6
“The feature has been booked,” Ben confirms the next day. “For the Times .”
I’m sketching at the dining room table when he delivers this news. I stop what I’m doing and stare at him. “What?” After our
brief chat yesterday, I assumed he would drop the whole thing.
“This could be huge for both of us,” he hurries to add. “I know the article is about me, but once he finds out you’re an artist,
it could maybe help jump-start your career before...”
The unspoken before I go hangs between us, ominous. I don’t want an easy win with art. If I go all in, I’m going to earn my place in the art world
and not have it handed to me because the worst thing that’s ever happened to me has now been made available for public consumption.
“I don’t want to talk about my art,” I say, a charcoal pencil clenched tightly in my fist. I knock away some of the shavings
from the pad. “Isn’t that beside the point? This is about you.”
He sits at the table and folds his hands in front of him, his knuckles dry and cracked. “No, it’s about us.” His eyes burn
into mine a beat too long, and I swallow.
“This is all so hard, Ben.”
“Would this be a terrible time to make a sex joke?” He covers my hand with his and gives me a playful squeeze. “Look, if you
don’t want to do it, I’ll tell him not to come.”
I balk. “He’s coming here? To the condo? I thought you’d be doing this over the phone.”
He shakes his head, a small gleam in his eye. “It’s going to be a really big feature. They want photos, backstories, in-depth
interviews with colleagues and friends. He’s going to be in town for a while.”
My body involuntarily stiffens. “How long is a while?”
He scratches the back of his neck and glances toward our balcony. “Like a week?”
“A week ? No.” I don’t tell him that a week could be all that we have left, and I most certainly don’t want to share that time with
a stranger. A week used to fly by in the blink of an eye. Time was often slippery, just out of reach. One day often bled into
the next so that years passed without really understanding how. Now time has become our most precious commodity, and I don’t
want to waste it answering stupid questions about our lives. I want to live our lives, revel in the moment, make new memories.
Instead of arguing, I close my sketch pad, ditch the pencil, and stalk to the kitchen to scrub the dark stain from my fingers.
“You don’t want to do this.”
It’s a statement, and I don’t argue as I vigorously scrub.
“I’m sorry, Harper. I guess I should have asked you first.”
I stop and laugh. “You think? It’s the New York Times , Ben! How did we get here?”
He stands across the room, searching my eyes for answers I do not want to give. There is so much in that single question: How did we get here? How did we find each other? How did we fall in love? How did we create a home together? How did we already reach the finish line when it feels like the race has just begun?
“He’ll be here tomorrow,” he finally says. “If you want me to cancel, I will.”
“Tomorrow?” Suddenly my lofty dreams about lazy afternoons and quality time together vanish. It’s all I can think to say as
I shake off the excess water and smear my fingers across my jeans. “What do you want from all of this?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure, really.” He walks over and lightly strokes my arms. “If it’s too much, let’s just forget it.”
I look up at him, my eyes trailing toward his mouth. I try to conjure the way we used to be. Were we ever really in the moment,
or were we too busy planning for our next adventure? The future we assumed we’d have?
It seems we were always in a stage of figuring it out, moving faster and forward, when really, in these final hours, all I
want to do is stand still with the man I love. I can’t tell him this, can’t tell him I want him all to myself. He has other
people in his life: friends, colleagues, family. He needs to close doors too, to say his goodbyes. Maybe this is a way of
doing that.
And who do I have? Over the past year, I’ve abandoned so many friendships during his cancer battle, pulling away from my girlfriends’
invitations for drinks or trips in order to stay with Ben. Luckily, Wren and Jenna have always been firm fixtures in our lives,
and for the past several months, they have felt like enough. I don’t regret being picky with my time, not for a single second.
But it’s becoming clearer that in Ben’s absence, I am going to have to rebuild more than just my heart. I’m going to have
to build an entirely new life.
I have nothing to say, as I’m not going to tell him to drop this whole thing for me, so I kiss him instead. His lips are dry. A small sigh crests between us as I push my tongue into his mouth and wrap my arms firmly around his neck. I kiss him as though it’s for the very last time, or the first, searching for something between us, some assurance that inviting a stranger into our lives won’t backfire, that I am safe here, that we are still us.
He tugs me toward the bedroom and then breaks away, breathing heavily.
“Take these off.” He motions to my clothes, and a shiver of delight passes between us. It has been so long. Too long. I undress
slowly, and he teases my bare skin with kisses along the way. I remove his T-shirt, still not used to how thin he has become,
and then I lower his pants and we both stand there, naked, observing, wanting. I lay him gently on the bed, as if he’s made
of paper and will blow away. I climb on top of him, and he smiles up at me, a passionate reminder of the way things used to
be.
“Be gentle,” he jokes.
“Not a chance.” I lower myself over him deliberately and deeply, and my whole world ignites. Sensation spills through my stomach;
heat surges between my thighs. I lose myself to the rhythm of him, of us, our breath merging and darting between us like a
snake’s tongue. I close my eyes, tip my head back, but Ben traces a hand up to cup my cheek and tugs me toward him.
“Look at me,” he says.
I open my eyes and slam back to the moment, back to him. My eyes find his, and there are tears there. “I love you, Harper.
I always have and I always will.”
I kiss him, as if to devour his words, to wedge them inside me so I won’t forget. We climax nearly at the same time, and then I collapse and roll off of him, more embodied than I’ve felt in months.
“Wow,” he says, transitioning onto his side with a little groan to stare at me. “Why haven’t we been doing that?”
There are so many reasons, but none of them matter now. He traces small circles on my arms, and my stomach clenches. In our
earliest days, we would spend hours reveling in each other. I assumed we’d have all the time in the world. Now it seems the
joke’s on us.
I gather my hair on top of my head and sit up. “What time does the journalist get here?” I ask, realizing I am severing the
moment, pulling this stranger into our afterglow.
“Nine, I think.” He sits up too, yanks his T-shirt from the floor, then shuffles off to the bathroom.
Before I can get dressed, my phone buzzes. Thankful for the distraction, I glance at it. The local police department comes
up on the caller ID. Panicked, I answer.
“Ms.Swanson?”
It takes me a moment to place the voice.
“Alejandro?” Alejandro is one of my favorite seniors. Though extremely talented, he has a knack for showing up in the wrong
place at the wrong time. A foster kid, he doesn’t have a stable home life, and I have opened my door to him on more than one
occasion. “What’s wrong?”
He fills me in. He was tagging the side of a train and got caught. Though normally the crime would just be a misdemeanor,
Alejandro is already on probation and doesn’t have the money to pay the fine. “How much?” I ask.
“Five hundred. I swear I’ll pay you back, Ms.Swanson. You know I’m good for it.”
“I’ll be there in five.” Luckily, the precinct is around the corner.
I tell Ben where I’m going, then rush out the door, knowing that yes, Alejandro is good for it, but only if he does bad things
to get the money. He’s a great kid, but despite all my best efforts, he keeps running in the wrong circles. Thankfully he’s
not been arrested, only fined, and I quickly settle up and usher him out the door with as little public scolding as I can
muster.
Once outside, I grip his shoulders. “What were you thinking? Vandalism can be a serious charge. It’s not worth it, Alejandro.”
“I know.” He stares at his sneakers. “But I like painting murals.”
“And we’ve discussed this. There are plenty of places where you can spread your artistic wings. Just not on the sides of trains,
okay?”
“Do you have a minute?” he asks. “I want to show you something.”
“Sure.” As we walk, I realize just how much I’m going to miss this pack of seniors. Though I helped foster their creativity,
they really helped foster mine too. My kids’ art serves as inspiration for my own work, even when I’m not actively creating.
“How’s Mr.Ben?”
“He’s doing okay. Thank you for asking.”
We weave through a couple of sketchy alleys. “Just a little farther,” he says.
I trail a bit behind, holding my breath as we pass rancid, overflowing dumpsters. We approach a row of warehouses, all of which seem abandoned, until he gets to one at the end. He knocks three times, and then a giant metal door slides open and another one of my seniors, Kayla, smiles and fist-bumps Alejandro. Her nose ring glints in the light as she turns.
“Ms.Swanson! Dope!”
Even though I have no idea why Alejandro brought me here, I break into a grin and step inside. I am hit instantly with the
smell of spray paint. My eyes have to adjust to the dark. It’s clear I’m standing on a paint-splattered tarp, and when I shuffle
farther into the room, I see why. Every square inch of this place is covered in art. Graffiti, murals, sculptures, and paintings
in vibrant colors. Papier-maché creations dangle from the ceiling. A few other former students stand among the sculptures
and statues, and I’m instantly reminded of an underground gallery I went to in Brooklyn years ago.
“What is this place?” I ask in wonder.
“This is our gallery,” Alejandro says. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets. “But we’re running out of room.”
“I can see that.” I take my time to absorb every piece. There is such pain here. Teenage angst and suffering. Pining. Raw,
primal talent that so many of us lose as adults. I love each piece more than the last and finally turn to the group, bodies
knotted around a giant wooden table on casters. They are all working on a collective piece.
“How long have you been working here?” I ask. I don’t want to know how they found this place. That’s an entirely different
can of worms.
“A while,” Kayla says. “We love your class, but there’s nowhere that’s just ours . So we found this.” She smiles. “Do you like it?”
“Like it? It’s better than most galleries I’ve seen.” Immediately I know I’m going to text Wren about this place, see if she can do a youth show. They shouldn’t have to wait years for someone to deem their work good enough. If I can help give them an audience, I will. “Could you have a show here?”
What I’m really asking is whether it’s legal.
One of my students, Leilani, speaks up, her dark hair twisted into ropy braids. “Yeah. It’s my dad’s. He’s cool.”
I sigh in relief. “Well, I know just the person to help you out. Have you all heard of Wren Terrington?”
An excited murmur crescendos around the room.
“Know her?” Alejandro says. “She’s the shit.”
“She is.” I laugh. “She also happens to be one of my best friends.”
“And you kept this from us why ?” Kayla props a hand on her bony hip.
Why did I? Why didn’t I ever invite Wren to class? Why didn’t I work with my kids outside of school? Why didn’t I talk to
them about how to become a professional artist? Perhaps because I don’t even know what it takes to be a professional artist.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Give me a sec.” I step outside to get reception and text Wren the address. I breathe in the fresh
air, a little lightheaded from the lack of ventilation inside.
I hear the kids laughing as I wait for Wren. I text Ben to let him know I’ll be home soon. I think about the interloper who
will invade our lives for a week, starting tomorrow. I’m not ready for any of it, but it feels like I don’t have much choice.
“Hey!” Wren shouts a few minutes later from the edge of the alley. “You dumpster diving now?”
I roll my eyes. “Inside.” I pull open the door and watch her eyes light up as she drinks it all in.
She’s quiet as she studies what’s here and finally claps her hands. Excitement transforms her face as she casts them all a wicked glance. “Oh, children. Where have you been hiding?”
I leave them to it, saying goodbye to the kids and giving Alejandro a long hug and a stern warning to be good.
Now I’m back to reality and instantly reminded that tomorrow someone new will be in our home, watching us, becoming a part
of us. Tomorrow I will have to share personal details with a stranger about my life with Ben. Smearing away the thoughts,
I pick up my pace as I head home. I want to enjoy the rest of today.
Tomorrow can wait.