CHAPTER FIVE
EMERSON
“Your sky …” Suki says from behind me. She sounds breathless, like she’s in awe, which is unlike her normally stoic demeanor. Her head is shaking slowly as she studies the canvas in front of me. “It’s breathtaking.”
I frown as I scrutinize my work. “You’re biased.”
“I might be your best friend,” she argues, “but I’d still tell you if your work was crap.”
A giggle escapes like a sigh. Suki is known for her complete honesty, even if it comes across as brutal at times.
“So, this one isn’t crap?” I drawl.
She narrows her dark eyes suspiciously. “Stop fishing for compliments, Em. It isn’t a good look. You know it’s amazing.”
I smile at her, not because I think this painting is great, but because she’s such a loyal friend to me. She’ll call me out as fast as she will compliment my work. I always know it’s a genuine assessment from her either way. I lucked out when we got paired up as roommates at the beginning of freshman year. I feel like I’ve known Suki for years rather than just a few months.
I take two steps back and tilt my head to observe the picture from a different angle. Suki might be the biggest fan of my work while I remain my biggest critic. I drive her crazy when I’m not satisfied with the way a painting is coming along and I scratch it altogether to start over. What can I say? I’m a dramatic artist. I have to be happy with my work before I put it out for public consumption. Not that anyone is clamoring for my paintings. I’m still a work in progress and virtually unknown in the art world.
I just discovered my love for painting in high school. I took an elective class and fell hard for it. My parents are practical and never encouraged us to pursue anything in the arts. They don’t think I can make a living this way. But I found it anyway—or it found me—and once I did, I was hooked. I haven’t put down the paintbrush since.
“By the way,” Suki adds as she makes her way back to her station, “you have paint on your cheek. Again .”
“It’ll just make me more colorful.” I smirk. “And pot … meet kettle.”
Suki is a sculptor, so she’s usually covered in clay. And I end up with just as much color on my skin and in my hair as I do on the canvas most days. But that’s when I know something I’m working on is becoming something great. Because I lose myself in it. I love the entire process. The smell of the paint and the texture of it on the canvas. The blending of the colors. Creating something from nothing.
Esme—the course professor who wears long, flowing dresses and insists that we call her by her first name rather than her last—stops by to add her two cents of my work. Her hippie vibe follows her throughout the classroom, giving the space an open, creative feel. She critiques a few areas and compliments others, but she’s constructive. I file away her comments for tomorrow, when I’m here to work on the piece again.
It’s the end of the semester, so everyone is focused on our final projects. I’m more concerned with personal gratification from the artwork than my final grade. But Esme has proven to always be fair. This is my second class with her since starting at Sinclair, and I’ve already signed up to take another one with her next semester.
I clean my palette and store my canvas in the designated space while Suki does the same with her materials. I’m packing my backpack when my name is called. I glance to the front of the studio at Esme.
“I need a word before you run off,” the art teacher says.
Suki touches my shoulder after slinging her canvas tote across her body. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Okay.” I nod.
The classroom clears as I make my way over to Esme. Sunlight streams through the large windowpanes, painting the area in natural light. The gray strands in Esme’s dark hair look nearly white in the light, giving her an ethereal glow.
“Your final project is amazing,” she begins, creating a warm feeling in the center of my chest.
The compliment feels good, especially coming from a fellow artist who’s been working in the field for years. It means even more because my parents have been less than encouraging, basically ignoring my passion.
The few times I confessed how much I loved my art classes in high school, I received a condescending pat on the head, like I was a child presenting a fingerpainting to hang on the fridge rather than a young woman pursuing a newfound love. They were worse than discouraging. They were patronizing. They made me feel foolish, like the pursuit was a waste of time.
But how can something you love be futile? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do when we’re young … try different things to discover what we enjoy and what we’re good at and try to make money while doing it? I guess not if your name is Emerson Evans.
But it isn’t just me. My parents are equally disparaging of anything Eve does. The difference is, she doesn’t care. My sister has never let our parents get under her skin the way I do. Or if she does, she hides it better than I do. Plus, I don’t think Eve has ever searched for her passion. She declared her major as business because her classes were filled with mostly guys.
“Your work just keeps getting better and better,” Esme continues. “I’m really impressed with your progress this year.”
“Thank you.” I’m genuinely touched.
Her natural, makeup-free face is warm as she speaks. “I was approached by a local business recently. They have a wall downtown. It’s large and brick and plain, and they want a mural of campus painted on it. I showed them some of your work, and they think you’d be the perfect student to create it.”
The relaxed smile falls from my face as my mouth drops open. “What?”
She nods. “They love your landscapes. They were particularly blown away by the sunsets you’d painted this year.”
“Wow … I don’t know what to say.”
The local businesses are very supportive of the students and the university. They participate in homecoming events every year, allowing the sororities and fraternities to paint their storefront windows in competition. And every one of them supports sporting events, especially hockey. Most of the locals are shoulder to shoulder with the students in the arena each year, cheering on the team.
“Will you be around this summer?” she asks.
“I wasn’t planning to be,” I admit, “but I could arrange it.”
My mind is spinning a mile a minute as I try to process everything she’s saying and think about staying here rather than going home. The way my parents and I haven’t been getting along lately, avoiding a summer at home sounds even more appealing.
“It’s a large space,” she says. “I think it will take you most of the break to complete it. They plan to pay you for your time and work.”
“I’m up for the job,” I promise, realizing what a huge opportunity this is and knowing that I’ll need the money to afford staying here.
Her smile grows again. “I know you are. That’s why I recommended you for it.”
“Thank you so much, Esme.”
I’m thanking her for the mural commission, but also for believing in me. No matter how self-sufficient I think I am, how independent, I still need people in my corner. I’m insecure about my art. It’s nice to feed off their confidence in my abilities when I doubt myself.
“You’re welcome, Emerson. I’ll have more details for you in the next few days.” She squeezes my arm. “And I can’t wait to see what you create.”
Esme starts gathering her things. I turn to go.
“Oh, one more thing,” she says before I leave. “They want the hockey arena included in the mural. The owner is apparently a big sports fan.”
I nod. “No problem.” I’m already planning the picture in my head and the way I’ll paint the sky …
Suki straightens from her spot against the building when I exit. “What was that about?”
“One of the businesses in town wants a wall painted. A picture of campus. They asked me to do it.”
My best friend’s face lights up, and she turns to me as we fall into step together. “Are you serious? That’s awesome, Em!” We take a few more steps. “Maybe I should’ve become a painter rather than a sculptor.”
I laugh. “I don’t think you’ll be saying that when I come to your gallery openings, and you’re a famous sculptor, selling out all her work.”
Suki is really talented. I believe she will be in galleries one day, showing her pieces, and that she’ll be incredibly popular.
“One can dream …” she sighs.
“It’ll happen,” I add. “Oh, and the best part about the mural … they’re going to pay me for it.” I pause as we continue walking across campus. “Which couldn’t come at a better time because my parents are cutting me off.”
Suki stops, pulling me off the pathway when a guy almost runs into the back of us. “What? When?”
“Last night, when I told them I officially declared my major in the visual arts.”
My friend looks angry on my behalf. She seems even madder than I was when it happened. I wasn’t surprised when my parents and I fought after my declaration. I hadn’t expected them to be happy about it. But I also hadn’t anticipated that they would stop paying my tuition.
“I know they’ve never supported your art,” she scoffs indignantly, “which I’ve never understood. You’re so talented, Em. If you were my kid, I’d be so proud of your abilities. I just don’t get it.”
I stay quiet. I mean, really, what is there to say? Their lack of support has always hurt. But with that pain came a determination to do things my way. I plan to show them that I can turn my passion into a career, to prove them wrong. Even if I have to struggle, it’s worth it to me to do something that I love rather than be miserable while working a nine-to-five position that I loathe every day. The more we disagree about my future path, the more the distance grows between us. And now, the struggle becomes real because I’ll be forced to take out student loans and get a part-time job if I want to continue at the university without their financial support.
“What are you going to do?” she asks after a few beats of silence.
“I’ll look into financial aid. I have an appointment with an adviser later this week. I’ll figure things out,” I assure her, sounding more confident than I actually am. But I’m also resolved to forge my own way. The entire situation has lit a fire beneath me.
We start walking again.
“In a way, it’s a relief. If they aren’t paying for things, they have no say in my life or my choices. I’ll be truly on my own at this point.”
Suki nods. “People say that. But paying for college isn’t cheap. And then there are living expenses …”
I side-eye her. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” she insists. She pauses, biting her lower lip. “I’m just worried. I can’t imagine being here without you.”
“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”
We enter a coffee shop on the edge of campus and order a couple of iced lattes. Once they are in hand, we sit at a table in the corner.
“I could call our landlord … see if the place is available for the summer too,” my friend suggests.
We planned to live together in an apartment off-campus next year. We’ve already signed the lease, securing the place, but it isn’t ours until August.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and consider her offer. “Even if it’s ready early, I can’t afford a two-bedroom without you.”
“I could stay here too,” she announces. “I wasn’t sure about going home anyway. I could get a job … see if there are any classes I could take …”
“Really?”
Her ideas fuel my hope.
“Let me talk to my parents and see what I can do,” she says.
I smile and take a long pull from the straw, slightly jealous that her parents are so supportive when mine … aren’t.
We brainstorm for the next twenty minutes on how to make this happen before parting ways. Suki heads to her next class, and I start walking across campus, taking pictures with my iPhone in preparation for the mural.
The entire time, I’m planning the scene in my head. Which buildings I want to include. How I want the sky to look. I end up at the edge of the university in front of the hockey arena. The parking lot is basically empty. The season is over, though it seems like the team is always practicing regardless.
I’m snapping shots with the lens facing the front entrance when the door opens and out walks Sam Anderson. He’s running a hand through his hair, and when he sees me taking a picture, he smirks.
“If you wanted a picture of me, all you had to do was ask.”
I shake my head at his ego. Confidence oozes from him in waves as he walks closer. We’re strangers, yet he’s talking to me like he’s known me forever.
My eyes narrow into a glare. “What’s your name again?”
His smirk widens into a cocky grin. “I’m sure you know what my name is.”
“But do you remember mine?” I ask, cocking my head.
He studies me for a moment, long enough for me to realize he has no idea who I am. It’s not surprising.
“You must’ve been drunker than I thought that night,” I comment dryly, turning away to snap another picture.
He steps closer, invading my space brazenly and towering over my small frame. The wind blows his scent over me, and I’m annoyed to realize he smells good, like soap and some type of cologne.
“Did we spend a night together?” His voice is rough, like gravel.
I drop my hand until my phone is hovering at my side and meet his stare. He knows what he’s doing. He’s aware of the effect he has on the opposite sex. I’m not immune to his charm and appeal, but at the same time, I’m not the type to be hypnotized by messy dirty-blond hair and a sexy smile.
My gaze is drawn to his eyes. Since I started painting, I notice colors in a way that most don’t. I study them to get them just right in my paintings. The lighting, the shading. His eyes are this mysterious shade of gray with flecks of blue in them. But they look empty. The whites surrounding them are streaked with red, like he’s hungover or he hasn’t slept much the past few days. Maybe both. For all the cocky facade he likes to portray, there’s something missing when you actually look deeper, beneath the beautiful exterior. He seems … sad. Or lost. With that realization, I lose the will to knock him down another notch.
“No, we didn’t spend the night together,” I say honestly. “We met, once. Briefly. It obviously wasn’t memorable.” To you or to me.
“Well, if you want to change that … I’m free later tonight.”
His lips are tilted into that crooked smirk again as he draws me in. But I don’t feel special, even though he is gorgeous. Because this boy standing before me is as empty as his proposition. And I’m worth way more than a roll in the sheets with a guy who’s just looking to get off.
I smile, and I can tell he thinks he has me. I’m sure that seductive little smirk gets him just about anything he wants most of the time.
“Hard pass.”
He scoffs out a laugh, appearing amused. “Well, if you change your mind … Emerson … I’m sure you know how to find me.”
I try to hide my surprise when he says my name, but by the look on his face, I do a poor job of it. He walks off smugly. I watch him go for a few steps before tucking my phone away.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I add in an elevated voice to get the last word in.
He doesn’t turn around, but his chuckle resonates across the air as I head in the opposite direction. I smile despite myself.
As I walk, I consider how few people surprise me. I’m shocked that Sam was one of them. It piques my curiosity for the first time where he’s concerned, wondering what lies beneath the pretty package. Maybe he’s more than I initially thought, though I’ll likely never find out. We don’t exactly run in the same circles.
But it’s interesting when you get a brief glimpse beneath the surface … how much you can truly see. And how many more questions arise.
I shake my head to clear it and get lost in planning my mural again.