Chapter 3
Imust’ve fallen asleep watching Phantom’s old painting videos again because my phone is on my chest when I wake up.
My suspicions are confirmed when I check it and find the battery dead.
Wiping remnants of sleep from my eyes, I pop my phone on to charge and haul myself out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom.
Everly starts throwing a tantrum down the hall, her high-pitched screams making my ears feel like they’re bleeding.
My fingernails claw against the wall I was leaning against for balance, every cell of my body hating the noise.
In the bathroom, I relieve myself and take a shower, grateful for the much-needed ambient noise.
The hot water reinvigorates my senses and wakes my groggy mind.
Wrapped in a plush teal-colored towel, I wipe thick condensation from the mirror above the vanity. The reflection staring back at me today is much happier. Her dark green eyes are brighter and free of tears, freckled cheeks pink from the heat. Her mouth is bent in a small smile.
Today will be a good day.
Absentmindedly, I go through my morning routine as I sing along to the Taylor Swift vinyl record blaring from atop my chest of drawers, choosing an ensemble of black canvas high-top sneakers and off-white overalls over a form-fitting black turtleneck crop top.
After layering a few dainty gold necklaces around my neck, I push several chunky gold rings onto my messily polished fingers.
My roots tug at my scalp as I twist my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.
I don’t want it getting in my way today.
The charger releases with a snap as I grab my phone off the nightstand. I cut the music off and toss my coveralls in my already too-full backpack before dashing down the stairs, almost falling on my ass as I do so.
“And why, exactly, are you running in my house?” Dad demands with a furrowed brow, looking more amused than serious as he walks past me with a laundry basket against his hip.
I grip the banister to steady myself. “Sorry, Noah’s picking me up for class today.”
Dad nods as he readjusts his grip on the overflowing hamper.
“I’ll be getting home late this afternoon too. I want to finish up a painting for class.”
“Sure. Just be home for dinner at five.”
I murmur a quick, “Will do,” as I weave my way past him, walking down the hall and into the kitchen.
Dad already has our breakfast and lunches ready.
I grab a blueberry muffin from a plate near the stove and take a big bite.
It’s still warm, the sugary crumbs melting on my tongue in an instant.
They must have just come out of the oven.
“Delicious, Dad. Thank you,” I say after swallowing.
Dad stays home to take care of us all while Mom works long hours as a lawyer.
Once upon a time, he was a chef at a five-star restaurant in downtown Chicago, but now he cooks just for us.
I’m sure he misses the big, fancy restaurant kitchen, so I always make a point to compliment his food.
Maybe it’s overkill, but I can tell he appreciates the praise all the same.
I’m swallowing my final bite when I hear Noah pull into the driveway, a brief honk following the sound of rubber crunching on concrete. A grunt escapes my lips as I heave my boulder of a backpack from where I’d dropped it in the entryway and head out the front door.
Noah’s black SUV is freshly polished and reflects my image like a mirror. He leans over to kiss me as I slide into the passenger side seat, a crisp, clean ‘new car’ smell washing over me like a wave.
“Hey babe,” he says before his lips meet mine. They’re warm and taste like toothpaste—like home.
“Hi,” I reply, grinning wide. “How was your training camp?”
“Great! I placed third in the final scrimmage match.” He puts the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway.
“That’s great,” I enthuse. Noah’s part of a club baseball league, and even though their competitive season doesn’t start until the spring, they’re still training hard for their recreational games this fall.
“I got my phone back this morning too,” he continues, flashing me the newly repaired screen and shaking his head in embarrassment. “Finally all fixed.”
“You really need to stop trying to video call while inebriated,” I chide playfully, knowing full well I’m the reason for his drunken antics.
“Pssh, so worth it,” he says, smirking in the devastatingly charming way he does. “How was Grayson’s game on Saturday?”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Same as always.”
He glances sidelong at me. “And yesterday? What did you do?”
“Finished the sunrise painting I started. I had to change a few things and add a few layers for texture and depth, but I think it came out good,” I say a little breathlessly. “Want to see a picture?”
Noah nods emphatically. “Of course.”
I wait until we’re stopped at a stoplight to show him.
I added more blue hues to the edges of the painting to tie in the specks of darkness at the center.
Now the painting gives the impression of lingering night, the swiftly lightening sky clinging to the calm safety of darkness, as if for dear life.
It’s a bit disconcerting, but it also makes me feel hopeful, in a way.
Like if I just try hard enough, fight with enough ferocity and determination, I too can hold off the inevitable.
Noah’s bright blue eyes rove over the image for a few seconds.
“It’s beautiful, Maeve,” he says. “You keep getting better and better. It’s amazing.”
“Really? You think so?” My cheeks heat, the burn creeping toward my ears.
“I know so.”
“Does it make you feel anything?” I ask, bringing the image back to myself as the light turns green and Noah refocuses on the road.
He takes a minute to consider, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel, before responding, “Love.”
“Why?” I ask, turning in my seat to regard him.
“Because you made it.” He smirks like it’s the smoothest thing he’s ever said.
On the outside, I laugh and playfully swat at him, but on the inside, my stomach drops; not the anticipatory swoop of butterflies, either, but the sensation of a missed step—of a sudden free fall.
Noah’s supportive, amazingly so, but he doesn’t get my art. He’s a data and computers guy, so artsy stuff doesn’t often make a lot of sense to him, and sometimes, like right now, that reminds me how little we have in common.
Noah and I have been friends since we were six years old.
We met in kindergarten, and from what our parents have always told us, we came together serendipitously on the playground one day and have been inseparable ever since.
I don’t actually remember a time in my life when Noah wasn’t by my side.
He smiled at me whenever we painted in elementary school, even though he wasn’t very good at it, took me to the nurse’s office when I fell off a swing set and broke my arm, listened to me while I yapped on and on about my first crush, kissed me under the bleachers sophomore year of high school, and held me while I cried the day Alexis went off to college.
He’s my cheerleader, my friend, my rock.
So maybe, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter that we don’t have anything in common outside of our shared history. At least we make attempts to be interested in each other’s passions, even if we don’t always hit the mark.
I’m yanked from my thoughts as we roll into the community college parking lot, coming to a jerky stop in our usual spot before we hop out with our bags in tow.
Noah throws his arm over my shoulder as we walk toward the back entrance.
He smells like cedar and eucalyptus; the same cologne he’s worn since I’d gifted it to him three Christmases ago.
The scent is as much him now as his smile or his laugh.
When we get to our classroom, a general education physics course Noah and I are both struggling through, I sit at a desk near the back of the room and pull the necessary textbook from my backpack before placing it on the heavily graffitied desk.
As I mindlessly flip through the pages, I get the urge to check my social media again—only this time I don’t resist it.
I let the textbook fall open to a random page while I check the notifications from each of my apps in turn.
I’m thoroughly engrossed in my feed until the sharp smack of a textbook meeting wood—with far more force than necessary, I might add—seizes my attention.
Startled, I curse as my phone slips from my grip before clattering to the floor.
Before I can compose myself, Noah’s bending down to retrieve it for me.
I thank him and hold my hand out expectantly, but he doesn’t give it over.
When I raise my gaze to his face, his pale eyebrows are pinched together.
“Maeve, I was talking to you.” His lips press into a thin line.
“When?”
“Just now. The entire time you were doom-scrolling on your phone. You didn’t hear a word, did you?” His gaze is hard, judgmental.
“No, I didn’t,” I admit truthfully, holding my hand out for my phone again. “I’m sorry.”
Noah’s fist clenches around it, knuckles going white. “You’re getting addicted.”
My throat constricts, making my voice come out uncharacteristically pitchy. “What do you mean?”
“This thing might as well be an extension of your hand. You never set it down or let it out of your sight. Am I really that boring?” he asks, his tone sharpening.
My jaw drops. “What? Of course not.”
“Then what is it?” The tension bleeds from his brow, releasing the pinched skin above the bridge of his nose. “Why do you look at your social media so much?”
My cheeks flame under his scrutiny. “I share my art there. I’m looking to see what people think of it .
. . whether they like it,” I admit quietly, and more than a bit shamefully.
It feels like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t, but that’s bullshit.
He uses his social media just as much as I use mine.
Noah’s mouth pulls into a frown before saying, “I like your art, Maeve.”
“I know you do,” I mutter as my erratic pulse slows.
Noah closes the distance between us, squatting beside my chair to gently tuck stray face-framing flyaways behind my ear. “Then who cares what anyone else thinks?” he asks softly.
But he doesn’t get it. He probably never will.
He’s never been overlooked a day in his life, never had to compete for his parents’ attention, never had to prove to the world he’s worth something.
He’s an only child. His self-worth has been reinforced with every good report card, every sports trophy, and every breath through his lungs.
I’ve had to fight tooth and nail for mine.
If I’m being completely honest with myself, I share my art for attention. Acknowledgment. Understanding. If I could make just one person feel something real with my art, like how Phantom’s art consistently makes me feel, it would be the highlight of my entire year.
All I want to do is connect. Connect with someone on a deeper level than I can with Noah and my family. Because every day that goes by without that connection feels like slowly bleeding out, growing colder and weaker day by day.
No one can see me. All anyone ever does is see through me.
“You’re right,” I lie, letting the transparent, paper-thin version of myself take over. “Who cares.”
I give him what I hope is a convincing smile. It seems to work. He hands me my phone back and quickly kisses my forehead.
“I love you, M.”
“Love you too.”
And I mean it. I’m pretty sure I mean it. Like 97% sure.
After class, Noah and I split up and I’m dragging my feet again, reluctantly shuffling to the stuffy little coffee shop on campus to wait until my next class.
Curled up like a contented cat in a worn leather armchair in the corner of the shop, a steaming mug of peachy green tea in one hand, I sketch mindlessly with the other.
More doodles than anything, but it soothes the turbulent ruminations consuming the space between my ears all the same.
Creating art, even something as silly and inconsequential as doodling, puts every SSRI I’ve ever been prescribed to shame.
At the sound of my phone chirping, reminding me of the time, my spirits lift, and I pack up my sketch pad and dash across campus before weaving through the art building’s cramped halls.
When I enter the studio allocated to my advanced painting course, I find my classmates retrieving their canvases from the storage cabinet.
After I free my canvas from the darkness, a rush of warmth seeps through me.
I’m especially proud of this painting.
It’s an abstract, my first ever. It was inspired by a painting of Phantom’s from a few months back.
A purposely messy, complicated mixture of shapes, colors, and media.
I sketched with charcoal pencil first, laying out the shapes, mostly circles and ovals—giving the piece dimension.
Then I layered on several coats of oil paint in varying hues of blue and green, allowing the dark charcoal marks to peek through from beneath by using turpentine to dilute them into a diverse array of consistencies.
Intentionally, I left small sections of the canvas bare, finding quiet beauty in the spaces left undisturbed.
It still needs a bit more work, but it’s almost there. Almost perfect.
Quickly running my fingertips over the self-made hills and valleys, I decide on my next course of action.
I carry the canvas back to my easel, perch it safely upon the ledge, and step to stand a few feet away, assessing.
After pulling my phone from my backpack, I set it up against a stack of textbooks to my right and angle the camera toward the easel before starting a new livestream.
A deep breath exits my lungs as I squirt dollops of seafoam green and cobalt blue onto my palette.
My eyes find the canvas again, and the weight of my argument with Noah finally lifts off my shoulders. Right now, this is all that matters.
Silence. Art. And my heart.
Putting everything I have onto the canvas before me.
Everyone else might be blind to the real me, but I’m not.
I’ll show you.
Just watch.
Please.
Someone watch.
Someone see.
Me.