My stomach tightens with dread at his use of past tense. “What happened?”
“In middle school we grew apart. Hung with different crowds. I wasn’t an angel or anything, but he got mixed up with a bad group. Drugs. Petty crime. Then, not so petty.” He drops his voice and glances around before leaning forward, as if he’d rather someone not overhear. “He dropped out and got involved with a gang. Was in and out of juvie. Last I heard he’s in county serving time for drug trafficking.”
“That’s rough.”
“It’s how it goes sometimes, you know? I think that’s why Victor always supported my art. He knew it kept me out of trouble. Kept me focused on a better path.”
“I’m glad you had that, and people like Victor in your life.” I know exactly what he means, because that was acting for me. My school’s drama department, however humble, saved my life. It gave me something to do. Somewhere to be. Community and a sense of belonging. Not an easy task for an angry, lost girl.
Twenty-Five
Isaac
“Come on.” I pull out my wallet and leave a few bills on the table. “I want to show you something.” I promised I would, but until this moment I’d been unsure. There’s a special kind of terror that comes with sharing my work with someone new. Friends and family feel pressure to offer praise. I never could believe their approval, the possibility they were only being polite too strong. In school my professors were critical. Compliments were so few and far between, and cherished more than gold.
Taking Cora’s hand again, I lead her outside. We wind around the building, through the alleyway, and over to the attached shed. I pull out my key to the padlock, lifting my chin to gauge her interest.
Her expression is open, warm, and filled with curiosity. She’s an adventurer. Her spirit is free, her heart humble. She’s one of those people who could very well give up their entire world to live in a van and travel the world. But her art is her acting, and that ties her to schedules and the busy part of this world. Like my responsibilities and family tie me to my world.
I pause before pulling the door open. “You don’t have to say you love them.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to say anything at all.”
“Would you prefer I don’t?”
“That would be safer.” I hesitate another beat. Fuck it. I can’t live in fear of other people’s judgment. It shouldn’t matter what Cora thinks; it’s not as if this is who I am anymore. I shuffle inside the shed and tug on the hanging string.
The space lights up under a yellow glow. Shelves of pottery—bowls, vases, and mugs—sit under a year’s worth of dust. Some pieces are still not fired or glazed. The canvases in the back corner should probably be tossed. I haven’t been here in almost a year and a pang of loss hits my chest, spreading like a virus through my veins. I swallow back the impulse to run. I don’t know why I keep any of this. This part of my life once seemed full of promise. Now it resembles an abandoned graveyard. A future I gave up piled under half-finished projects and pieces with no proper home.
Cora wanders through the mess. Her fingers brush away dust and grime to uncover what once was. Her gaze is steady, full of focus, but she doesn’t give her opinion.
I want to know what she thinks. How she views this clutter through her eyes. I want her to like what she sees. I want her to see me. To like me.
She works through the disorder, pausing to hum under her breath at certain pieces. I’m certain she feels my stare, but her gaze gives away nothing of her thoughts. It takes all I have not to ask. She turns her back to me as she flips through a box of stretched canvases, studying them like I used to sort through CD cases at the corner thrift shop. She’s so out of place here—perfect and refined, classy and dressed in that damn white dress. Somehow she doesn’t appear uncomfortable sifting through my dusty work. My affection for her grows even more.
Her head tilts as she stops on a painting, the curve of her neck and cheekbones catching the light.
I wait until I can’t take it any longer. “So.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans and walk around the center crates of pottery. At her side, I notice which canvas she’s found. It’s abstract, but the profile of a woman’s face is clear, as well as the torment of color bursting from where her heart should be. I painted it the week I discovered I was a father. With a thick swallow, I push the memory aside. “What do you think?”
She lifts her gaze. “It’s beautiful. And a little sad.”
“You really like it?”
“I love it.”
Why that validation means so much coming from her lips, I don’t understand. But everything about Cora feels authentic. She’s not trying to inflate my bruised ego. She’s honest.
“It’s yours.” I shrug. “I mean, if you want.”
“Yes! How much?”
“It’s a gift.” I chuckle, helping her to pull it from the pile. “Don’t insult me.”
“Thank you.” She glances around the room before meeting my stare again. “There’s a lot of pot in here.”
I chuckle at her joke. “Pottery was my specialty. I got to explore other mediums in school. All kinds of painting, drawing, sketching, mixed media. I don’t know why I kept the oil paintings. They’re mediocre at best, but they were so much damn work and I’m proud of the work—or I used to be.”
She smiles but it doesn’t quite fill her face. Almost as if she’s a little sad. “Thank you for sharing all of this.”
“I haven’t been back here in over a year.”
“Why not?”
I could go with an easy answer. I could brush off her question. But something inside me implores a confession. To strip away the defensive layers I wear in order to survive. “It hurts to remember the dreams I had for my life. I’m not complaining. I love my son. He’s everything, and I’d give it all up again. But still.”
“I understand.” She nods, biting the inside of her cheek as she catches my gaze. “Even if I respectfully disagree. Shame to keep this from the world. To lock it away.”
“No one cares about my work.” I shake my head and exhale a nervous laugh. “It’s a brutal career path. I probably would have ended up back in school for something else anyway.”
She ignores me, walking to the shelves of ceramic ware. “Can I have this one too?”
It’s a vase, more decorative than functional. Meant to be an integral piece in a showcase but I dropped out before they made selections. It never would have made the cut. I made the neck too thin for the base but I was running out of time so I fired it anyway. It didn’t come out the way I wanted. “It’s broken.” I turn it in her hands to point out the mistake. “The glaze cracked along this side.”
“Imperfect but beautiful. I love it.”
Her words stir emotions, rattling them from where they’re usually locked down. “You would make a horrible art critic.”
“Yeah, I would.” She grins, hugging the ceramic vase to her chest. “But you don’t mind?”