Chapter 38 #2
“She’s something else.” He says it with the kind of smile that seems impressed and a little in awe.
I nod, confused, but my heart clenches.
Max sees things so incredibly clearly. It makes me wonder what else he’s seen.
If he’s seen me?
When had he started?
“We should talk.”
His words pull me out of my trance.
And I don’t want to face whatever Max wants to say to me, but I hear myself say, “Okay.”
We walk through the solarium, toward the back where two giant doors are propped open. People introduce themselves and congratulate us on our work as we pass, but when Charles Fieldman stops us, I see the shock on Max’s face.
Charles is a family friend, but he also owns one of the most important art galleries in New York. His tuxedo feels a little dated, and his beard is a little shaggy, which has always made me love him even more. He likes to say he’s not the art.
“I’d love to talk about your piece,” he tells me.
Max takes a step backward as if he’s giving me room to have this conversation.
Charles turns to Max. “Did you have anything about this piece that you wanted to convey specifically?”
Charles is talking to Max. Focused on Max. Interested in Max. I try not to smile.
“The layered piece?”
“Yes, the one you and Nieve did of each other.”
“Oh, it was Doc’s idea to help her with faces.”
This conversation is not going how Charles thought it would, and it’s clear by the look on his face.
“Here.” Charles starts to walk over to the display.
We follow him toward the large stands that have been set up to present the works collected throughout the year. My mural piece is set up against the back wall, and people stand around it, but not as many people as the ones standing by Max’s and my collaborative project.
I hold my breath as we approach, and for the first time, I see why Doc was so insistent on this collaborative concept for us.
My drawing of Max is looking off to the left, which almost makes it seem like he’s staring at the portrait next to him.
There is color, but that’s not what’s striking about it. It’s the thick black lines that fade and fold into nothing.
He’s outlined himself in a way that looks like you could pluck him right off the page and set him anywhere, but the lines make me feel like … he’s not sure where he belongs. It’s completely transformed from what I’d done originally.
And me.
There are so many little things I notice now that I hadn’t when we were working. It looks like Max was drawing this version of me because he was trying to figure it out.
Figure me out.
There is color in all the places I shaded, and around me, almost like an aura. But Max has also added thick strokes of color to all the lines of black as if he’s reinforcing it. The picture is a riot of colors and visions and layers of … me.
My breath hitches when I see what else he’s done.
I look at the pink on my cheeks. Max has erased the drawing to reveal the word love from the poetry underneath.
It makes me think of a girl with a crush.
The blue in my eyes has the word arrow and fire.
The green of the couch says light and hidden.
The yellow, tight. The orange, knowing. The red, pride.
And finally, purple dreams and white soul.
These drawings are … They are not what we started with. The poem’s words look like they’ve been excavated from the work. A scratch-and-find where the prize is truth.
This is how Max sees me?
Charles stands at the portrait of me and points.
“Look at this. The words used feel just as important as the words not used—for instance, knowing. Interesting choice. Why not love again? Why not only use love? Is it because love isn’t just one thing?
Or because love is just as important as all the other things?
And Max … he looks like he wishes someone would erase him.
Or like he tried to erase himself, maybe. ”
I try to absorb the words he’s just said, and I want to look at Max to see if he’s right.
“What poem is this?” I ask Max.
His eyes stay on the art. “It’s a sonnet. Pablo Neruda. ‘Sonnet Seventeen.’”
“From 100 Love Sonnets.” Charles shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “This is the depth and honesty that art demands from us.”
It’s an enormous statement, and I want to feel flattered, but …
“This is the depth and honesty that art demands from us,” Doc tells me with a frown.
All I want to do is go back to my friends who are all swimming at the river.
“I know,” I tell him. “I’ll be back. I swear. Three o’clock.”
“Nieve!”
But I’m already running to the river.
There’s a ringing in the room. Or maybe it’s in my head. A reverberation I feel in my chest. Next to me, a woman laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s familiar because I’ve heard it tonight or if it’s because I remember it from before.
Max leans into me and whispers against my ear, “Are you okay?”
I think I nod. Maybe I don’t. Because the next moment, he’s excusing us with his hand on my elbow and leading me outside.
Past the double doors.
Past the music.
Then I hear it.
The rushing of a river.
And Alex.