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seventeen
Exhausted.
That’s how Eloise felt, but sleep could wait and if it wasn’t for her aunt, she’d probably starve to death. Margaux made sure Eloise had food in her apartment, most of it ready to eat, grab and go stuff so she didn’t have to prepare anything. She at least knew her niece wouldn’t stop working until everything was perfect.
Eloise stood, stretched, and absentmindedly put her paint brush in her hair. Thankfully, it was the wooden end and not the brush part, which was covered in paint. Although, at this point, what would a little more paint do to her. She hadn’t looked at herself in the mirror in days and probably had multicolored hair by now, and she was in desperate need of a shower.
She stepped forward and added some shadowing to the design in front of her. She wasn’t sure if her aunt would approve of the painting and if she didn’t, Eloise would be fine with it. Margaux told Eloise she had a painting in the showcase. She just didn’t know which one. It would be a surprise. The painting before her now was more for her anyway, something to remember the summer by.
As she stood there, admiring her work, she decided she’d keep this one. The design was personal, and it meant something only she’d understand. Before her, on the canvas a shirtless Kiel looked at her, the artist, over his shoulder while she painted his back. This reminded Eloise of their first night together; they bonded in a way she hadn’t with anyone else and didn’t want to let him go. She would though because that’s what they were destined for—not this life—but another. She missed him and regretted how the past month had been. If she ever expected to have a meaningful relationship with him or anyone for that matter, Eloise had to figure out how to balance work and life. More than anything, being with Kiel had inspired her in ways she didn’t know existed.
He was, without a doubt, her muse.
Eloise was confident they’d meet again. In another summer. In another place. She hadn’t decided if she’d stay in Seaport and with Kiel leaving at the end of the summer, why should she stay. The busy season would be over. She could travel, go back to painting tourists to make ends meet. Return in the summer to help her aunt. There were options. In a roundabout way, Kiel had opened her mind to them. He didn’t know what he wanted to do either. To her, they were two lost souls torn between doing what their parents wanted and expected and what they, as individuals, wanted. The only issue, Eloise had no idea.
Art school seemed like a good idea. Study with the masters. Learn from the best. But then, her grandfather said the best tool is your own mind, your own creativity. Institutions stifle creativity. They have rules and if you don’t conform, you’re not doing it right. How can a painting be wrong when it’s through the artist's eye. Those thoughts made her want to skip art school. She didn’t need someone telling her she was wrong—she had her father. He did it enough to last a lifetime.
Her phone rang. It was in the other room, sitting on her nightstand. She hadn’t talked to anyone other than her aunt in weeks. Kiel hadn’t called or texted her, nor had she. She didn’t know what to say, other than she was sorry and that he should run far away because being a shut-in was easy for her.
Eloise hadn’t stayed in her apartment the entire time since she told Kiel she had to work. She had gone to the gallery and painted. She went to the pier, the docks and painted. Kiel was there, with his sisters, his parents. Eloise saw them, she captured them in her memory and transferred the scene to canvas. Kiel was right when he asked if he was her muse—he was. He was easy to put on the canvas. Perfect and flawless in her mind.
The canvas needed to dry. She took it off the easel and placed it on her drafting table and then grabbed another piece. More paint, more lines, more Kiel. He never left her mind, and she wondered if she had a sickness. Was this how Van Gogh felt? Is that why he ended up in an asylum?
Her father had wanted to put her grandfather in one. Growing up, she heard, “he’s sick,” or, “he’s not well,” neither of which was true. George was the sanest man Eloise knew. He taught her everything about painting. About art. About finding the beauty in everything. If painted right a fly could be as gorgeous as a flower. Not everyone believed that except Eloise and maybe Margaux.
She could see her father wanting to put her in a home. He loathed that she didn’t have the ambition he thought she should have. Sometimes Eloise wondered if her dad was right—where would she be if she gave up painting and went to college. A “real” college by her father’s standards.
Miserable.
That was how she had felt for days when she hadn’t painted. Part of her wanted to blame Kiel. He preoccupied her time. Her mind. But it wasn’t his fault. It was hers. She craved him as much as she craved the way painting made her feel. She imagined it was like being addicted to something that increased your endorphins. Telling him she needed to work was hard. Not calling or texting had been easy because she had her art. She had her palette to keep her busy. To remind her of her goal—the showcase. Eloise wanted a spot next to her aunt. She needed validation. If she got it, she’d call her father and tell him even though he wouldn’t care. The words she’d heard growing up, “Art doesn’t pay,” echoed in her mind, in his voice. She closed her eyes and willed thoughts of her father away.
Her phone rang again, and she finally went to see who it was. The name “Homewrecker” showed on the screen. Eloise silenced the call and didn’t bother to send her mom to voicemail. She didn’t want to talk to her. Mostly because she didn’t have the energy to deal with her mom.
Instead of going back to the canvas, she headed downstairs and went to take a shower. It had been days and she always promised herself to stay on top of her hygiene. Something her grandfather would neglect until he finished a piece. For him, that could’ve easily been weeks or a month.
Eloise stripped down, turned on the water and waited for it to heat up before she stepped inside. She stood under the rain shower head and tilted her head back, letting the water cascade over her face. Minutes went by before she began cleaning. First her hair, and then everywhere else. Paint washed off her skin, dripping down her wet arms and legs to the shower floor and down the drain.
When the water turned warm, she got out and wrapped herself in a towel, and one around her hair. She left the bathroom and went into the kitchen. Her refrigerator was stocked with fruit and protein. Items to keep her find fresh. Eloise pulled out the container of strawberries, yogurt, and took it to the counter where she made herself a small parfait. This was the most human she felt in weeks.
Eloise sat on the couch, got a whiff of Kiel’s cologne, and lost it.
She missed Kiel. There wasn’t any other way to spin things.
Eloise ran back upstairs and grabbed her phone. She had his name pulled up before she was sitting back down. She took a bite of her parfait, feeling confident, and sent him a text.
(text format) The showcase is tomorrow. I know I’ll have one piece in it. If you’re still in town, I’d love for you to come. Bring your family.
She sent the message before she could change her mind. It had been a few days since she saw him and for all she knew, he’d left. When they last spoke, he hadn’t decided if he was going to grad school or not.
Eloise watched her phone for a response, for the chat bubbles to appear.
She waited an hour.
Nothing.
It was okay, she told herself. They had put the brakes on their relationship, and she respected his decision to ignore her text.
She was okay.
