spilling over.I’llblame my overly emotional state on the cheap wine. “That’samazing.Iremember you mentioning it when you got your tour schedule.It’sgreat… so great that you’re having fun.”Idesperately hope he missed the way my voice faltered at the end.
Butthe deafening silence tells me he didn’t.
“Shae?” he finally says.
“Mm-hmm.”Itip my head back and pour the last bit of wine down my throat in preparation.
“Areyou at work right now?”
“No.Notat work.”Becausethat’s the other slap in the faceIreceived this week.
“Good.Thenyou can tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’swrong.I’mfine, honestly.”Iwince at the lack of conviction evenIcan hear in my voice.
“Okay,I’mgoing toFaceTimeyou.”
“Devon, no,I’m—”
Toolate.
Ihave just enough time to put my wineglass on the table and scrub my cheeks with my hands before my phone rings again.Iconsider pulling my hair out of its messy bun, but what’s the point?Devondoesn’t care whatIlook like.Tohim,I’veonly ever been a best friend.Nothingmore.
Atthe last second,Ilunge for my lamp so he doesn’t catch me sitting here in the dark and question my sanity.ThenItake a bracing breath, paste a smile on my face, and hitAccept.
Mystomach does that funny thing it always does whenIseeDevon.Withhis dark hair, slightly longer on the top than the sides, deep blue eyes, and strong, scruff-covered jaw, there’s no doubting he’s gorgeous.Beauis just as good-looking.Infact, the two of them look so alike they could be brothers rather than cousins.Whichmakes sense since their moms are twins.ButIdon’t get the same physical reaction whenIseeBeau, probably because he andIhave been friends since we were little kids.Itdoesn’t meanIdon’t also appreciate his good looks.It’sjust… different.
