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CHAPTER EIGHT
Thomas
The talkErin and Ihad loosened us up around each other, and as aresult, our working relationship improved tenfold. We were able to handle our meetings with mutual respect where she listened when Istated my opinions and vice versa.
In these three weeks, staying around her didn’tjust become tolerable, it became enjoyable. Icould tell she had vast knowledge in the world of art and she contributed to my presentations, pitching in and adding that extra something to prevent them from being completely Thomas, as she liked to call them.
My budding appreciation toward her was what drew me to the school’sstudio to see what her work looked like.
That, and our meeting that took place in less than five minutes. Erin had the habit of arriving just in time, and that day Idecided to find out why.
She hadn’tnoticed me when Ipushed the door open. Iwalked in silence, observing her work with paint stains splashed on her jeans and oversized shirt.
My attention was drawn to her expression, to her eyes which were narrowed, to her pursed lips; she was consumed by the image on the canvas. Once in awhile she paused and scratched the top of her head with the brush. Seeing her like that woke something in me that had been dormant for years. Asense of warmth, asense of longing to return to be an artist like her.
Acraving to be like that again. In asense, she made mefeel.
When one of the students hid her from me as he crossed the room, Isnapped out of my trance. This lapse in judgment, this enchantment, had to do with her ability to create so easily like Iused to, or to us exchanging personal stories. It couldn’tand shouldn’tbe anything other than that.
“Erin.” Isaid her name, needing an out from what strange thoughts culminated in my head.
She spun around on her stool and rubbed her eyes as if woken up from adeep sleep. When her eyes focused on me, she put on aguarded look.
“Hi, I’msorry I’mlate.” She rushed to defend herself before Ihad achance to tell her Iwas here for her work, not to scold her. My stomach turned thinking my past behavior triggered this anxiousness in her.
Iwanted to correct myself, when she hopped off and interrupted me, “Idreamed about mixing this lime green color into the painting and Ihad to come here and add it as soon as Ithought it and, well”—she looked at me when Ihadn’tsaid aword while faced with the familiar ramblings that had grown on me—“time flew by. But I’mready now.”
“I’mnot here about the meeting.” Iburied my smile so it wouldn’tbe interpreted as if Iwas laughing at her.
“You’re not?”
“No.”
She moved her brush between her fingers absentmindedly. “Then?”
Iapproached her easel and tilted my head to observe it. “This array or disarray of colors… Ihave questions.”
Erin’ssmall frame seemed to shrink even smaller and Iblamed myself again. Ifucked up the three-week progress we had made.
My failure proved itself when she answered, “I—I’mnot lazy. Ilove colors.”
The smile I’dbeen hiding revealed itself, if only to convey an apology. “I’mnot here to criticize you. Let’sstart over.” Iambled to the canvas without getting too close to Erin. “No, you’re definitely not lazy. Crazy yes, lazy no.”
She inspected me from under her lashes, wary but not scared. “Okay. You said you had questions?”
“Yes. What is it exactly that you’re painting?” Iglanced from her to the canvas, then refined my question to be less judgmental. “What I’masking is, explain to me the logic behind the colors. I’minterested.”
“This is Deidra.” She gestured to the painting, asmall smile gracing her lips. “In my mind, she’seighteen, not agirl anymore and unsure what it means to be awoman. The colors are her partners in this journey.”
“Ican wrap my mind around that theme and howhappyit is.” Without realizing it, Imoved even closer until Istood next to her, our arms brushing against each other. Ifelt goosebumps forming on her skin and neither of us breathed.
What did Iwant to say? Right, questions.
“I’ve got another question. Care to entertain me?”
“Go ahead.” Her eyes stayed glued to the canvas. Igazed down at her, noticing the small smile that remained on her face.
“Wouldn’tshe need some sort of path instead of chaos to march forward?” Iasked it in the kindest, softest voice aman like me had in his arsenal, genuinely interested in seeing how her mind operated.
