14
The next day, Ben wants to take Liam on a crash course of his life: all the local race spots he’s won, the music studio he
still rents (but rarely uses), and the special places that comprise our life together.
I decide I don’t want to be a third wheel, mainly because in the clear, sober light of day, the guilt of spending time with
Liam last night lingers. While I had a good time and Ben was on board, if I search deeply, I don’t trust myself around Liam.
I’m afraid he will see right through me and understand that I am barely hanging on. I cannot afford to fall apart, not while
Ben is still alive and breathing.
I tell the boys to have a great day, avoiding all eye contact with Liam, and decide to get organized in my studio. I call
Jenna on the way. There’s an audible struggle, and then Wren comes onto the phone, her voice smooth, like honey, which is
probably why she can get any artist to do pretty much anything. That, and she’s brilliant.
“Harper, honey. Number one: Don’t forget about the full moon ritual. Number two: What are you doing Augusttwentieth?”
“August twentieth?” I tip my face to the sun and try to suss out a smile. Normally, Ben and I would have made plans during the summer: little forty-eight-hour trips used to be our jam, followed by one big road trip, where we’d pick an ending location and spend about two adventurous weeks getting there before school started back up. There were the obstacle course races too, of which we’d usually do a few. But now there are no plans, no weekend trips or spontaneous adventures. There is our condo, a million takeout menus, and painful reminders of what we once were. And not enough time.
“I’m not sure,” I say in response. “Why?”
“Oh, because I booked your solo show. Can you be ready?”
I stop on the sidewalk, stunned into silence.
“Harper, did I lose you?”
“Wren, in what universe do you think I would even want to do a solo show? Especially with everything that’s going on?” I attempt
to keep my voice steady.
She exhales, no doubt having taken a long pull from a joint. I can imagine her piling her dreads on top of her head and scrunching
her beautiful dark forehead. “Because I think you’re ready. And so does Ben.”
All attempts at staying calm fly out the window. “Excuse me, what?” I turn in a semicircle on the street, as if Ben and Wren
are going to jump out and tell me this is all some big joke. Is this what they were cooking up all along? “Did Ben put you
up to this?” I think about his insistence that I give art a real shot. If this is his way of pushing me into taking my art
more seriously, he has grossly miscalculated what might motivate me. As I wait for Wren to answer, her silence tells me everything.
“Harper, you’ve pushed your art to the back burner for too long,” she finally says. “You’re a great teacher. No one argues
that. But just like you said, is that what you really want? To teach forever? Yesterday you told me you wished you could know
what life might have been like if you’d pursued art. So I’m giving you that chance.”
I think about the stupid wish I said out loud. Did Wren then go to Ben so they could scheme behind my back? I massage my temples,
suddenly feeling exhausted.
“Okay, Wren, let me indulge your little fantasy for a second. Let’s say I was up for a solo show. In case you aren’t aware,
I need pieces.”
“You need at least a dozen for a solo show. Preferably more.”
I begin walking again, but my legs feel rubbery. A dozen? The only thing I currently have is my half-baked series of Ben.
Wren knows perfectly well how long it takes to do mixed media, or even portraits. And the more time I spend on portraits,
the more I realize that’s not how I want to memorialize Ben. I want a different medium; I just haven’t figured it out yet.
And I certainly can’t figure it out with a deadline looming.
“There are going to be some big names there,” she continues. “Collectors. Dealers. Other gallery owners. Give it some thought
and let me know as soon as you can.” She hangs up, and I cry out, staring at my cell phone in my palm.
“This is not happening,” I say to no one. I walk the rest of the way over the pedestrian bridge, my mind in overdrive. While
having a solo show is something most artists dream of, typically they would create their pieces first, then get the show. Now it’s being handed to me on a silver platter, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
I’m shuttled back to the opportunity I botched with Rita Clementine. If I’m being honest, I’ve always hated how that one opportunity killed my artistic spirit. I retreated to teaching because it felt like the safer option. I’ve been hiding ever since, never really giving myself a chance to shine. I stop again and someone nearly rams into the back of me. I apologize and wonder about Wren’s real sense of urgency: What if this isn’t really about me? Maybe it’s about Ben seeing me doing something I love, and she wants him to know I can make this a true career before he’s gone. Tears flood my eyes as I frantically text her.
Are you doing this for me or for Ben?
Is there a difference? she types back.
I’ll think about it , I reply.
I know you will , she responds.
I take a shaky breath and unlock my studio, which is much too warm. I flip on the air-conditioning unit, crank on some ?80s
music, and assess all the pieces I have so far with a fresh perspective. Some of them are good; some aren’t. I open a sketch
pad to a new page and decide to brainstorm—just for fun—what a solo show could actually be. Maybe instead of just a tribute
to Ben, it can be a tribute to us, to the life he will leave behind.
The ideas start to flow as I write down a list of what I might need. When I strip away the nerves, I find a bit of excitement
lurking beneath the surface.
When I look up again, it’s four in the afternoon. I’ve come up with a loose idea for the show and tried out a few new ideas.
My body is stiff, my neck aches, and I’m starving.
I check my phone and am disappointed to find I have no missed texts from Ben. Hopefully he is having fun, but I also hope
Liam knows not to push it too much. I chew the side of my fingernail as I think of them together, becoming friendly, swapping
stories. Have they talked about me yet?
I pack up and text Ben on my way back. How are you and your boyfriend doing?
He types back almost immediately. Like I said yesterday, I don’t know why I came up with this idea for you instead of me.
Great. I’ll get you a wedding gift , I fire back. Towels or china?
Condoms , he replies. Just lots and lots of condoms.
Wow , I type back. Where are you?
Just about to get a bite. Want to join?
I hesitate. I’m covered in paint, in my stained overalls, and would love a beer and a bath, but instead, I tell him yes. They’re
getting burritos at one of our favorite dives, and as I walk back across the bridge, something like peace settles over me
for the first time in a while. I’m painting again. I could have my first solo show. Liam is going to write an amazing article about Ben.
Ben is having a good day; therefore I am having a good day.
For now, it’s a win-win.