The Embrace of Evergreen (Unexpected Love #2)

Chapter 3 - EthanBlue

Chapter 3

Ethan

“Where are you moving again?”

I offer Patrice a kind, professional smile. “Seattle.”

“Oh, that should be a nice change for you. I don’t think it gets quite as hot during the summer as it does here.”

Patrice is the in-house accountant I’ve worked with two days a week for nearly ten months now. I’m not insulted that she doesn’t remember where I’m moving, even though I’ve told her a handful of times. In truth, people I work with rarely tend to remember personal details from the rare occasions I choose to share. It’s not like we’re actually friends .

“Yes, I believe that’s true. Not quite as cold in the winter either.”

Her smile widens just a bit for a moment. “Oh, that will be nice too.”

“Yes, I’m really looking forward to it.” I nod enthusiastically before taking another overly sweet bite of the grocery store cake that arrived with the words “Wish you well Ethan” emblazoned across its blindingly white surface in a disturbingly vivid blue icing. Why is that a thing that we do? Surely we could just say the words “wish you well” or “happy birthday” and then eat a normal cake.

A dozen people are milling around the small breakroom, idly making small talk, but I don't really know anyone here. It’s not just that I don’t really know anyone at the office; I don’t really know anyone in the state. How pathetic is that? Two years. Two years of living here, working here, even going on dates whenever I’ve managed to convince myself to try, and in the end, the quick round of goodbyes to a handful of people and a long, long hour of trying to paste on a smile while Ms. Gallager voices her concerns that her next neighbor may not be a nice quiet boy like me is all I have to show for it. Not quite all, I suppose. I'm particularly proud of the job I did for the small bookstore I’ve been working with. They've stabilized financially, reorganized some of their purchasing and sales processes, and they're set up to move forward in a way that will allow them to continue smooth and steady growth over the next few years. It's enough for me, I guess. A solid sense of professional accomplishment long ago took the place of friendships or personal connections in my life. But once in a while, it feels surreal to look around and realize that I don't actually matter to anyone. Not in any way that means anything anyway. As soon as I'm gone, everyone I know, everyone I've interacted with during my time here will move forward without me. It's not even very likely they'll ever stop to spare me any thought other than the stray “Oh yes, that accountant I hired last year was very good. I think I have his card if you want his number.” They won’t remember my name or how I took my coffee. They won’t wonder what I’m up to or use my forwarding address to send Christmas cards. The beige rooms I’ve called home will be filled with other people’s art and lives and memories, and I’ll simply fade into the past, just like I always do.

I started renting furnished apartments after my third move to a new city. Packing up an entire life, even a life as empty as mine, is time-consuming and exhausting, and by that point, I’d started to believe that it wasn’t likely I’d ever find anything close enough to love or family or home to justify staying in one place for long. Turns out, that’s been the truth.

I’m happier with this new Seattle apartment than I’ve been with the last three generic beige monstrosities. There is nothing particularly unique or interesting about it, but the walls are a soft pale grey with furniture in warm charcoals and creams and deep hunter-greens. It’s not my furniture, of course, but for some reason, it feels more comfortable, more like me, than any other place I’ve almost jokingly called “home” during the past decade.

I’ve perfected my moving process at this point. My flight landed at eleven a.m. yesterday morning, and by the time I’d picked up my keys at two p.m., the moving company was only twenty minutes behind. By six p.m., my bed and the two dozen boxes of personal items - everything I own - had been unpacked and put away. By eight thirty, I’d put sheets on my bed, showered, and curled up on my new couch with a book and a half dozen cartons of Chinese takeout from one of the seven Chinese restaurants within delivery distance. This is the first time I’ve lived in the heart of such a large city, but the view of shining glass buildings covered with bright-green vines and balcony gardens overflowing with flowers, along with the small glimpses of the Puget Sound from my twentieth-story windows, is astonishing, and with seven Chinese places within walking distance, things are already looking pretty good.

This morning, I allowed myself to sleep in and take a long leisurely shower before pulling on black joggers and a simple grey T-shirt. It is Saturday, after all, and I moved only yesterday. All I’ve ever heard about Seattle, aside from the vague, fuzzy memories from my one-week-long childhood vacation, is how rainy and depressing it is. But today, in early June, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun beats almost harshly against my skin in the 80-degree weather as I stroll along the busy sidewalk, reveling in the way the crisp scent of salt hangs in the humid air to mix with flashes of coffee and Indian food and the sweetness of pastries as they drift out the open storefront doors. The street seems to be lined with more independent shops than large corporations, and every person in sight is colorful and vibrant and completely different from everyone else. It’s a drastic change from the homogeneous groups of business-casual polos and tan slacks I’m used to. There are a few stray folks in khakis and golf shirts, of course, but there are also people in tailored three-piece suits and dresses so formal they might as well be heading to the opera at eleven a.m. There are faces covered with piercings, brightly colored hair, flowing skirts, and ripped jeans with combat boots. There are leather pants, designer tops, and six-inch heels with bright metal studs striding next to worn canvas sandals. Everyone seems comfortable expressing themselves in whatever way they find most appealing, and no one else pays them any mind. To say it’s a refreshing change from the tedious and uninspired sameness I’ve found in some of my previous locations is an understatement.

When I step into a small coffee shop three blocks from my apartment, the “everyone is free to be themselves” vibe only intensifies. There are a handful of standard-issue café tables, of course, but they’re covered in band logo stickers. The rest of the furniture is an odd combination of modern glass tabletops and vintage chairs. Bookshelves in one of the front corners are filled to the brim with old paperbacks, and a handwritten sign announces the shelves are the café’s “lending library.” A navy-blue crushed velvet sofa and two mismatched plaid chairs are clustered around a small table that holds a chessboard where two middle-aged women in loud floral-print blouses laugh with one another as they play against a young man who is dressed in all black with heavy chains hanging from both his clothes and his skin. The rest of the patrons are more of the same, in the sense that no one is the same, and the way they seem to be going about their lives with pure, unconstrained freedom in a way I’ve never previously witnessed just feels right. I pause my morning plans for a few pleasant moments in this vibrant place and settle into a bright, sun-kissed corner to enjoy the orange scone that the gorgeous barista recommended before taking the second half of my long black with me as I make my way back to the busy sidewalk. I like walking, and the gallery is only four blocks past the coffee shop. Even though it’s only my first day in the city, I can feel the start of a comfortable new routine settling into my bones.

I’ve found that I enjoy getting into town a few days early and checking out the business that’s hired me before meeting with the owners and staff. Today is the perfect day to bask in the warm sun and the pulsating energy of a new city, sip good coffee, and peruse an art gallery. Maybe I’ll even find a painting to hang on my blank grey walls if it’s the kind of place that sells semi-reasonably priced things.

I’ve always enjoyed art. I love the way artists offer pieces of their soul without saying a word and the fact that something as simple as the play of light and color can evoke an emotional response. I’ve been to plenty of studios and galleries in my life, always curious to see those small fragments of souls on display. I’ve visited small closed-in spaces that cultivate intimacy with photos displayed one to a wall in otherwise empty rooms so the viewer can linger and examine the work from all directions. Large open warehouses that pull focus to a few sculptures on pedestals speckled around rooms with bare cement floors. Odd combinations of the two that don’t quite seem to work the way the exhibitors intend, the buildings too small or too large, the lighting too dim or too bright, all of it pulling focus from the art on display. Studying a gallery can be almost as interesting as studying the artworks themselves.

Whatever expectations I had for Emerald City Arts based on my internet sleuthing, they were far too low. The place is perfect. From the outside, it doesn’t appear to be anything extraordinary. It blends in with its neighbors, just one random building in an entire street filled with uniform red brick structures covered with ivy that are at least fifty years old, and I expect it to feel dusty and cramped when I walk in. It’s anything but. It’s filled with sunlight that streams in through large windows and skylights and bounces off strategically placed mirrors. Vibrant paintings of flowers and fields and abstract swaths of color bring life to the rough brick walls they hang on. The floors are pale, natural bamboo, and there are a handful of vines growing on high shelves, their limbs dangling down almost to the floor in the rooms’ corners, bringing the feel of the gallery’s exterior to the inside space. It’s open and airy and welcoming.

The art is displayed in clusters: paintings and sculptures, metal and glass. There is no rhyme or reason to the way it’s laid out. Bright splashes of color play off minimalist whites. Landscapes that open windows to the world somehow seem at home next to dark, pained expressions carved into stone. I’d expected paintings to be in one room, glass in another. Items arranged by color or concept or design. Nothing of the sort is present. It feels like there is no organization whatsoever. It shouldn’t work. But it does. It works perfectly. It feels organic and unfettered and wondrous. It feels alive.

A few moments after I walk in, a woman in perhaps her early thirties with a short red mohawk catches my eye and smiles kindly with a nod. She’s dressed in a tailored suit, her fingers and neck dripping with copper rings and chains as she wanders the space with her hands clasped behind her back, speaking quietly from time to time with the handful of visitors. She’s clearly an employee, and somehow, she, too, seems to fit perfectly with her self-assured elegance and edgy style.

The gallery spans all three floors of the building, and everything is arranged in the same wonderfully haphazard style. The same sunlight and emerald leaves and rustic brick mixing with art of every imaginable style and medium. It’s so cohesive and immersive that it’s hard to even remember which floor I’m on or how much time I’ve spent entranced by the minds and hearts and souls and creations of the artists whose works are on display. The woman with the mohawk doesn’t follow me. She doesn’t ask questions or try to direct my attention or sell me anything in particular. She simply allows me to exist in the space, knowing that if there is something in the gallery for me, I’ll find it.

The next time I see her, hours have passed, and she startles me from my revelry by stepping close, the sound of her thick leather-soled combat boots loud enough to draw my attention. I’ve been staring at a collection of glass sculptures for so long that I’ve almost forgotten where I am and why I’m here. There are several pieces clustered together, all filled with swirling, vivid hues and deep, endless blacks. Sharp angles and gentle curves play together in a way that feels like good and evil, empty and full, light and dark, love and loss. I don’t know if what they make me feel is beautiful or agonizing, but I can’t seem to look away.

She offers me a knowing smile as I tear my gaze from the shimmering sculptures to meet hers.

“What do you feel?”

It’s not the question I expect. Shouldn’t she ask which one I want to buy ?

“I’m…I’m not sure.” I shake my head softly.

“Not enough or too much?”

My lips twitch up into a surprised attempt at a smile. “Too much, I think.”

She doesn’t say another word as she turns her gaze away from mine and stares at the fragile glass with me for a long while. I don’t think it’s a sales tactic; I think she’s lost in her own world just as I am.

“How much?” I nod, indicating a piece standing on its own black pedestal at the far left of the grouping. A small brass nameplate sits at its base with only the name Xavier Prescott written in elegant script. Unlike some of the other paintings and sculptures, these don’t have titles.

She twitches briefly as she pulls her attention away from wherever she’d gone in her own mind and settles back into her body.

“$650.”

There is no long-winded explanation as to why the piece is worth that amount. No attempt to convince me that the artist is a well-known expert or the next up-and-coming master of their trade. No telling me that the fragile work is a steal at that price. There is no haggling nor any indication that such a thing would be welcome or acceptable .

I simply nod, and she understands.

“I’ll be sad to see it go.” She smiles softly and runs her fingertips along its sharp edges before lifting it carefully.

I follow her downstairs wordlessly, still lost in the feel of the gallery and the trance that settled over me as I stared and the swirling glass pulled me into my own emotional abyss. Somehow, the piece already feels like mine, and her fingers delicately caressing the smooth surface as she settles it on a counter tucked into the corner of the main floor’s entry room feels wrong. It’s glass. It’s a thing , not a person or pet. I don’t understand why I feel possessive of it at all, let alone before I’ve even taken it home. I’m not a material person. When I left home just after I turned eighteen, I took a single duffle bag of clothes with me, and I’ve never once felt like I made a mistake in doing so. I’m probably just worn out from the move.

She presses foam into the bottom of a box, and I watch in wonder as she heats it with what looks like a small hair dryer before carefully settling the sculpture on top and pressing gently. It sinks into the foam, the material shifting to safely hug the elegant curves and angles. She repeats the process with another piece of foam and closes the box’s lid. When the glass is obscured completely by the packaging, something in my chest shifts slightly. I hadn’t even realized how tightly the churning cloud of emotions in my chest had me clenched up, and for a moment, I wonder if taking the piece home with me is really a good idea if looking at it makes me feel so much that I don’t quite understand. Yet the thought of leaving it behind seems unfathomable.

The woman’s fingers work quickly as I’m sorting through my internal crisis, winding thin, silken rope around the box in a way that cradles it completely and leaves a small set of handles at the top. When I take the box gently from the counter after paying and step back onto the sidewalk, I’m momentarily disoriented. The harsh heat and bright sun are a startling contrast to the studio’s cool, comforting interior. The cacophony of cars and bikes and feet and birds and conversations is overwhelming after the hours I’ve spent lost in my own mind. I clutch the rope handles tightly, their silken touch and the weight of the box somehow grounding me even as a storm of emotion rises in my throat as I remember what it felt like to stare at the fragile glass inside the inconspicuous box. It’s more than I’ve allowed myself to feel in a very long time.