Chapter 3 - Jess #2
I work until the light outside is gone and the fluorescents are the only thing between me and darkness.
The hand sculpture gets attention too—I clean up the wire base, refine the fingers, add a texture to the wrist that suggests effort, strain.
The hand isn't just reaching. It's climbing.
Fighting its way toward something it can see but can't quite touch.
At ten, Tess calls. I can hear music in the background, laughter.
"Tell me you ate something today."
"Cal brought bagels."
"Cal is a saint and you don't deserve him. How's the piece?"
"Getting there." I sit on the crate and pull my knees up, the phone warm against my ear. "I'm scared, Tess."
The admission surprises me. I don't usually say things like that out loud. But it's late, and I'm tired, and Tess is the only person in the world I don't have to perform strength for.
"Of course you're scared," she says, and her voice goes soft in that way that always undoes me. "You're about to show people the inside of your chest. That's terrifying. It's supposed to be terrifying."
"What if they don't get it?"
"Some won't. Some will. The ones who do are the ones who matter." She pauses. "Your work is extraordinary, Jess. I'm not saying that because I'm your friend. I'm saying it because I'm a painter and I know what I'm looking at. You just have to let people see it."
My eyes sting. I press the heel of my hand against them and take a breath. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just finish the piece and don't chicken out." Her voice brightens. "Also, I'm bringing you a dress for opening night. Before you argue—it's not fancy. It's just something that isn't covered in welding burns."
"I have clothes that aren't covered in welding burns."
"Name one."
I open my mouth and close it. She has a point.
"That's what I thought. Love you. Go home and sleep."
After she hangs up, I clean my tools and pull on my jacket.
The studio feels different at night—quieter, but not empty.
The sculpture stands in the center like a living thing, its ribs casting long shadows on the brick walls.
I look at it for a moment and feel that warmth again, that hum of something being right. It's not done. But it's becoming.
I pull the cargo door down, test the latch. Solid. Sure. I still don't know who fixed it.
The walk home is cold. Same streets, same route, same stretch of dark pavement between streetlights where you navigate by memory and the sound of your own footsteps.
Halfway home, I stop.
Not because of anything I see. The street behind me is empty—parked cars, closed shopfronts, a cat picking its way along a fence. Nothing unusual. Nothing wrong.
But there's a feeling. Below thought, below language. A weight in the air behind me, like someone standing just outside the edge of my vision. The same sensation I had at the studio with the latch—that whisper of wrongness, faint as a pulse.
I turn around slowly.
Nothing. No one.
I stand there for a long moment, scanning the street the way I learned to scan rooms as a kid. Doorways, parked cars, the dark gaps between buildings. My keys are in my hand, threaded between my fingers.
Empty. The street is empty.
I turn back and walk the rest of the way home. Not faster—I don't let feelings I can't explain change how I move through the world. But more aware. More present. The foster-care radar humming at a frequency I haven't needed in years.
In my apartment, I lock up and change into my sleep shirt. I wash my face, rub lotion into my hands—they're always dry and cracked from the work, and I've started keeping a bottle of the good stuff by the sink because Tess bought it for me and guilted me into using it.
I make chamomile tea and sit on my bed. The apartment is small and cold and mine.
On the windowsill, there's a jar of dried lavender that I bought at the farmer's market last summer because I liked the color.
Next to it, a postcard Tess sent me from a trip to New Mexico—a desert sunset, gaudy and beautiful.
These are my things. My small, chosen comforts.
I think about the sculpture. The gap at the top. The ribs reaching upward, not quite meeting.
I know what the gap is. I've known for a while, but tonight it becomes clear in a way I can't avoid.
The gap is me. The space I keep between myself and everything else. Not because I want to be alone—I don't, not really. I love Tess. I love Cal's gruff kindness. I love Nish's faith in my work. I love the couple I saw on the street tonight, holding hands and laughing about nothing.
I love love. I just don't know how to let it in without also letting in the thing that follows it, which is loss. And I've had enough loss for one lifetime.
So the gap stays open. The ribs reach but don't touch. And the sculpture tells the truth about me whether I want it to or not.
I finish my tea and curl up under the covers. The radiator clanks. The neighbour's TV murmurs through the wall.
I fall asleep thinking about the show. About Nish saying my work deserves to be the first thing people see. About Tess saying my work is extraordinary.
About whether I'm brave enough to believe them.