22. Kaycia
Chapter 22
Kaycia
“A re you sure you aren’t moving too fast, Kay?” Meg asks when we catch up with one another on Monday afternoon.
“I like him, Meg.” I hope she can’t hear my irritation through the phone when I answer. “And I have no idea if it’s fast or not. The last serious boyfriend I had was in college. Thankfully, Shane is nothing like the guys I used to go out with.”
“No, he’s mysterious with a shady past,” she says sarcastically, followed by a pointed silence.
Sighing, I change the subject, regretting that I filled her in on the creepy guy and subsequent conflict at the grocery store. Instead, I ask about her kids and her husband, getting caught up with the gossip from the town we grew up in, but when we say our goodbyes, I realize how different I feel about all of it now. How different my friend and I are these days.
I’m so glad she’s happy, even if she confesses to me that daily monotony is exhausting for her. But our lives have been steadily diverging for a while and it’s sometimes hard to relate, even if we will both always be there to confide in.
For the first time in weeks, I realize the tug of homesickness has faded since I’ve begun spending time outside of my apartment—whether with Shane, or the rest of his friends—and, while I feel slightly guilty about it, I’m also relieved. It’s not just the connection with Shane either. It’s the feeling of finally fitting in without altering myself or being compared to who I was years ago. Meg and I will always be friends, but I’m figuring out it’s okay to grow and change. She will always remember me as the girl I was in Summerville and remind me of my roots, but that girl has morphed into someone different she’s going to have to get to know.
Shane and I met up with Raquel and Jamila at their place last night for drinks and a movie, where Shane and I spent the time whispering and stealing kisses while Raquel tossed popcorn at us and Jamila fussed that she’d be vacuuming up the lost kernels for weeks. Watching them together in their home was amusing—they act like an adorable old couple. Shane’s helping Max and his former roommate move some boxes from Max’s place today, so he and I made plans to meet for dinner tomorrow night after he’s finished at work.
I have a couple of pieces that I should work on, but my eyes can’t stay off the sunset-toned portrait of Shane. I’ve been adding to it for days and I hope to have it finished in time for the show. Since the gallery is closed Mondays through Wednesdays, I plan on going by tomorrow to take a few measurements that I missed in the bustle of the weekend to figure out which remaining pieces I should focus on and to finalize the ideal layout and how everything should flow.
My phone buzzes before I get settled in to work, my mom calling to check in. It’s been a week since we’ve spoken, mostly conversing through texts since I’ve been spending more time out. I sent her several photos of the gallery, but her responses weren’t as excited as I’d hoped. I don’t know why I still let it get to me, but it does.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, trying to keep my voice bright. “How’s it going?”
“Hi, Kaycia. Same as usual here. How are you?”
“Great, actually. I’m getting really excited for the exhibition. What did you think of the pictures I sent?”
“It looks good. You know I don’t know much about all this art stuff. I just hope you aren’t wasting your time.” Her words feel like a lead weight dropped into the center of a still pond, producing ripples of anger, doubt, and sadness that wash over me. “Who was the guy in the background of the one?”
I hadn’t realized I’d sent one of the ones with Shane in it. Putting my mom on speakerphone, I open my photos and scroll through them. Sure enough, Shane is in profile, standing off to the side with his head tilted thoughtfully as he examines one of the pieces in the gallery. Seeing him against the clean white walls of Red Lark, a place I think of as my domain, brings a smile to my lips and dulls the irritation that’s building.
“That’s my neighbor, Shane. He helped me get some paintings taken over to set up.”
“Well, I can see why you’ve been spending so much time with him. He’s very cute.”
“I’m so glad the attractiveness of my neighbor is what you’ve decided to fixate on,” I snap, my jaw tight with annoyance. “Not how hard I’ve been working. Not what my art looks like. Not that I have a solo exhibition scheduled. But that I’ve attracted a good-looking guy.”
“Why are you being so short with me? You’re always so sensitive,” my mom retorts.
“I’m not being sensitive!” The words rush from me in a single breath, and I can’t hold the rest back now that they’ve escaped. “My feelings are hurt, Mom. You and Dad are supposed to be my biggest fans and you can’t even be bothered to get excited for this opportunity. You’ve been against me moving and doing this from the beginning, but good things are happening for me anyway. Can’t you see that? If you want me to call you more, and include you in my life, then maybe you should make me actually want to!”
The tears fall now, ones that I’ve held in for months because I’ve convinced myself it’s not worth crying over. Certain that my parents will understand once I sell a painting, or once I’m displayed at a gallery, or once I have an exhibition of my own. But I realize now that they may never understand or support the life I’ve chosen. Disappointment settles over me like a fog.
“It’s okay if you don’t ‘know much about art stuff’. I’ve never asked you to be an art expert. I just want my parents to be proud of me.” I sniffle and my voice breaks on a small sob. “I have to go. I love you but I need to go.”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Kaycia. You know we love you.” My mom sounds indignant, but I no longer care. At least I’ve told her how I feel, even if it’s in a far more emotional manner than I intended.
“Bye, Mom.”
Still holding my phone, I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, hoping to stop the tears that run down my cheeks, but they can’t be dammed. Something about finally voicing my feelings and letting them fall is cathartic even if my hands are shaking in the aftermath. A few minutes later, when they finally run dry, my chest is lighter and my resolve is stronger than ever.
Just like I am.
It took strength to admit what I wanted in life and to make the changes I needed to stay true to that dream. It took bravery to leave everything I knew to recreate myself.
I don’t plan on giving in now.
Dialing one of the newly programmed numbers on my phone, I wait until Jamila answers. Anxiety spools as it rings, hoping I’m not being needy. My only other close contact in the city is Kelly, but I don’t want to burden her with my personal life. Our relationship is friendly, but professional. I don’t want to blur those lines too much.
“Hey, Kaycia, what’s up?” Jamila’s voice is warm when she picks up.
“Hi, Jamila! Are you busy today?”
“Nope, just lounging around thinking about writing but not actually doing it. Quel is covering the shop for Shane so I’m on my own. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to go grab a coffee or something. Just hang out for a girls’ day? I need to get out of the apartment.”
“That sounds great! Let me text you a place.”
* * *
T he bookstore Jamila texted me is across town, so I take the subway and arrive a few minutes late, getting turned around once before I spot it. It’s a neat mix of bookstore and bar that serves coffee, tea, and alcoholic options.
Jamila stands from one of the little tables on the left side of the entrance, slipping from the stool with grace before embracing me in a tight squeeze.
“Hey! You made it!” she greets me, gesturing to the stool across from her.
“Yeah! Sorry, I had to wait on the subway and may have made a wrong turn or two once I got back above ground.” I give a sheepish smile and Jamila chuckles.
“It happens, girl. I’m off today and tonight, so I was just wasting time at home. Thanks for the call. It saved me from having to fold the laundry that was staring me down.” She nods toward the menu above the bar. “Want a drink?”
We both grab drinks, a tea for Jamila, and a latte for me, then settle back in at our seats in easy companionship. The bookstore stretches beyond the bar and deep into the building, with shelves and shelves of colorful spines stacked to the ceiling covering all genres.
“This is a cool place,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Isn’t it? I hang out here a lot when I’m writing and want a change of scenery. They have a cute patio out back, too, and I’ve done readings a few times in the evenings.” Jamila watches me with curiosity, her dark eyes studying me as though she knows I didn’t just want a chill girls’ day.
“That’s awesome! You mentioned you’re a writer. Are you published? Or is it more of a hobby you do for yourself?” I avoid her inquiring expression, not quite ready to spill my neuroses.
“I’ve had works featured in a few anthologies. Short stories and poems. And I sold a song once, but nothing major yet. I studied creative writing in college, and my parents keep asking why I haven’t gone back for my next degree yet, but I’m happy where I am for the moment.” She smiles, so calm and unbothered by my questions, so confident in her choices. “I like how flexible my catering and bartending gigs are. I can work on my writing and do what I want. I mean, you get it.”
“Yeah. But I mean, you said your parents don’t get it? Do they give you a hard time?”
“Well, they do and they don’t. My parents are hyper-focused on academics. My mother is a professor and my dad is an attorney, so the fact that I only have an undergrad degree and haven’t done anything further is confusing to them.” Jamila smiles when she talks about her parents, making me assume they have a good relationship. “They’re the first in line to buy anything I’m published in, but they’re also constantly asking when I’ll go back to school so I can do something besides catering gigs. It’s a struggle sometimes.”
“I get that,” I reply, sipping more of my coffee. My heated conversation with my mom replays in my mind, wondering what it must be like for your family to be excited about your art like Jamila’s. “Mine are definitely in the ‘don’t get it’ camp.”
I chew the inside of my cheek and tap my forefinger on the side of my mug to keep the frustrated tears from falling. I may be sad about my parents, but I’m not going to add pathetic to the list of adjectives that describe me in Jamila’s mind.
“Kaycia? Are you okay?” Jamila asks gently.
“Not really,” I finally admit with a self-deprecating chuckle and deep exhale. “I had a rough call with my mom earlier. I mentioned before that she and my dad aren’t happy about me moving here or about my art, and they make sure they let me know every time they touch base. It just really got to me today. I’m so tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt when I speak with them.” I sigh again, keeping the irritating tears tickling the back of my eyes at bay.
“Ah, gods, that’s rough. I’m sorry. But listen, some people just don’t get it. No matter how well you do, they won’t understand. And that’s okay! It’s your life, right? You can’t please everyone.”
Jamila reaches across and places her palm on mine, giving it a little squeeze of encouragement. “Shane told us your art is really good. And how excited are you about having your first solo show? You’re doing things, Kaycia. Be proud of yourself. And let us all be proud with you, okay? Your parents will either come around or they won’t. That’s their problem. Don’t let that fuck with your head.”
“Yeah,” I sniffle, embarrassed at the tears that have finally welled in my eyes at her kindness. I dash them away with a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Thank you. Really.”
“Shane really likes you, and Raquel and I think you’re a sweetheart. We have your back if you need us.”
“Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. And for being so nice. I don’t know a lot of people in the city and I was worried I was bothering you.”
“It’s never a bother! That’s what friends are for. I’m sure I’ll need to bitch about something one day and you’re going to be first on my list. Now”—Jamila drinks the last of her tea, the ice cubes clinking against the empty glass as she places it on the tabletop—“let’s go look at the books, forget our parents’ expectations, and get to know each other better.”
I down the remainder of my latte and grin before following her past the bar and into the rows of books in a much lighter mood than I was when I left my apartment.