12
I wake to a cheap wine headache and an overly dry mouth.
Apparently I fell asleep on the couch after staying up talking to Liam most of the night. Our conversation floats through
my head now: stories of his family, my family, favorite trips, biggest dreams, least favorite foods, best places to shop,
biggest indulgences. I run through his answers, committing them to memory: his mother, who died of cancer, and a father who
was never there, Guatemala, write a novel one day, onions, Muji, two-dollar movie marathons at the old theater in his neighborhood.
On and on the list went, until I was hoarding the details of Liam’s life as if studying for a final. I search for him now
and find a note on the coffee table. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and quickly scan it:
Didn’t want to wake you. I have a story this morning, so I will probably be out most of the day. Please make yourself at home.
Last night meant the world to me, Harper. Can we do it again tonight? I’ll bring the pickles. Happy creating.
Pickles. I told him that was one of my favorite indulgences: a crisp dill pickle on a hot summer day, because it reminds me of my childhood. I clutch the note to my chest. Last night was one of the happiest nights of my life. We stayed up talking until nearly four in the morning. I have never felt this connected to someone so quickly, and frankly, it’s unsettling. The last thing I thought would happen in coming here would be to fall for someone, and never so quickly. Though we did not kiss or touch outside of that magical moment on the bridge, there is the promise of it, and for me, that is enough.
I gather my hair into a ponytail, brush my teeth, make a strong pot of coffee, and panic when I realize it’s almost eleven.
I don’t ever sleep this late, and I’ve lost valuable time that I need. Suddenly Rita’s expectations feel far too demanding.
Besides college, I’ve never created from such an immense sense of pressure, and I’m not sure if I can rise to the occasion.
I take a breath and remind myself that I can do this. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why she’s giving me this shot. My eyes
scan Liam’s loft, a loft I would kill for, a life I would kill for. If he can do it, then maybe I can too.
After coffee, a hot shower, and some toast slathered with honey and peanut butter, I get ready to shake out the contents of
all four bags of my supplies but find that Liam has already done that for me. He has arranged all of my brushes, paints, and
canvases on one of his long worktables. Another invisible check goes into the I’m falling for this man category. I decided last night that I would do a painting instead of a ceramic. Partly because of time, and partly because
I don’t want to turn Liam’s studio into a dusty, dirty mess.
One of my favorite ways to work with paint is to add in other elements. I play with dimensions and sometimes bring in items from nature or fabric swatches to make the canvas a living, breathing thing. Before I begin, I flip through my existing portfolio and wonder what is missing that Rita needs to see.
I try to assess my own work through Rita Clementine’s eyes, a woman who has seen every type of talent and medium, and I quickly
find that scanning now with a critical eye, she’s right: There’s no pain here, no suffering. No real inspiration. It’s good, but it’s a young artist’s work. A student’s, even. I close the book and
stare at the blank canvas. What do I want to convey? What do I feel the most passionate about? Uncapping all the paints, I
try to answer the question she asked: What am I most afraid of? My eyes drift toward Liam’s window, where the Manhattan Bridge
looms outside.
That’s it.
In my bare feet, I rush to the window, studying the bridge: its angles, its weight, the water beneath it. Suddenly an image
surfaces of me standing on the bridge, alone, then wrapped in the arms of someone I love, then climbing up the wires, then
plunging into the still, black water. A woman in all of her possibility. A woman straddling an island. A woman whose life
is fully realized, in all its agony and glory.
This could be my love letter to this city I barely know, a love letter to myself—my whole self. I chew over the idea, making
sure it’s not ridiculous or juvenile. How could I bring in different elements for the woman and the bridge? If I want to make
the bridge feel real, I need to collect some items to capture the actual grit of the city. Glancing at the canvas now, I realize
it’s much too small. This piece needs to be large—not so massive that I can’t get it out of Liam’s door, but something that
will stand out on Rita’s gallery wall. It will be an homage to this city, maybe something like... Just a Visitor Here .
The inspiration gathers in my bones as I rush to sketch my ideas. When I look up again, it’s three in the afternoon, and I have a list of supplies and know just where I want to start.
As if I’ve conjured him, Liam comes through the door softly, like he doesn’t want to disturb me, though this is his loft.
“Harper?”
I love the way my name sounds on his lips.
“Over here.” I finish up my list and smile at him as he emerges around the corner. His black glasses enhance his beautiful
eyes, and he thrusts a hand through his hair. Now I know his scent, like fresh laundry and pine trees. My stomach clenches
as I see him, and one word plays over and over in my mind: mine, mine, mine .
He glances at my notes once I tell him my idea. “This is brilliant.”
“It is?”
“Yes.” He leans in toward me, both hands braced on his worktable, and I fold into him like the sun. I feel it in my toes,
this magnetism. I want to taste him. I want to know everything about Liam Carter Hale. My nerves spark like fireflies, and
my stomach flips again.
“How was your day?”
“Good.” He claps his hands together and rubs them vigorously. “Are we ready to start tackling this list or what?”
The thought of going on a scavenger hunt beneath the bridge for what I need excites me almost more than creating the piece
itself. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Nope.” He swipes his keys. “Let’s go treasure hunting.”
I slip on my shoes, grab my coat and an empty bag, and we are out the door. I don’t know how to tell him that I’ve already found my treasure: that in twenty-four hours I’ve gained more than I have in the last twenty-four years. Being here feels like a portal or a parallel life. I can’t even think about the end of this week or what it means. I don’t want to go back to Chicago, back to my life.
I want more.
I want Liam and this view and Rita Clementine and Kendall. I want to start over, here. I want to build a real life.
He takes my hand as we circle to the right outside of his building and toward the bridge that hulks above us, braced, waiting.
I’ve never allowed myself to want more than what I have, but here I am, making wishes like a child.
Please let this all work out , I say to myself as we near the bridge.
Please let this be my new life.