Chapter 28 Ten Days till Christmas
28.
Ten days till Christmas
The next morning, Birdie woke with less of a holiday party hangover than usual. Rather than throwing back cocktails atop the piano, she’d spent the rest of the night going through her father’s box. Her initial plan to spend a few minutes poking around had dissolved into hours of reminiscing, much of it painful. His Donald Duck voice that always made her laugh. His audacity. His talent. His stupid bow ties. Stanley was her dad, and even though she resented him, she also loved and missed him. As the party had raged below, Birdie felt it all.
Now, blinking awake in the milky morning light, she felt different, somehow. A little overwhelmed, but also curious. Open.
There was only one person Birdie wanted to talk to. Should she send a text? A thank-you for last night? Or would that be seen as flirting, something Jecka suggested she dial back?
Trying to decide, Birdie picked up her phone and saw that she had an unread message.
Jecka: Your mom said we could have the day off her collection today. Are we hanging out?
Birdie’s smile unspooled like a piece of red ribbon.
—
When Jecka knocked on the front door a few hours later, Birdie was ready. Shouldering a backpack full of surprises, she led Jecka around the side of the Inn, to the thicket of trees beyond.
“My mom told me never to go into the woods with strangers,” Jecka joked, their boots squeaking through the snowy path.
“I’m not a stranger!” Birdie lifted a tree branch for Jecka to pass under, watching that her black beanie didn’t snag. “I’m pretty much your best friend.”
Jecka belly-laughed, informing Birdie that her actual best friend—a college roommate who now lived abroad—would have something to say about that.
They rounded the last tree, arriving at their destination: a small frozen pond at the bottom of her mother’s property. “Surprise!” Birdie extracted two pairs of skates and one set of kneepads from her backpack.
“Ice-skating?” Jecka looked as alarmed as if Birdie had pulled out two clown masks and a gun. “Never actually tried it.”
“Perfecto!” Birdie enthused. “Last night you were talking about how much you liked being a beginner. So this’ll be fun!”
After a moment of hesitation, Jecka sat on the old wooden bench overlooking the pond to begin lacing up her skates. “Slapping paint on a canvas is one thing. Balancing on two knives strapped to footwear on a sheet of frozen water is another.”
Birdie giggled, already heading for the ice. The Belvederes had grown up ice-skating, first at the 30 Rock rink, then here. She skated the perimeter to double-check the safety—the pond had reliably frozen solid by this time of year for decades, but it didn’t hurt to be extra sure—pulling up short with a spray of ice simply because it looked cool. “It’s easy! I taught Rafi how to skate on this pond and now he’s better than me. I can teach you.”
Jecka started by clutching onto Birdie, reaching for her again and again. It felt great to teach someone a new skill: encourage them, help them get better. Jecka landed on her butt a few times, but she always got back up. Soon, she was skating in a wobbly but even sort of way, gliding with a thrilled, determined look on her face. “I’m doing it,” she called. “I’m skating!”
“You’re a regular Tonya Harding!” Birdie called back.
“Jeez, I hope not,” Jecka muttered, concentrating on her balance.
Birdie shot past her, unable to resist another spin. Perhaps that was why she’d organized this: to display a side of herself Jecka hadn’t seen, one that was competent and impressive.
“Show-off,” Jecka teased, but her grin was approving. “I wanna try that!”
“No, no—” Birdie started, but it was too late. Jecka’s attempt to pirouette landed her solidly back on the ice with a thud.
“Oooh,” Jecka said with a wince. “That hurt my butt.”
Birdie glided over and extended a hand. “Luckily, I brought some butt medicine.”
Hot chocolate, still steaming in a thermos. They settled on the wooden bench to enjoy it.
Jecka nudged Birdie. “You surprised me today. I like being surprised.”
Birdie high-fived herself, slapping her own palm. “I just need to impress hot, successful artists. Always have, always will.”
Jecka’s laugh was light. “I don’t really think of myself as hot. Or successful. ”
“You’re a stone-cold fox.” Birdie swiveled to face her, their knees bumping. “And you have a solo show. In a proper gallery.”
“In Woodstock. A hundred miles from New York City. If I want to make it in the art world, I need an offer from a bigger gallery, in Manhattan.”
Jecka explained that a midsized Soho or Chelsea gallery was her coveted next step. Birdie asked if she’d had any interest so far.
“I did speak with one curator who said he wanted to see more of me in my paintings,” Jecka recalled, nibbling a thumbnail. “That my current work is technically good, on a formal level, but to keep working toward something ‘personal’ or ‘adventurous.’?”
“Have you done that?” Birdie asked. “Personal, adventurous work?”
“Still thinking it through,” she admitted.
Birdie pounced on this. “So, we’re both figuring out new ideas!”
Jecka tipped the thermos to Birdie in a cheers. “I guess we are.”
“What does being a successful artist mean to you?”
“Oh, wow.” Jecka took a long pull from the thermos, her gaze lifting to the clouds overhead. “I have had some wins—getting the show at Woodstock Art being one of them. But then I get in my head over whether they’re because I’m talented, or just a checkbox for diversity.”
“That sucks.” Birdie understood the need to feel celebrated purely because of ability.
“It does,” Jecka agreed, passing Birdie the thermos. “It’s hard to separate money from success. Capitalism equates profit with success, blah blah blah. If I sell X number of paintings or make Y amount of money, I’m a success.”
Birdie nodded. A lot of the time, she felt that way, too.
“Reviews,” Jecka went on. “Great reviews would mean I’m successful, right? But if I don’t get them—or sell the work—that makes me question pieces I enjoyed making. Which feels really wrong.” Jecka shifted to look directly at Birdie, the sides of their thighs pressed together. “I guess I try to think about success in terms of what I can control. How many hours I spend working. Paintings I produce, connections I make, proactively. Things I can realistically achieve on my own. Because otherwise, the goalposts keep moving.”
“That’s such a good mindset.” Birdie cocked her head, thinking it all through. “So if you’re doing that, which it sounds like you are, why don’t you think of yourself as successful?”
Jecka blinked quickly a few times. “Um, I don’t know.” She laughed in a way Birdie hadn’t heard before—embarrassed, even awkward. She toed the snow at her feet. “I guess I’m still figuring myself out, too.”
“ Too? ” Birdie affected confusion before relenting with a smile. “Kidding.”
“What about you?” Jecka’s gaze was curious. “What does being a successful artist mean to you?”
Birdie took a slow sip. “Great question. That I’m mostly regretting bringing up.”
Jecka laughed.
Birdie went on. “I mean, same: it used to be about crowd size. Laughs. Followers, likes, all that shit. But maybe it’s not so much about the outcome, but the process. The trying.” She spoke the words as they formed in her mind. “Maybe being a successful artist is just about waking up every morning and chipping away. Not giving up. Enjoying the things we make and do. Because success has to do with happiness, right? Or, that’s what it should mean. Doing stand-up—the actual act of it—that makes me happy.”
“So maybe, success is doing what you love,” Jecka suggested. “Regardless of the outcome.”
“Regardless of reception,” Birdie thought aloud. “Regardless of how many people pay for it and what they think. Because we can never control that. And even though other people matter, maybe they sort of…don’t.”
“We decide if something is successful. If we are successful,” Jecka summarized. “Not other people. Ooh, I like that. I like that a lot.”
“The fact that I’m here with you, right now,” Birdie said. “That feels like success to me.”
Birdie had never had these kinds of conversations with crushes: honest and revealing. Real. She preferred to put on a show, probably another trait from her father, who needed to dazzle everyone, always. But dazzling by definition meant temporary blinding. Maybe if Birdie and her dad had been able to have more conversations like this, they would’ve seen each other more clearly. And if Birdie was less of a showman, her connections would be different. Deeper and more meaningful.
Maybe Jecka was right. Maybe she did need to take her own life more seriously.
Birdie inhaled a lungful of clean, cold air. “Last night, after you left? I opened my father’s box.”
Jecka arched a curious brow.
Birdie explained getting emotional over his old magazine clippings and shooting scripts. “I always assumed it was junk and that him leaving me all that stuff didn’t mean anything. But maybe it was, like, a show of support. Artist to artist. Maybe he wanted us to have that connection?” Birdie furrowed her brows, trying to sift through her feelings. “I think I feel differently about him today. Less angry?” She considered that. “No, I’m still angry. I don’t know. Maybe my show could be about him?” She hadn’t considered the idea before she spoke it aloud.
Jecka’s eyes lit up. “That’s interesting. It’d be meaty, like you said you wanted.”
Birdie’s head felt like it was opening, golden light pouring in. There were so many ways she could build a show around her dad. If she had the guts to do it. “Yeah. Yeah, it would be.”
Birdie gazed at the woman sitting next to her. Her bird-bright eyes and soft lips. Her floppy black beanie, and Mona Lisa smile. Birdie had enjoyed many first kisses over the years. Dramatic and forged in fire, the messy first step of a tumultuous affair. But when she and Jecka leaned toward each other, it didn’t feel desperate or dangerous. It was a kiss. A first kiss. As simple and sweet as the homemade hot chocolate warming their hands.
They pulled back, smiling at each other, self-conscious and amused. A thousand jokes ran through Birdie’s head. Yeah, I’m pretty sick at that offered frat-boy style, or My life coach told me I need to finish what I start, so we need to keep going until one of us is pregnant. But sitting together in the cool, comfortable silence felt even more satisfying.
They could have this moment, just for them.