Chapter Fifteen Lily #2
Theo is borrowing one of the other instructor’s cars today, a vintage beach Bronco with tan leather seats and a bright-blue exterior.
For his sake as well as my own, I hope he’s a good driver, because every inch of this vehicle would cost a fortune to replace.
Still, it’s nice being here. I feel a sense of contentment down to my fingertips, with the windows open, the top down, the warm air blowing in.
Now that it’s mid-June, the island is in bloom.
“When did you know you loved painting?” Theo asks, one hand on the steering wheel.
“I think I’ve always known, since I first held a paintbrush, but I didn’t know I was allowed to really want it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t know it was possible to make a life doing what I loved. I still don’t. But I’ve never loved painting the appropriate amount.”
“Who decides what’s the ‘appropriate amount’ to love something?” he asks.
“I guess I just mean that the way I felt about it was almost… violent.”
“Violent?” Theo laughs.
“Yeah, I felt like my ambition, even as a little girl, was somehow wrong. Sometimes, I feel like what I’m doing is silly.
I’m drawing pretty pictures, you know? I’m not curing world hunger, or trying to stop a war, or attending a protest, or doing what Rose does for her clients.
Often, I’ll scroll through my phone and see all of these videos of everything wrong with society, people suffering, and I feel helpless.
Does art matter? Can it afford to? But also, can it afford not to?
I’m not doing anything tangible that would really matter or help anyone, and yet, it feels urgent to me.
When I’m painting or drawing, it feels like the only thing that matters even though I know, logically, it isn’t. Does that make sense?”
I’m rambling now, and I trail off at the end, embarrassed, but Theo takes it in stride.
“I know what you mean,” he says. “When I was trying to go pro, I felt like the tennis world was the only place that mattered. There was nothing better than hitting that perfect shot, feeling the ball against the racket and knowing I could command it to land exactly where I wanted it to. It was…” He searches for the right word. “Beautiful.”
I know exactly what he means, too. There’s something defiant about creating beauty in an ugly world, about prioritizing it as essential.
“When did you decide against going pro?”
Theo laughs. “It’s less like I decided against it, and more that it decided against me.
Pretty early on in my teen years I realized my limit.
I was good enough to get a scholarship to college, but I was never going to make it to the US Open.
” He shrugs. “But that’s okay. It took me weeks to learn how to love it again even though I know I’ll never hit that highest rung. Time to figure out a new dream.”
I think about what he’s saying. I can picture a younger version of Theo easily: fluffier hair, even lankier limbs.
I imagine him at predawn practices, dedicated to his craft, and the crushing disappointment of knowing that no matter how hard he worked, it wasn’t enough.
I wonder if that’s what it’s like for me with art, if I just don’t have it.
At least art is something without such a harsh age limit.
“Have you figured out a new dream yet?” I ask him.
Theo looks over at me, his uneven smile on full display. “Still figuring it out.”
There’s something liberating in that, I think. Allowing yourself to dream a new dream. I thought the magazine world would be the destination I always hoped for, but now, I realize that it wasn’t. Actually, maybe it was holding me back.
We stop speaking, but the silence is comforting rather than awkward. I take the opportunity to ask him about his T-shirt again.
“I didn’t know you lived in New York,” I point out, almost accusingly.
His eyes remain fixed on the road. “Yeah, I graduated from University of North Carolina in 2018 and moved to the city. I did Teach for America for a year in the Bronx. I worked a few administrative nonprofit jobs afterward in fundraising and such, but I realized that what I really love is teaching.”
I nod to myself. “I can see that. You’re a really great teacher.”
“Thank you.” He smiles. “I actually got admitted into a couple master of education programs. I’m taking this gap year before I start my degree.”
I look at him, surprised by this revelation. “What’re you going to do during your gap year?”
He pauses like he wants to say more, but then just shrugs.
“Travel, I suppose. Teach more tennis, like I’m doing here.
Lots of places like Nantucket will pay for your housing if you teach, which is a major bonus.
I’m hoping to take the time to make sure I really want to do this degree before I invest in all of these loans to pay for it. ”
“That’s amazing.”
I’ve been so busy rushing to the next accomplishment, so hard on myself for not abiding by the strict timelines society has arbitrarily set.
My friends in New York are like this, too.
They are always in a rush: for a corporate promotion, an engagement ring.
It’s nice to be around someone who wants to take his time and figure it out. Refreshing.
The roads are growing busier as the summer season deepens. We’re behind a moped: A woman in an impractical dress sits behind a man, orange-and-white fabric billowing behind her. Her helmet is the same shade of blue as the car.
I take a mental image to try to re-create the scene later: the angle of the sun hitting the woman’s brown hair, the way her dress rumples in the wind. I could use a dark brown to create the shadows, and the blue sky would be a nice mix of purple and yellow and white…
“You know.” Theo clears his throat, interrupting my planning.“There’s a big bonfire tonight at Ladies Beach. Some people from work are going if you want to come?”
I haven’t been to a bonfire since I was nineteen.
We used to sneak out with Henry’s friends to the old dump, the landfill in Madaket, at night and scavenge among the furniture people threw away.
We would toss wooden chairs over the high metal fence, breaking them into pieces on the asphalt and then use the smaller pieces for firewood.
Bonfires are technically permitted on the island during open burning season, but you need to request a permit, which we never did.
Someone would drive a car onto a secluded beach, dig a deep pit in the sand.
We would drink cheap beers by the blaze.
I didn’t feel bad spending nights like that back then.
I had all the time in the world. Nothing counted and everything could be undone.
It would be nice to feel that way again, to let Theo’s ease crash over me.
It would be nice to sit side by side, talking just like this, with the fire warming our skin.
“Sure,” I say. “That sounds fun. When should I meet you?”