Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
EVE
P op music blares through my headphones as I dab my paintbrush against the canvas. My breathing is even, my heart rate steady.
The last class in this building ended a couple of hours ago. I’m alone, inhaling the distinctive scents of an art studio—wood and ash and Turpenoid and linseed oil and clay and chalk.
Long before anyone suggested I had any talent, art was my happy place. Studying it. Interpreting it. Creating it.
It’s my outlet for everything I bury inside, either by necessity or by choice. When there’s a pencil or paintbrush in my hand, it feels safe to let it out.
Art is subjective. Up to interpretation. It’s a secret code to my most private thoughts.
Like the painting I’m working on now. It was an assignment for my Advanced Painting class. At first glance, it’s a happy portrait of a little girl and her father. No stranger would immediately know that it was inspired by last year’s Christmas card from my father. The card is sitting in one of the drawers of my desk—the spot where I shoved it after I opened it.
I flipped the perspective, so all you can see of my dad’s face is his profile. Mostly a wide, proud smile crinkling his cheek. And I replaced his four-year-old son with a younger version of myself, even including the tulip-patterned dress I wore to preschool until the pink cotton was threadbare.
Rather than the large backyard of the cul-de-sac my dad resides in now, I changed the background to the apartment I lived in until I was twelve and my mom met her current boyfriend, John. A building my dad never visited.
The little girl is beaming. The exact expression I would have worn had he ever shown up.
I dunk my brush to switch colors.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
I don’t realize how furiously I’m swirling my paintbrush until a few droplets of dirty water splash onto my denim-clad thigh. I drop the paintbrush’s wooden handle, snatch the stained rag off the table, and head for the shiny industrial sink in the corner.
A quick glance out the window reveals it’s still raining. A dreary day that matches my current melancholy perfectly.
I soak a rag, and then dab at the droplets on my jeans. The sleeve of my striped sweater snags on the buckle of the belt I found at my favorite vintage shop in Phoenix, yanking some threads loose. I swear under my breath as I survey the damage. It’s not the first time I’ve ruined clothes in this room—one of the main reasons most of my clothing is secondhand, aside from my financial situation—but it’s especially annoying today. Small grievances seem much bigger when you’re already upset.
Rhythmic tapping draws my attention to the doorway. Thea Lewis—head of Holt’s art department and my favorite professor-slash-advisor—appears in the doorway wearing her signature stilettos and carrying an armful of blank canvases.
“Thought you might be in here,” Thea says, sending a cheery smile my way as she taps her way across the linoleum.
“You thought right,” I reply, wringing out the wet rag and heading back toward my station.
I, like all senior art majors, have a private studio space to store canvases and work on projects uninterrupted. But barely anyone showed up for this afternoon’s class, and those that did disappeared as soon as it ended. Since my private studio space is approximately the size of a closet and I had this room to myself anyway, I just stayed in here.
“Oh, Eve. I love this one.” Thea has stopped in front of the painting I’m working on.
“Thanks.”
I’ve been working nonstop for three hours. I squint at the canvas from a distance, agreeing it’s some of my best work. I usually prefer to work with oils, but watercolor was the right choice for this piece.
Too bad it’s not possible to actually repaint the past.
Too bad I kinda want to light it on fire.
“Does it have a name yet?” Thea asks.
“Um…Homesick.”
Daddy Issues would be more fitting.
Thea nods. “It’s stunning. The colors are perfect. Sweet and nostalgic.”
She stares at my painting for a few more seconds before walking over to a nearby table to stack the canvases she’s carrying.
Once she’s deposited them, she turns back toward the doorway. “I’m headed home. Have a wonderful break.”
“You too,” I tell her.
Thea studies me, traces of concern appearing on her pretty face. She’s one of my younger professors and has always treated me more like a little sister than a student. “Eve, dear, please tell me you have some fun planned for next week.”
“I do,” I assure her, opting not to mention it wasn’t entirely voluntary. “I’m going to Calaveras.”
I’m expecting a blank look—my expression when Harlow shared the name of the California town that’s our spring break destination—but Thea lights up instead. “How wonderful! Calaveras is beautiful. Make sure you bring some materials with you.”
“I always do,” I reply.
And I wouldn’t forget them for this trip. Not only do I have a nine-hour drive with Hunter to act busy during, I’m not totally sold on Harlow’s assurance that I’ll fit in with their group. Having the option to go off and paint or sketch seems smart.
“Great. Good night, Eve.”
“Night, Thea,” I call after her.
She’s the only professor or teacher I’ve called by their first name, and it felt strange until sophomore year. Now, it’s second nature.
Twenty minutes later, my growling stomach convinces me to call it quits. Lunch with my friend Mary feels like eons ago. We grabbed sandwiches in the student center before Mary left for the airport. She, like most of campus, has already departed for spring break. Harlow left this morning.
I clean up my station, store my canvas, and grab my backpack.
Automatic lights flicker on as I walk down the main hallway, hiding a wide yawn with the back of my hand. The doors ahead are blurry, thanks to my tired eyes and the water streaking the exterior of the glass. I can’t tell if it’s still raining out, and decide it doesn’t matter. I’m going straight home to shower and change into pajamas either way.
It is raining out, I discover when I step outside.
It’s raining steadily enough that my scalp is thoroughly soaked in seconds, water drenching the strands and clumping them in wet ropes.
I tug the sleeves of my sweater down over my knuckles and wrap my arms around my waist as I stride toward the parking lot. I wore rain boots today, at least, although that was a lazy decision, not a practical choice. I deliberately step in the center of a puddle, just to watch water splash red rubber.
“Eve!”
I startle, glancing in the direction of the voice.
Ben is standing next to one of the black metal benches that line the campus’s brick walkways. His hands are shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. Unlike me, he’s wearing a raincoat. The hood is up, covering most of his forehead and shadowing his expression.
For a few seconds, staring at him, I pretend.
I pretend tonight is identical to every other time Ben has waited for me outside the art building. I pretend my life looks exactly the same as it did last week. I pretend everything is simple and nothing has changed.
Then, I blink, and reality returns.
I haven’t seen or talked to Ben since the night we broke up. His text asking if I got home okay, followed by my affirmative answer, was our last communication. Since I gave up on texting him unless necessary over a year ago, it hasn’t even felt that strange not to see his name on the screen.
A long exhale leaves my lungs before my steps angle toward the right. Toward him. I release my hold on my ribs and swipe my face with the back of one hand. The green buds dotting the broad branches of the oak tree above aren’t acting as much of an umbrella.
“Hey,” I greet.
A sharp stab of pain in my left hand alerts me to the way my nails are digging into my palm.
I relax my grip before I can break skin.
“Hey,” he repeats.
I hug my middle again. The sun is sinking in the sky, chilling the dampness in the air. “What are you doing here, Ben?”
“I wanted to see you. Talk to you.”
I glance at the bench covered with tiny puddles. “How long have you been standing out here?”
Ben shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “About an hour. You usually leave by six.”
I don’t ask why he didn’t come inside the art building. He never did. I used to think it was out of some respect toward letting it be my space. Another clue I missed indicating that Ben was never going to follow me anywhere.
“Yeah, well, I was trying to finish some stuff before break.”
He nods. Pulls a hand out of his pocket and scratches his jaw. “Eve…I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry about Friday night. I was nervous about how to bring it up, and it came out all wrong, and I know you’re pissed at me. You should be pissed at me. I acted like an asshole who?—”
“It’s fine, Ben,” I interrupt, wanting to get through this conversation as quickly as possible.
I’m tired and cold and wet and drained. An emotional sieve.
“ Fine ? What’s fine?”
“Friday night. I wish you’d brought up your decision about New York somewhere else, but there was no right way to tell me.”
Ben stares at me for several seconds, confusion and uncertainty warring on his face. “So, we’re…good?”
“We’re good,” I confirm.
He exhales. “Okay. Thank God. I told David that I’d stop by the theater to preview some shorts for the documentary. But I can swing by your place later. Is nine okay?”
I blink at him, dislodging some raindrops from my eyelashes. They slip down my cheeks like tears. “What are you talking about? Why would you come over later?”
“To talk.” Ben’s response has an unspoken duh at the end, like I’m the one making no sense right now. “We have a lot to talk about. There’s really no good train option from Port Haven down to Manhattan, but I was considering getting a car anyway?—”
“Ben. We broke up , remember? We don’t have a lot to talk about. We have nothing to talk about. I meant we’re fine , as in, we’re done . I already told you that.”
“I was hoping you’d reconsider,” he says quietly.
“I haven’t. I won’t.”
He sighs heavily, then knocks his hood off his head. His light brown hair is saturated to a darker shade in seconds. “I didn’t mean it, Eve.”
“Oh? So you’re not moving to Maine?”
“No. I mean, yes, I am moving home. But that other shit I said? About not seeing forever and not wanting to go to film school? I thought that would just make the decision easier, convincing myself I was making the right choice. I just—I need some time. I need to go back and see what that’s like and then decide what my next move is. Port Haven isn’t that far from New York. I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’ll be able to visit on most weekends and?—”
“I get why you’re moving home, Ben. But…you had to pick, and you did. You can’t have it both ways.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Why does it have to be one or the other? We’re adults. I don’t see why we can’t figure out a plan that?—”
“Because I don’t want to! You knew I didn’t want to, you knew we had a plan, and you changed it without consulting me.”
“I said I was sorry, Eve.”
“That doesn’t change that you did it!”
“So, that’s it ? Three years together, and you’re just done ?”
I really resent how he’s attempting to make it sound like I’m the one who lacked faith in us. “You’re the one who changed.”
“People change, Eve! You’ve changed. I can’t even remember the last time we had a conversation that didn’t include New York. You were obsessed with it. It felt like you wanted a built-in roommate in New York, not me .”
Irritation flares hot in my chest. It seems like my soaked skin should be steaming. “Fuck you, Ben. I’m allowed to plan ahead and be excited about my future. And I was talking to you about it because it was our plan. Because I thought you were excited about it too.”
“I was. But…my dad’s getting older. My uncle’s handling a lot on his own, and I just?—”
Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” interrupts. Ben’s favorite song. He pulls his phone out and silences the call. “I’m late to David’s. Can we…can we grab lunch after your last class tomorrow? Please ?”
“I can’t. I’m leaving right after class for spring break.”
It’s the first time I’ve felt relieved to have plans to use as an excuse, rather than wish I had an excuse to back out of my plans.
Ben looks stunned. “You’re…you’re leaving—what? Where are you going?”
“California. With Harlow.”
I don’t mention who else will be there. On the few occasions Ben was around Harlow’s boyfriend, he didn’t say much. If I had to guess, I’d say he was intimidated by Conor. Even if you don’t follow sports, it’s impossible to attend Holt and not know who Conor Hart is. He’s Holt’s biggest celebrity, and Aidan and Hunter are talked about a lot as well.
Ben doesn’t seem to know how to respond. The possibility that I’d leave for spring break doesn’t appear to have occurred to him, and I feel a rush of gratitude toward Harlow for insisting I join her plans. Lying—or admitting that I have nothing going on—would feel extra pathetic right now.
I take advantage of his temporary muteness. “Have a good break, okay?”
I stride away before he says anything, eager to escape the drizzle.
Ben doesn’t call my name.
He doesn’t chase me. This time, there’s no pang as I try to recall if he ever did.
All I feel is relief. And the realization that it feels exactly like an ending.