Chapter 11 Noa
It had been a long time since I’d put together an entire exhibit for a show.
It’d been so long that I’d almost forgotten how freeing it felt, how much I loved getting lost in the rhythm of creating, building a collection piece by piece, brushstroke by brushstroke.
It was a full body of work, a full expression of me.
When I first submitted to the exhibit last week, I didn’t expect much.
Not only did they accept me, but they asked for more.
They wanted several pieces for a full wall display.
Part of me wanted to shrink myself and say no.
So many voices in my head were telling me I wasn’t ready.
But the other part, the louder part, was eager to get started.
It had only been a week, and I’d already created three pieces for the exhibit.
The fourth was nearly done, spread across the makeshift workstation Quade had built in the kitchen.
They had pushed the kitchen table back to the wall to make room for a rolling easel he’d rigged for me, and he’d added a wheeled cart for my supplies and a mounted drying rack. It wasn’t perfect, but it had been getting the job done.
I dipped my brush again, then ran my fingers over the textured curls I’d just glued to the woman’s hair. I’d used a mixture of synthetic coils and cuttings from old extensions I had stashed away to make realistic hair that made the canvas feel alive.
A shadow passed through the kitchen entrance, and I already knew who it was.
“You used real hair on that?” Quade asked. I glanced over my shoulder. He stood just a few feet away, holding measuring tape in one hand with a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“Mostly,” I said, brushing a few strands into place. “I wanted the textures to be… felt.”
He stepped closer, his eyes scanning the canvas. “Damn. It’s dope. She looks like she ’bout to speak for real.”
“That’s the goal.”
“You gon’ make the whole gallery stop and stare with these pieces.”
“Don’t be gassing me up now.”
He grinned, backing toward the dining room. “Nah, there’s no need. This shit dope.”
I watched him disappear back behind the tarp to my art studio, where he’d been working. Just as I turned back to the canvas, a sharp knock hit the front door.
“Yo, somebody knockin’. You want me to get it?” Quade called.
“Yes, please.” I wiped my hands on the towel across my lap and turned toward the front hallway, curious as to who it could be. I heard the deadbolt twist and a voice that made my stomach drop.
“Who the fuck are you?” Shawn’s voice echoed through the hallway as I made my way to the front door.
What is he doing here? I mean, I knew exactly why he was here.
I’d been ignoring his texts for the past month; it was only a matter of time before he popped up.
When I ignored last night’s “you up?” messages, I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d finally gotten the hint.
As I reached the door, the man I used to love came into view, and my eyes washed over Shawn standing on my porch holding a bag of takeout food and mean-mugging Quade.
“Hey, baby.” Shawn greeted me as I rolled up.
“Noa, your DoorDash is here,” Quade called over his shoulder, and my brows shot up.
Shawn looked taken aback, like he hadn’t expected that clap back.
My eyes traveled to Quade. There was something sexy in how he just stood there, unbothered by the fact that Shawn was just rude to him.
That kind of composure had moisture building up between my legs.
I cleared my throat and clenched my thighs together, attempting to calm myself down. “It’s fine, Quade. I got it.”
“You sure?” He glanced back at me, but he didn’t move until I was at his side.
“Yeah.” I nodded, though I was already questioning the decision.
“Brought your usual.” Shawn held out a takeout bag. “Extra sauce, like you like it.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the bag. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” He stepped inside like I had invited him in, his eyes sweeping over the space. “You haven’t been answering my texts.”
I made my way back into the kitchen and set the food down on the table. “I’ve been busy working. Got invited to do an exhibit. They wanted several pieces.”
“Must be nice,” he said under his breath, but I heard his shady response. My face turned up. I thought he’d be happy for me. Clearly, I was mistaken.
“So what’s up with the truck, the tarp, and shit? Who is dude?” He motioned toward the front room. I didn’t answer, just removed the food from the bag and peeled back the Styrofoam container. I wasn’t happy about his visit, but I was hungry, and my father had taught me to never turn down free food.
“He looks familiar.” Shawn joined me at the table. “Don’t he rap or somethin’? What’s his name?”
I stayed focused on the food, deciding to answer his first question and ignore his prying about Quade. His identity wasn’t any of Shawn’s business. “I got accepted into the home rehab program. They’re making my house more accessible.”
He cocked his head. “What’s wrong with yo’ house? You got a ramp.”
“Yeah, a broken one,” I shot back, annoyed with his lack of attention to detail. “Accessibility means more than just a ramp.”
Shawn blinked like he didn’t get it. He, like most people, thought accessibility started and ended at a wheelchair ramp and a few damn handrails. They didn’t understand the full need of being confined to a damn chair, and I didn’t have the energy to give a full TED Talk about it.
“I’m just saying. It was fine when I was here.”
I let out a dry laugh. That was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one getting stuck in the doorways.
“Exactly.” I huffed. Shawn was so self-centered; it wasn’t even worth my breath. His face balled up, but I didn’t care. I had things to do, and the more he talked, the more I realized my heart just didn’t beat for him anymore.
We’d done this dance long enough. I was over him popping up with takeout and charm, pretending it was care and love. We both knew it was anything but. I stared at Shawn like I was finally seeing him through clean glass. Everything about what we had been doing felt beneath me.
“What movie do you want to watch?” Shawn asked, and I shook my head. He said movie, but I knew what he really meant—what he wanted from me. “You ready?” he asked.
“I’m busy painting right now.” I didn’t even look up from my food.
He laughed, sharp and sarcastic. “Oh, now you too busy for me, huh?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I’m working.”
“Working?” he repeated loudly, like I’d just offended him. “Man, stop playing with me—”
“Yo,” Quade called, making us both turn to look at him standing in the doorway. “Lower your tone, my guy.”
Shawn turned, eyebrows raised. “Excuse you, nigga? Don’t tell me how to talk to my girl.”
“I’m not your girl.” I didn’t hesitate to correct him. “And I don’t know who you think you’re talking to like that, but it damn sure ain’t me.”
“If you got somethin’ to say to her, say it like a man, not a child having a tantrum.” Quade took a few steps into the kitchen, and the room went quiet. Shawn took a step back, looking between us, like he had just figured out morse code.
“Why this nigga speaking up for you? You fucking him or something?”
I rolled back from the table, exhausted—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.
“Shawn, I’m painting. Thank you for bringing me lunch.” I motioned toward the easel behind me. “I’m in a creative headspace right now. I don’t have time for this.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have time?” He blinked like he didn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. “You… putting me out?”
Before I could answer, Quade did.
“That’s what I heard.” He looked him dead in the eye, fists balled. My heart sped up in my chest, scared that this might escalate. Shawn’s lip curled, and he pushed back from the table.
“Shawn, it’s time to go,” he confirmed, and Shawn looked at me like I’d betrayed him, like I was the reason for our love turning sour.
“You putting me out, Noa? Bet. You fronting in front of this nigga. Okay.” He stood from the table, walking to the door and mumbling along the way. Quade watched him all the way out. When the door finally shut, Quade locked it and turned to me.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m just glad he’s gone.” I exhaled the breath I’d been holding.
“You want me to move that to the dry rack?” he asked, pointing toward my painting as if nothing had just occurred, and I appreciated the quick return to the way things were before our day was rudely interrupted.
“Please, if you don’t mind.”
He stepped past me to grab the canvas, and when he lifted it, the back of his arm brushed mine. It was just a second. We barely touched, but my breath hitched anyway. He moved the piece with the same care he always did.
“Just so we clear, you don’t ever gotta explain why somebody ain’t got access to you no more. If they fumble you, that’s their loss. Simple. Don’t show these niggas no kindness that they don’t show you.”
I stared up at him, unsure of what to say, but I heard every word. His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second, then he stepped back.
“I’ll be in the art studio if you need me.” He backed out of the kitchen and back into the front room, leaving me sitting there. I stared at the half-empty container of food and took another deep breath, allowing the silence to consume me.
I pushed the food aside, turned my chair, and rolled back to my little setup.
I pulled out a fresh canvas and stared at it for a second.
I already knew what I wanted to paint. My hands moved before I could fully form my thoughts.
I grabbed a pencil from my stash and sketched the outline first—a man, not broken, but not perfect.
It would make the perfect addition to my collection of African American culture.
I sat back for a second, my eyes tracing the lines I’d drawn so far.
“That’s a good man,” I whispered to myself as I dipped my brush in the brown paint and glided it across the canvas. I had an exhibit to complete.