2. Kaycia
Chapter 2
Kaycia
D id I seriously just knock the hot guy next door in the face with my fucking canvas?
I blow out a loud sigh and bury my burning face in my hands when my back hits the wood of the front door. Which I just shut and locked. Also, in his face.
Smooth, Kaycia. Very smooth.
I know that I shouldn’t walk around with my headphones on, it’s one of those safety tips everyone harps on, but I was on my street and in my building, so I didn’t think anything of it. I’d had one pushed off my ear the whole walk from the art store and on the entire subway ride. I just wanted to enjoy the song instead of the incessant street noise. Now, I’ve been reintroduced as the clumsy, airhead girl next door. But, at the very least the incident was an excuse to reintroduce myself at all, right?
I wouldn’t have been a sweaty mess lugging the cumbersome canvas through the streets back home. It would have fit in my back seat. I realize how spoiled I was living somewhere with ample parking and only slightly horrible traffic.
I miss my car. I miss the convenience.
Nope. Stop it .
If I were back home, I wouldn’t have a cute neighbor to almost knock down the stairs. I probably wouldn’t even be worried about a canvas or painting, either.
It’s been a rough week. Okay, several rough weeks. But I refuse to let a few bad weeks make me rethink my entire move to Argent. I already wade through enough negative bullshit whenever my parents call or text to check in. I’m not adding to it myself.
I spent twenty-six years of my life living the way they thought I should. I’m not going to let my own intrusive thoughts derail me when I’m finally following the path that I chose. That I dreamed of for so long.
Even if I really miss green spaces.
And wildflowers.
And the countryside.
And stars.
The aspects of that life that I don’t miss are far more numerous than those I do.
I’ve only been here six months , I keep telling myself. I’m sure I can find a balance .
I’m certain of it.
Positive.
Dropping my keys in the basket by the door, I slip my shoes off and carry the new canvas to my easel where I prop it against the base and smile at the oily smudge from Shane’s quick hands. If he hadn’t grabbed the canvas the frame probably would have cracked on the way back down the stairs and I would have had to make the trek with it again tomorrow. I shudder at the thought of carrying another oversized canvas on public transit. But my smile returns when I think of how Shane clearly couldn’t remember my name any more than I could his. He’d almost seemed nervous about it. In my defense, the day I moved in was so overwhelming with boxes and movers that I barely noticed him stick his head in to introduce himself.
I’ve definitely noticed him since.
Shane keeps a reliable schedule, and I often hide behind the plants on my balcony to watch him take off on his bike while I sip my morning coffee. I never thought I would be into a guy who rides a motorcycle, but something about watching him throw his leg over it makes me rethink that. So does that sideways grin he gave me, and the hint of sadness in his eyes. I can occasionally hear guests through our shared wall, but he’s quiet otherwise. It seems we both keep to ourselves.
Maybe that can change now that we had our official reintroduction. Maybe I can get up the nerve to make the first move.
I grab a wineglass from the cupboard and fill it halfway with chilled pinot grigio before flipping on a few lamps, pressing play on my speaker to listen to some music, and heading to the balcony. It’s a nice night. Warm, but not as bad as during the heat of the day in the concrete laden city. I love watching the full moon over the buildings, even if I miss being able to see the constellations I could observe outside Summerville. I’ve tried my best to recreate some kind of natural oasis amidst the sidewalks and steel so I feel more at home, but I’m still getting settled.
Stepping onto the iron balcony, I hear the swish and click of Shane’s matching sliding door, but the traffic and laughter on the sidewalk below swallow up any other noises that might drift from his way. Too bad. Maybe I should have asked him over for a drink. It would have been an easy thing to do instead of dashing into my apartment. Sighing, I sip my wine, the glass already coated in cool drips of condensation.
Maybe you should focus on your next project to get ready for your exhibition instead of daydreaming about your neighbor , I scold myself. But then again, having a friend—or more than a friend—could make things less lonely. Could even be a source of new inspiration.
Whether it was luck or fate that brought me to Argent, I’m happy to be here instead of the small town I grew up in. Back in Summerville I’d become frustrated with only being able to paint when I could squeeze it in after work. When my day job was restructured, offering me more work with no additional pay, I’d had it. It was the push I needed to get up the nerve to send my portfolio out to galleries in several cities hoping for a break.
Kelly, the owner of Red Lark, reached out with enthusiasm, offering to show a few of my pieces. I shipped them, and within a few weeks, I’d put in my notice, sold nearly everything that wasn’t easily loaded in a moving truck, cashed out my savings, and said goodbye to everyone and everything I’d ever known to finally pursue my art full-time.
Kelly’s assistance has helped me get my name out and make a few small sales. Having my first solo exhibition in the city could make big waves for me, even at a smaller gallery. The networking opportunities and potential for a residency have pushed me to focus on my work instead of my personal life, perhaps to my detriment at this point.
But it might also be the thing that finally proves to my family that quitting my secure office job was worth it, and that art is a viable career. I’ve always painted, and when I was young my parents indulged my hobby, but even though I’ve sold a few paintings they refuse to see it as a “real job”.
My parents’ judgment haunts me. They reacted poorly to my decision to move and think I’m selfish, foolish, na?ve—even if they haven’t said it directly. The little jabs, snide remarks, and incessant warnings about the dangers of the city spoke volumes when I told them my plans. As did their repeated questions asking why I would give up security for something so silly? Why couldn’t I grow up and just settle down?
But settling is all I’ve ever done.
I was sick of living my life for someone else. Always wondering ‘What if?’
While I’m excited for my opening at Red Lark, nothing makes me prouder than the fact that I took the risk to come to Argent on my own. That I finally put myself and my dreams first. I have to remind myself of that every time homesickness squeezes my chest. I can white-knuckle my self-doubt, but I’m finding that loneliness is a companion I’m struggling to manage.
Sometimes you can be happy and sad at the same time.
Taking another sip of my wine, I shake my head, clearing any tears blurring my vision. I refuse to cry when I’m doing exactly what I want. What I dreamed of.
I consider texting my best friend back home, but when I grab my phone to check the time, I realize it’s dinner time there. Meg’s probably getting her kids fed and then ready for bed. No time for my whining right now.
What I need is a friend in the city. Someone who isn’t related to the gallery or work. Maybe it is time I crawl out of hiding and finally ask the cute neighbor for a drink.