16
On the way to the bridge, Liam explains why Dumbo is called Dumbo.
“So it’s not named after the love of an elephant?” I tease.
“Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass,” he clarifies. “This was once a robust waterfront district selling tobacco, sugar,
coffee, and other products. And there used to be lots of fishing too.” He points to all of the warehouses and factory buildings.
“These are all original, but they’ve been converted.”
“For the elephants, clearly.” As we step outside, the subway rattles the bridge overhead. “So why did you choose Dumbo?” I
ask, realizing we never discussed why he chose this side of the river last night. “Cheaper than Manhattan?”
He pauses on the street as a knot of people balloon impatiently around us. “I love Manhattan, but I also love rooting for
the underdog.” He spreads his arms wide. “I like being on the outskirts, connected to the action but not in it all the time.”
“I always feel like I’m on the outskirts,” I admit. “Like I’m on the outside looking in.”
I expect him to wave me off or tell me that’s not true, but his eyes lock onto mine, intense and probing. “You’re not an outsider here.”
My heart thuds in my chest as we start walking again. I want to call his bluff. Aren’t I, though? I don’t really belong here,
don’t really belong anywhere. But when I stop to search my heart, I realize I don’t feel like an outsider here... at least not today.
Liam points to the Waterfront, a large, converted structure that houses a museum and restaurants in one of the old warehouses.
I struggle to absorb the details when really I just want to know more about him. He leads me to the underbelly of the bridge.
There’s a small, squat brick building to the right and an open fence to the left. Liam easily steps through and motions to
the concrete around him.
“Let the foraging begin.”
We work silently. He gives me room to wander and explore. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but that’s what I love
about pulling other mediums into my art. Sometimes I surprise myself. As I push deeper beneath the bridge, Liam startles me
as he appears beside me.
“So why Chicago?”
It’s the same question I asked him just moments ago. Last night we discussed my path from college to landing my job at the
gallery, but not why I’ve stayed there, since it’s clear I don’t really love it.
I toss a rock up and down in my palm, weighing it, before launching it back into a patch of dirt. “Well, for starters, I went
to college there, so it made sense to stay for a job. The gallery is a decent gig, but I’m just not lit up by Chicago the
way I am here.”
“Well, nothing beats New York.”
“I agree.” I dig in the dirt for another rock or pebble. “It’s not that I’m not grateful, because I am, but it almost feels like a placeholder, like I’m waiting for my real life to begin.”
“Would you move if you got another opportunity? Let’s say with a very prominent gallery owner who loves your art?”
“Without question,” I respond.
“Then what’s the problem?” he asks. “Chicago is just temporary.”
I shrug. Do I really want to get into all of this? “I really thought I wanted to work in a gallery,” I explain. “But galleries
don’t pay the bills. It’s also hard to find time to focus on my art. And yet I can’t afford to go all in on my art without
another job. So last year, as a backup, I decided to go back to school and get my teaching certificate, so now I have options.
I can do, I can sell, or I can teach.”
He smiles. “Well, that sounds like a smart plan to me.” He stoops down and offers me a perfect leaf. I clutch it as if he’s
handed me a flower. I resist the urge to smell it. “But for this week, you’re an artist.”
“I’m an artist,” I say. And I want this more than anything , I think. Suddenly I don’t know if I’m talking about him or the opportunity. Before I can say anything else, he leans in,
and I almost close my eyes in anticipation of another kiss. I’ve been thinking about it since last night. Instead, he flicks
something from my shoulder and I step back, embarrassed.
“This is the big dream. New York. Art. You’re here for a reason,” he says.
Am I? The subway rumbles past, and I wait until the shaking has stopped before I respond. I hate that my knee-jerk response is always “Well, yeah, I’d love to be an artist, but there’s so much of the art world that’s out of my control.” I always have an excuse as to why I haven’t made it yet. I know I’m not too old—I’m still in my twenties—but I look at all these people who are younger and more talented, and the panic seizes me. Instead of feeling inspired, I feel paralyzed. I tell him as much.
“So what is in your control?”
I ponder the question as I gather more supplies: rocks, a few pieces of sea glass, a button, scraps of fabric, a pair of reading
glasses, a few objects that will make a wonderful miniature ladder. “I’ve never thought about it before,” I say. “Beyond what
I create, I mean. That’s always in my control, I guess.”
“It’s like writing,” he says, pushing off a column to keep up with me. “As a journalist, I have to stick to the facts. And
how a reader interprets what I write isn’t up to me. But the way I tell the story? That’s all mine.”
I want to tell him that if a reader doesn’t like his work, he can always find another job. But if no one buys my work, I’m
not really an artist, am I?
“What’s holding you back?”
It’s similar to the question Rita asked. I toss a few more objects into my bag and then turn to look at him, unpacking the
question. I’m afraid of getting so close but never making it the way I want to. I’m afraid of never living the life I really
want, or finally getting what I want but still dreaming of something else. I don’t usually verbalize these things. Instead,
I paint them. Or journal about them. “Me, I guess.”
“Oh, well, that’s an easy fix,” he says. “Just become someone else.”
I laugh as we begin walking back to his loft. “Great! Problem solved. Can I be you for a day?”
“Harper.” He stops me with my name on his lips and turns to me. He’s so close I can smell the mint on his breath. “No one has it all figured out, especially me.” He searches above him, as if waiting for the right words. “We show the world what we want to, right? For the most part, I’m content, because I’ve realized the only thing I can really control is how I feel. So most days I choose to feel good.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” I deadpan. “Feeling miserable is way easier.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. He cocks his head at me. “I used to think so too. But stick with me, kid, and we’ll have you painting
unicorns and rainbows in no time.”
“I’ll just ignore the fact that you called me ’kid,’ even though we’re around the same age,” I say. I don’t let myself worry
that he might have also just friend-zoned me. People don’t usually call you “kid” if they want to see you naked.
Back inside, I shake all of the contents out of my bag and sort through all the goodies on Liam’s worktable. He says he has
to run a few errands but will be back in a bit. The moment he’s gone, I study all the objects. I weed out some of the junk
I know I won’t use and sift through the sea glass, buttons, and reading glasses. I know this is an opportunity to go deeper.
To believe in myself in a way I never have before. To create something new.
Hours later, I have transferred several of the scenes onto the canvas, and though it is still unfinished, that tingle tells
me I’m onto something good. The sun is beginning to set, the sky achingly clear as I wrap up for the day. Liam’s not home
yet, and I have no way to call Kendall without a cell phone.
I realize I don’t have anyone else to share my excitement with—that I am here creating, that I am finally in New York. Somewhere
between college graduation and entering the real world these last few years, I’ve forgotten to make friends. I have my parents,
but my mom and dad live in Ohio, and we aren’t especially close, even though I’m an only child.
This hard truth makes me sad. Maybe that’s why I’m so eager to start my life over again somewhere new. I can leave the old disappointments behind. I can have a clean slate.
Luckily, Liam walks through the door to distract me from myself. He drops his bag from his shoulder, his T-shirt sliding up
to reveal a smooth patch of olive skin. My eyes drink him in. He grins as he approaches and braces his hands on his hips.
“How’s it coming?” He studies what I’ve put together on the massive canvas: bits and pieces of Brooklyn, bits and pieces of
me. I’ve sketched all the different versions of the girl, but I haven’t put paint to canvas yet. That will be last, because
that part always goes quickly for me. Liam swipes a hand over his mouth, then drops it. “Harper, this is really good.”
His praise warms me to the bone. “Thank you. I’m excited.”
“Are you done for the day?”
“I am.”
“Good. Come. We’re going on an adventure.”
I don’t even ask where he’s taking me. I simply grab my bag, slip on my shoes, and we are out the door again. The evening
is crisp, and I zip up my jacket and arrange my scarf in a single knot. He points out his favorite park and his local coffee
shop, where they know him by name. As he rattles off all the ways he’s made a life here, I tamp down the jealousy. I, too,
have creature haunts, but it feels like I’m always hiding or observing or simply in a rush. I never try to put myself out
there, to linger and make small talk with people in my community.
We walk and walk, and finally, winded, I stop him in the street. “Are we walking to New Jersey?”
“You’ll see.”
A small thrill works its way over my body as he extends his hand, and I take it. His fingers thread through mine as if they’ve belonged there my whole life. I know people talk about love at first sight, but I never believed until now. And I’m not sure what I believe in terms of a higher power, but I have never felt stronger that Liam Hale was somehow put on this earth just for me.
After an hour of walking and sightseeing, he stops in front of a nondescript building. “Okay. You ready?”
I search for signage, but there is none. “You’re not selling me into a sex-slavery ring, are you?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Not even close.” He holds the door open for me, and I move inside to a dimly lit hallway.
There’s the buzz of animated voices in the very back, but I stop as my eyes adjust, and then gasp. There’s art everywhere:
hanging from the ceiling, on every inch of the walls; even the floors have been painted in graffiti. I take a moment to absorb
it, to feel the inspiration that went into this unique space, and finally, I find my voice.
“What is this place?”
“It’s an underground gallery, put together by kids from all over New York. I volunteer here. They’re getting ready for a show
in a couple of weeks.”
“This is incredible.” I almost ask him when he has time to volunteer on top of everything else, but I’m not surprised. He
leads me deeper into the belly of the gallery, and I see all sorts of portraits, paintings, and sculptures. And they are stunning.
And painful. And raw. And real. Liam lets me wander and absorb. I don’t know why he brought me here, if it’s for inspiration
or validation, but there’s nothing I love more than witnessing art: how it can light you up, how it can talk to you, how it
can change your mind just from the simple act of looking.
I lose all sense of time and space as I drift from room to room. When I’m done, Liam introduces me to a small group of kids who are at the kiln. He’s so comfortable here. I lift my hand as he introduces me and tells them I’m working on a piece for Rita Clementine.
I don’t expect these kids to know who she is, except apparently they do.
“That’s my dream,” a young girl named Keisha says. “To be shown in that gallery. To show her what I can do.”
Her confidence floors me. Here I am, given the biggest opportunity of my career, and I’m still doubting myself. And here’s
Keisha, ready to snap it up, to believe in herself, to take the spot . I make eye contact with Liam, understanding in an instant why he brought me here. He brought me here to understand that
if I don’t want it badly enough, there’s always someone else who does.
We make conversation and even dabble with clay before we leave. The sun is just now descending, and he tugs me toward the
fire escape ladder, where we climb to the top and step out onto an expansive roof. I stop as I see a picnic basket and bottle
of wine near the ledge.
“Is this for us?”
He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. Too cheesy?”
“Cheesy?” I fear I might faint from the sheer romanticism of it all. Is this the errand he was running while I was working?
“Try perfect.”
We slide onto a fluffy blanket and watch the sun descend as we tuck into our falafel sandwiches. He pours us each a glass
of wine, and when we are full and warm under the blankets, I turn to look at him.
“Why did you do all this for me? You don’t even know me.”
He looks at me so intensely, tears spring to my eyes. “But I do, Harper. Already, I do.” He swipes a napkin across his mouth and crumples it in his fist. “You are so wildly talented. I want you to really let yourself believe it this week. See what you can do.”
It’s unnerving for someone to see me so clearly after just a few days. Are my insecurities that visible? Instead of closing
up, however, I nod. “You’re right. I know this is my chance. And I want it.” I look at him, something unsaid passing between
us: I want you .
“Then mission accomplished.” He lies back, propping his head in his hands.
I take a mental picture, wanting to memorize absolutely everything about this week. I tuck in beside him and rest my head
on his chest. It fits. He fits. We fit.
“Are you sure you have to go back?” He traces small circles on my arm.
The moment is broken as I think about what happens after this week. My boss didn’t seem to care that I asked for extra time
off, and my roommates haven’t even checked in. Can I fathom boarding a plane and going back to my life and my job when I know
I can feel like this in another city, in another life? I sit up and smile. “No,” I say suddenly, angling back to look at him.
“I don’t have to go back.”
Liam grins and sits up. “Is that a real possibility?”
I calculate the reasons why I wouldn’t be able to uproot my life, and there’s only a void where excuses should be. I’m an
adult. I can do whatever I want, and that includes moving to the place I’ve always wanted to live. Even if it doesn’t work
out with Rita, I can find another job here. The answer is swift and simple, like most good things. “Yes.”
He tugs on the hem of my T-shirt and pulls me closer, stopping right before his lips find mine. “I’ll make it worth your while,”
he teases.
His lips are so close I can taste them. “You already have.” I close my eyes and press my mouth to his.
In our kiss, there’s an entirely new world I am eager to claim. Him. Me. This. Art. A life worth living. A life of no regrets.
When I’m breathless, I break away and roll to my back, searching for stars through the clouds and artificial lights of the
city.
Can I really leave Chicago? Pack up my life and go? I think through the logistics and feel a wave of giddiness as I imagine
boxing up my few belongings and telling my roommates I’m moving out. As I quit the gallery. As I buy my one-way plane ticket
and set up shop in Brooklyn.
It is possible, I realize now.
I can have my dream life.