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Was she right?
Nope.
No way.
Adam rejected me rather spectacularly all those years ago and had gone on to marry the one girl I had hated the most. He had frozen me out. Turned his back.
What’s done is done.
Yet, my mind wouldn’t shut off, no matter how hard I tried. Even a bottle of wine later, I was still going over every word Adam and I said to each other that evening. Was he trying to rile me up? Most definitely. Had he looked a little sad when he thought I wasn’t looking? I must be seeing things.
I attempted reading, but the handsome Highlander with his throbbing member wasn’t keeping my attention. I went through my email. Someone had purchased a print from my Etsy shop. That was moderately exciting until I saw which one it was.
I went through the pile of canvases I had brought with me from New York until I found it. I had only had this one on my site for a week or so. I had been going through my older works and posting them online to earn some extra cash. The broke couldn’t be picky. But now I wished I hadn’t put it up for sale. I had painted it about eight years ago when I was still in art school. It represented the peak of my creativity.
It was a watercolor of sunset colors, and in the middle was a more abstract image of two people walking together. There was no indication they were lovers, yet the slight incline of the slighter figure’s head toward the other made it clear they were. There was something in the way I had depicted the two individuals that felt familiar. The way the man’s broad shoulders sloped slightly. The way the woman balanced up on her toes to meet him. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it had always felt intimate. Like a snapshot into an alternate reality. It was a painting about subtlety, and it was one of my favorites, and now I was a little sad to part with it. But I needed the money. So I put it aside to be packed tomorrow.
I called Damien to check and to see how the fish were getting on. Mostly I needed to hear a friendly voice that connected me to a world outside of Southport, Pennsylvania.
“How’s it going in Hicksville?” Damien asked. He had never lived outside of the five boroughs. He was a lifelong New Yorker and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to live anywhere else.
“It’s fine,” I answered.
“Have you been able to paint? I thought you might get some inspiration from all that grade A nostalgia,” he quipped.
Damien was very familiar with my years-long creativity drought. I had been struggling to paint since my last gallery show had performed so abysmally. It was hard to find creative motivation when you were struggling at a dead-end day job just to survive. I had thought art was my ticket to greater things. It had taken me a long time to reconcile my dreams with my reality, and my productivity had taken a hit as a result.
“Not yet,” I admitted. “So how are things with you?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.
“I have the art fair next weekend, so I’m hoping that will go well,” Damien replied modestly. Damien’s career was definitely on the upswing. His charcoal sketches were in high demand in the city, and he had recently garnered his first gallery showing, which was scheduled for next month. But I knew he didn’t like to talk about it too much given my current lack of prospects.
“Of course it’ll go well! Your stuff is amazing,” I enthused, meaning every word.
“We’ll see. It would be nice to have you here to help me, though. You know how my nerves get,” Damien complained.
“How about I give you a virtual hug until I can give you a real one.” I laughed.
“Not the same,” Damien sulked, and I could picture his pout.
“What are you working on now?” I asked, feeling a twinge of jealousy I couldn’t quell. Damien was always painting or drawing. He never suffered from self-doubt or second-guessing. He created for himself first. The art was what mattered, not the money. I wished I possessed that sort of mentality. But paying bills was kind of important.
“I started a series of oils. I’ll take some pictures and send them to you,” he promised. “Now get off the phone and set up your easel because I doubt you’ve done that yet.”
“You don’t know that,” I argued, though he was right. My art supplies still sat in the cardboard box in the corner of the room. “I’ve only been here a couple of days, so maybe I haven’t had time.”
“Whatever. You’re avoiding, and you know it.”Damien was right, of course, though I’d never admit it.“Now set up that easel and get out your brushes and your acrylics and paint something, damn it. Even if it’s just a bunch of color on the canvas, get yourself back into it. The only way to begin is to start,” Damien said sagely, sounding like a damn fortune cookie.
