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Thomas tugged at his beard, pensive as he mulled over what Isaid. “Ican relate to the healing part of it, and it makes sense with who you are as aperson. Any student will be lucky to have you.”
He’dbeen sincere, not flattering or exaggerating to make me feel good, and it hit me right in the heart. Iclutched the blanket as an intense shiver rushed through me.
“Here.” Thomas pried my fingers away and pulled the blanket up to my shoulders. He didn’treturn to where he sat before.
He was within afew inches from me, so Icould smell his delicious cologne. Isaw the small rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were dark and ensnared me in them. Ihad to focus on something else, something like talking. We did the talking thing well.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” His mouth curved up.
Concentrate on talking, not on his lips. “Why don’tyou paint?”
From fire-hot to cold and distant, Thomas changed in amatter of seconds. Igrimaced at the sudden shift, achange that reminded me of Greg’smood swings where he ended up yelling at me.
“Ijust don’t.”
“Thomas?” Isunk into the pillows, shrinking myself from him. “You asked me the same, and remember? We’re friends, no judgment.”
“Iget that you don’tjudge me. Igave you my honest answer: Idon’thave it.” His gaze shifted to the cold fireplace. Suddenly the entire room turned cold.
“What does that mean? Genius can’tjust disappear.”
Despite the soft tone Iapplied to my question, Thomas saw it as an attack on him and struck the couch with his splayed palm. Ijumped at how close it was to my ear, then looked up, facing avery exasperated, tormented, and close-to-me Thomas.
“It’snot there! Is that what you want me to say?” His harsh whisper cut through me. “My so-called talent, what my mother bragged about, it’sdead. The spark is gone. I’marobot who paints people. Ido it well, but in here”—he tapped his heart—“it’sempty. There, Isaid it, I’masellout.” He clenched his fist, his jaw twitching.
“You’re reading this wrong, Thomas.” After the initial shock from his behavior, Idecided to shine alight on his dark train of thoughts.
Friends supported each other, friends told the truth. This reminder strengthened me as Iadded, “You’re not any less of an artist for having adry spell. Everyone goes through that. That’slife.”
“You don’tunderstand, Erin. I’mafraud.” He slumped back, the fight leaving his body. “Ipreach to these kids about work ethic, Ieven preached to you for fuck’ssake. Itell them what an amazing career choice they’re making and motivate them to never give up. The honest truth is I’mnone of these things. Most days Idon’teven feel worthy of being their professor.”
“You’re the only person who thinks that.” Ipoured out the compassion he showed me, this wonderful and complicated man. “Your students, parents, me—we adore you, but nothing will come out of it if you don’tbelieve in yourself.”
He looked at me as if Iweren’tthere, ignoring my kindness and practically obliterating me with aharsh stare and his ice-cold words. “That’senough. Ican’thear it anymore.”
We were stuck in this awful limbo where there were no winners, where Ifelt like avictim again and Ihated myself for ever letting my emotions mess with me. Icared for him, Icouldn’tbe mad at him, but Icouldn’tallow him to drag me into the mud with him. Not again.
Itossed the blanket aside and stood up, tears of frustration welling up in my eyes, ready to go home and forget this night, even its good parts.
Thomas grabbed my wrist as Iturned to leave. “Erin, please sit. I’msorry.”
My palms felt clammy and my stomach ached. My whole body hurt from how he had raised his voice at me. Iheld my chin high and didn’tmake amove.
“Please.” His voice grew gentler, pleading, even though his face still bore aharsh expression.
Releasing aheavy sigh I’dbeen holding, Idecided to give him one last chance to have amature conversation, even to disagree with me, without lashing out. Imoved to sit on the couch far from him and gasped when he pulled me back to where Isat, our thighs brushing.
“Look at me, Erin.” He released my wrist when Idid. “I’mworn out. Awaste. Ihate myself for being afucking failure.”
“Stop,” Ibreathed, shoving his chest lightly for that space Idesperately needed. “This was you being angry at yourself, the whole time?”
“Yes.”
My compassion for him worked overtime and Iwanted to teach him how to deal with his anger. Because as much as Ifelt for him, he needed to treat me better. Caring for someone didn’tmean they got to wipe the floors with you.
Empowered from the last few weeks at Thomas’sside, Isaid, “Even if it upsets you, shutting down or raising your voice at me… Iwon’tallow it. I’mahuman being, I’myour equal, not a…a…apunching bag.” My heart raced for standing up for myself.
