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Ishook my head again when he offered me aslice. “It’sErin’sbusiness and it’sbetween me and her. It’sonly atext, please.”
“Okay.” He dropped the slice back to the cardboard box, grabbed apaper towel, and wiped his hands. “Texting Laura…” he said slowly as he typed out his message. “Ihope you feel guilty later, when you find my body lying in aditch.”
Ididn’teven thank him. My leg thumped on the floor and my eyes zeroed in on his phone while we waited for her reply.
“What did she say?” Isnapped when it finally buzzed.
He handed me the phone before Icould snatch it from him. “Here, you can see for yourself.”
Laura sent him apicture of Erin lying on her side, unaware she was being photographed. My finger hovered over the screen, stroking it in the air like Idid with her painting, aching to touch her beautiful face. She was warm, covered with awool blanket and rested her cheek on athrow pillow, alackluster smile on her tired profile.
Not her natural smile, not even close to the one that lit up her entire face and revealed tiny wrinkles around her eyes, but asmile regardless.
It’sagood sign, Ithought.She’sokay.
Laura:Erin is doing alittle better today.
Each morning for the past three, long, agonizing weeks started with asimilar message. The wording varied; the content stayed identical.
As much as she intended to ease my mind, the nagging ache in my chest told me something was off with Erin.
Iunderstood her need for asafe space. Aweek of exchanging work emails and otherwise radio silence passed. Two weeks of being excruciatingly professional went by. Irationalized it to her being focused on her internship without getting into aserious conversation.
After three weeks she should have called. Not for my sake, not because Ineeded her to. Because Ibelieved in her, at her growing confidence to face me without me belittling her opinions, knowing full well that I’drespect any decision she would make and support her.
Unless what Idid destroyed that confidence, her growth. Maybe witnessing me beat the shit out of that asshole broke something in her, and Ihated myself to the very core if that was the case.
For three weeks Ireceived no more photos from Laura, so Isought her out on campus, every trip Imade there. Italked myself into thinking that if I’dsee her for myself, that she was well-fed, her face wearing the shining smile Iloved, I’dsleep better at night.
Iwould’ve seen her and left, that was what Isaid to myself, but no matter how many rounds Imade around the studio, she wasn’tthere.
Are you sure she’sokay? Is there anything Ican do?Iquestioned Laura.
She’ll be fine, don’tworry.
At home, Ipainted the story of my life on tens of small canvases, each portraying amoment, afeeling, aheartbreaking event. Tapping into the most painful memories one after the other healed me, at least that part of my life.
In these moments, Erin’spresence filled every corner of the room with the support she offered to lend me amillion times before. The paintings were of my past and also represented her, my present with the colors Iused. Iblended an endless range of colors, black and white, red and yellow, green and blue. Creating pinks, purples, browns, cyan.
As my story unfolded at the end of these three weeks and Iorganized it in achronological order in my bedroom, Iexperienced acatharsis Ihadn’texpected. Ithought I’dcry, break down, lose my mind even. Idid not. Ifelt at peace, like it lost some of its power over me.
Erin’shand held mine the entire time Iprocessed my emotions, even without her being there. She carried me through it and Icouldn’tsit idle for another minute without sharing this with her. To explain. To beg for another chance.
I’mgoing to talk to her,Iwrote Laura.
About fucking time.
