Chapter Six
SKYLAR DIDN’T SHOW up Wednesday for lunch, and Xander kicked himself for feeling disappointed. It was stupid to have looked forward to it. He felt a little glum throughout the afternoon, but he felt better by the time he was back at his apartment for dinner, safe at home with Hokusai and Hiromu. He brushed Hiromu, threw a crinkle ball for Hokusai, and gave them both too many treats. They thanked him by snuggling up on either side of him that night, though not until they’d play-fought on the floor beside the bed for twenty minutes.
Thursday he woke early as usual, eager to sketch the morning away. That day, unfortunately, he had to forgo his favorite indulgence because he still hadn’t filled out Skylar’s social media forms. He spread them across the table and glared at them over the top of a cup of coffee, occasionally shifting his ire to Hokusai, who was convinced the papers were there for his amusement.
They certainly weren’t fun for Xander. In fact, they were confusing, panic-inducing torture.
What makes you special? Who is your audience? Where do you see your career headed? Xander wanted to write nothing, nobody, and nowhere. He was seriously considering writing those answers down when his cell phone rang.
It took him a minute to find it, because he hadn’t plugged it in since the last time it rang, and it was buried in a pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter. He caught himself hoping Skylar might be the one trying to reach him, which meant he was angry at himself all over again when it—of course—turned out to be his mother.
He glanced at the little readout that told him he had a low battery, then hunted for the charge cord while he spoke. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. So glad I caught you. How’s everything going?”
“Fine.” He booted Hiromu off a pile of clothes in his bedroom, ignoring the cat’s wounded look as he searched for—and didn’t find—his charge cord.
“Did you get the care package I sent you?”
“I did. Thank you.”
“Were the cookies okay? Did they get broken? I tried to pack them well, but you never know with the post office.”
As usual, she’d wrapped them in individual parchment sheets, put four cookies at a time in quart Ziploc bags, put those in gallon bags, then put everything in bubble wrap and peanuts in a big box with FRAGILE, CONTENTS PERISHABLE written all over the outside, stamped with hearts. He hadn’t eaten any, but the secretary had opened it while he was in the room. “They were fine.”
She sighed in relief. “Good. I’m so glad. Classes going okay? How’s your senior project?”
He had no idea how to explain Skylar Stone. “Everything’s fine.” He still couldn’t find the cord, dammit. “How, um, are you?”
“I’m doing fine. Your grandmother called me this morning, talked my ear off for an hour about how upset she was over the neighbor doing something to her hedge. Goodness, tell me if I ever carry on like that.” Then she proceeded to carry on for twenty minutes, just like that.
He found the cord as the phone began to beep its low battery warning, and he spent the rest of the phone call tethered to the outlet in the kitchen, listening to his mother explain the two-for-one bread sale at the grocery store and other inane bits of trivia drifting in and out of her mind.
Then her conversation turned to her husband and Xander’s half brothers.
“Nick is taking the boys fishing this weekend. The whole house will smell like fish for a week, and I don’t want to talk about the garage.”
Xander didn’t want to talk about Nick or his half brothers, but he couldn’t tell his mother that. “I hope they have fun.” Which was a lie. He hoped their boat capsized and they all drowned.
Okay, he hoped their boat capsized and they came out of the water on some distant shore where they were alive but never heard from again.
She continued to tell stories about her youngest boys and her husband, and Xander kept quiet, picking up a pen to doodle angrily while she spoke. He listened to her chatter because even when it was about his stupid stepfather, he found the sound of her voice soothing.
But then her idle chatter shifted into something serious.
“Also, I meant to tell you. Nick said the transfer might be a little late this month.”
Xander sat up straighter. “Wait—what do you mean, a little late?”
Her tone shifted from chirpy to distressed. “Honey, I don’t know. He only asked me to tell you it was late.”
“Mom, I pay rent with that money. Buy food. Pay my bills. I need to know when late is. Also, why is it late?”
She was seriously anxious now. “I don’t really know. Something about a big expense coming up.”
Xander shut his eyes and took a deep breath, reminding himself his mother was not the enemy, only the enabler. “Well, my rent is due on the tenth, and by the twelfth I’ll be completely out of money and unable to eat. Just so you’re aware of what his big expense costs me.”
“But you have a job—”
“I have a part-time job with unstable hours, and I’m a full-time student in his last year of school, with a major project hanging over my head for the fall. I have to produce a full body of work for a show, which means I have to buy supplies, Mom. Paint and canvas. It’s not cheap. This wasn’t in our agreement. It wasn’t what I planned for. And they’re not going to accept a note from you saying you had an expense as an excuse for why I don’t get my project completed.”
“Xander, you don’t have to be mean.”
He rubbed his temple. He didn’t want to be mean to her, but he was stressed and hurt. Once again the floor had been yanked from beneath his feet, and he was pretty sure it was because his jerk of a stepfather wanted to take his nasty half brothers on a fishing trip. Or it might be straight up to fuck with Xander.
Xander rolled his gaze to the ceiling and worked to keep his voice flat. “I have to go. Bye, Mom.”
He hung up before she could start in on her rationalizations of Nick and make Xander angrier than he already was. He closed the phone, stared at it in impotent rage and disappointment.
Then stilled, realizing the phone was blinking at him. It said 1 UNREAD TEXT notification on the tiny, pixelated screen.
He had a text? Nobody texted him. His mother didn’t like them, calling them too impersonal, and Zelda emailed after they’d learned the hard way he’d never answer a text. He assumed this was from them, trying again.
Except that stupid part of him that wouldn’t shut up thought, Maybe it’s from Skylar.
He almost didn’t read it, but he decided in the end it would be a better punishment to show himself it was Zelda or a wrong number. He glared at the readout as he fumbled through the buttons, trying to remember how to call up text messages.
His breath hitched as he saw, in fact, it was from Skylar. The number matched the one on the business card he’d taped to his fridge.
Sorry I missed you at lunch yesterday. Can I join you today and bring lunch from Breadgarden, my treat?
Xander put the phone down and backed away from it slowly.
He didn’t know how to respond. Should he say no? Probably. He didn’t eat on the hill on Thursdays, since he didn’t have studio time until two. And he still had the stupid forms to fill out.
Also, it was clear he was having some kind of Stockholm syndrome over Skylar because of their forced contact due to their projects. This wasn’t good. He should back away before things got worse.
So, he should decline to go, or better yet, not answer the text and say he didn’t see it, yes? Without the phone call from his mother, he wouldn’t have.
That seemed the best course of action, so he followed it. He even buried the phone under the junk mail again, putting his back to it as he sat back down with the branding forms.
What makes you special?
Xander did his best to put his head in the game. He pushed aside his negative self-image and gave answers that wouldn’t make him feel like a poseur but would get him off the hook. He wrote that he used a blend of Cloisonnism and Fauvism, leaning on abstraction but leaving enough recognizable subject matter so an untutored viewer didn’t feel lost, but that his earliest influence was Hokusai, and he felt the artist’s style still bled through to the base of all his work. What he wanted to say was his biggest influence was Hiromu Arakawa, but since she was a manga artist, he knew that wouldn’t go over well with the department.
He remembered how Skylar had said Xander’s painting had invited him in, and he wondered if he could write that down, that his paintings invited people in.
He recalled also what Zelda said about how passionate he was about manga, and told them to get the hell out of his head because he could not do a manga-themed BFA show.
He glanced up at the clock. Eleven. He usually went to lunch at 12:15.
He wondered if Skylar was annoyed he hadn’t replied to the text.
He forced the distractions aside and tried to answer question two.
Who is your audience?
This question always annoyed him. He wanted everyone to be his audience. Or at least he wanted anyone to be able to be his audience, if they wanted to be. But he always assumed no one would give a shit about his paintings, which was why this show was such a kick in the groin.
Once more, he thought of Skylar and his reaction. So he wrote that he wanted his audience to be people who didn’t always feel they understood art, as well as those who did appreciate it. He wished he could say he got that kind of reaction from Lucky 7.
Goddamn, but he was still angry about the magazine going digital, so angry he was tempted to stop drawing The Adventures of Hotay & Moo, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He was already afraid the manga would die out when he graduated. What was he saying, he knew it would die. Sara was talented, but talent wasn’t the problem. People just didn’t give a shit anymore. Couldn’t they wait, then, to make the damn magazine digital? Why did they have to do this to him during his last year? Was there any way to stop the change, short of winning the lottery and paying for the printing costs?
And his fucking rent and painting supplies?
Eleven thirty now.
He should reply to Skylar. It was rude not to.
Fine. He was rude. Anyway, he had work to do.
Where do you see your career headed?
Xander chewed on the end of his pen. He honestly had no idea. He’d just wanted to do art, and he didn’t know what else to do, so he was going to graduate school so he could keep doing art. It’d be cool to be an art professor, but he’d seen how many people had applied to the last opening at Benten. Also, he’d have to talk to students all the time, which would suck. Mostly he wanted an office and access to all the supplies. So probably not a professor, the more he thought about it.
Once upon a time he’d wanted to be a manga artist, but how the hell he could be a manga artist while living in Pennsylvania, he had no idea. He had no intention of going to Pennsylvania ever again after graduation, but he was sure he couldn’t show up in Tokyo with his two years of Japanese, declare his intent to be a manga artist, and be welcomed with open arms. Also, he couldn’t write any of this on the form. So he wrote art professor.
Okay, if he were really honest, he wanted to draw and paint, depending on his mood, but above all he longed to reach people who needed to be reached, to move people. He wanted people to react like Skylar had to his painting the day they’d met. But that was conceited, right? And impossible to write down. But that was all he could think of to say.
Quarter to noon. Too late to reply to that text now. Skylar had likely already made other plans. Probably with his girlfriend. A guy like Skylar would have one. Maybe two.
He thought about what Zelda said, about the rumors of Skylar being bi.
The idea was too tantalizing, so Xander pushed it away. No. Also, it didn’t really…fit. Not that Skylar would ever cruise a guy like Xander, but…no. It didn’t feel right to him. He would have a plastic girlfriend. A sorority girl who majored in English and clipped dresses from Modern Bride, cutting out her head and Skylar’s from photos and putting them over grooms and brides in happy poses.
Except that didn’t feel right either, for some reason.
Whatever. Who cared who Skylar would date? Not Xander, that was what mattered. Xander didn’t date either, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t like people, just cats and art. He didn’t have lunch dates, platonic or otherwise.
Xander pushed the junk mail off the phone and glared at it again.
The fact remained it was rude not to reply.
What if Skylar was going to show up anyway? Bring lunch in case Xander didn’t see the text?
The image of Skylar walking up the hill, a bag of fragrant Breadgarden soup and sandwiches and a drink tray in his hands, smiling until he saw the empty bench, made Xander pick up the phone. He texted awkwardly, fumbling to turn numbers into letters, hands shaking as he hurried to correct mistakes, Skylar’s disappointed face still lingering in his mind.
hey sorry just saw this. sorry I missed you.
He stared at the phone, cursing himself for waiting for a reply, belly doing acid-laden somersaults as a return text appeared.
Not a problem. Didn’t realize your lunch was early today. I’ll make a note and try to catch you next time.
Xander almost let it go. Except he felt like he had to say something, he was a shitty liar, and…well, he was also a complete idiot.
I haven’t gone yet. I just mean it’s obviously too late now.
Skylar’s replies came fast, but then, he was clearly typing on a smartphone, not some piece-of-shit flip phone circa 2008.
It’s not too late at all. You’ve made my day. What can I pick up for you at Breadgarden? I’m standing outside of it right now. I can get our orders and head straight over.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Xander tried to figure out how to say he wasn’t going with as few words as possible so the awkward typing was less awkward, and then his insanity took hold of him again, and he typed ok and hit send.
He tossed the phone onto the counter like it was on fire. He covered it with the mail again, and also with the pile of unfolded dishtowels. He left the kitchen and paced his bedroom, Hiromu sitting in the doorway judging him quietly, Hokusai sitting on the bed swiping his leg as he went past.
He’d agreed to go to lunch. He’d failed to give his order, but he knew better than to think that would stop Skylar. He’d probably show up with options.
He dashed around the apartment, rifling through his closet floor for a moderately clean shirt and pair of jeans, rubbing a dripping washcloth over his head, and scraping a brush through his unruly hair in hopes he could tame it enough to look human. Slipping into his tennis shoes, he stared at his bike in the corner, aprons draped over it, tires visibly flat.
With no other choice in front of him, Xander grabbed his keys and backpack, swore, and burst through the door, tearing across town as fast as his shaking legs could take him.
SKYLAR ARRIVED AT the crooked bench at 12:20, ready to apologize for being late, only to discover Xander wasn’t there either. He frowned and pulled his phone out, wondering if he’d missed a message. It turned out he had.
sorry late b there soon
He tapped back a reply. No worries. See you when you get here. Then he sat on the bench, stared out at the river, and exhaled a slow, happy breath as he drank in the view. He was so lost in his reverie he listened to the heavy breathing and sharp footsteps on brush for several seconds before his brain suggested he might, possibly, want to see who was running toward him so quickly.
It turned out Xander was running, looking like a racehorse run seven laps longer than he should have gone. His hair was matted with sweat, his face flushed, slender chest heaving as he leaned on a tree and gasped for air. He’d been walking by the time Skylar turned around, but he had the look about him people got when they were trying to appear they’d been walking the whole time but were in fact nearly dead from booking like hell. Thankfully Skylar processed that before he made the mistake of commenting on Xander’s bedraggled appearance. Instead, he smiled, held up the takeout bag, and shook it enticingly.
Xander offered the most fake, sorry excuse for a smile Skylar had ever seen, huffed a few more desperate breaths, and shuffled to the bench. He smelled of sweat, but it wasn’t worse than Unc in the kitchen after a run. What did concern Skylar was the way Xander’s hands shook, and the way he seemed like if he had the stamina left, he’d turn around and run the other direction.
The poor guy. Empathy washed through Skylar, followed by a renewed determination to save Xander. Or at least to teach him how to save himself.
Skylar set down the bag of food. “I got a smoked turkey with gouda, a vegetarian, and an order of hummus with veg. I love all of it, so pick what you want. Alternatively, if you can’t decide, I had them split the sandwiches, and we could mix and match.” When Xander mostly huffed and puffed, Sky passed over a bottle of water, uncapping it on the way. “Here, drink this. I’ll lay the food out like a picnic, and you can decide what you’re in the mood for.”
Xander took the bottle, hand still trembling as he glugged the liquid into his system.
Skylar kept track of him out of the corner of his gaze, making a show of getting up, crouching behind the bench, and laying out the spread in the space where he’d been sitting. “We’re so spoiled for great restaurants in Takaketo. I swear there’s a new one every week.”
Xander’s huffs and puffs had slowed. “We don’t have much in Mason.”
“Mason—you mean Mason City?” Yes, let’s chat a little bit about home. “You get back there much?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I heard from the art department your mom is famous for her cookies.”
He’d known that was a potential land mine, but Skylar wasn’t prepared for the way Xander’s whole body tensed, how his entire system threatened to shut down. Shit, was that a miscalculation. He worried for a second Xander would bail.
But Xander didn’t, thankfully. He only nodded and said, his tone flat and conversation thread-ending, “Yes.”
Skylar cleared his throat and smiled, Silver Stone beam on full blast as he gestured to the food. “All right. Take your pick. And I promise, I’m happy with all of it, some of it, or however it shakes out.”
Xander hesitated only a moment before taking the whole of the turkey sandwich. “Usually I just have peanut butter.”
Having noticed that, this was why Skylar brought the vegetarian option. “I’m happy to provide a treat, then.”
“I can give you money.” Xander looked awkward, like he wasn’t sure if he should have said that.
Skylar gave him a breezy wave. “It’s a paltry exchange for your painting, but it’s a start at least.”
He didn’t miss the way talking about Xander’s art made his whole demeanor change—he was still guarded, but eager, too, like a starving man afraid to accept sustenance.
Skylar let him dig into the sandwich for a minute or so, but when the silence seemed too much, he pressed on. “I have to admit, I’m entirely jealous of your ability to create art like that.”
“To be honest, usually it feels like a relief, because by the time I’m halfway through I’m convinced it’s shit, and getting out of it is like escaping a portal of hell.”
That made Skylar laugh. “Come on. You don’t have to be modest.”
Xander grimaced at his sandwich. “It’s not modesty. I haven’t created a project and not felt like I’d gone outside without pants since I was ten.”
“But surely I’m not the first person to tell you your work is incredible.”
“It’s not that.” He worried the crust of his bread. “I think most artists feel that way. You start excited about the idea, like a honeymoon phase. Halfway through it all gets real, and doubt creeps in. You have to keep pushing. Eventually you’re done, and you have your work. But it’s rarely this big, satisfying thing. Because you worry you didn’t do it right, or stopped too soon, or went on too long, or that you’ve lost the spark that got you started.”
Skylar considered this as he chewed a bite of hummus-laden carrot. “Okay, when I do a project, I feel that way in the middle too, but by the end I feel satisfied because I can see it’s successful. I’m not saying I don’t see where I could improve the next time, but I have a sense of accomplishment, for sure. You’re saying you don’t have any sense of satisfaction?”
He thought back to the writing he used to do, way back when, but decided against bringing it up. It would be too embarrassing, compared to what Xander could do.
“Maybe some, but not always, and not like you’re talking about. Da Vinci said ‘art is never finished, only abandoned.’”
Skylar raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was Paul Valéry talking about poetry who said that.”
“Whoever said it, I cosign the sentiment. Art is never, ever as magical on canvas as it is in my head. I’ve come to terms with that, which I can tell you, took some time. But every finished project will be bittersweet because when I put the brush down, no matter how much other people like it, I only ever look at it and see the ghost of the idea I couldn’t capture.”
All the shakiness was gone from Xander now. He wasn’t exactly happy, but he was definitely centered in a way he hadn’t been before. Art truly was his zone—though maybe, Skylar thought, his own wheels turning, Xander’s wider brush was the creative process. He slid a piece of cucumber through the hummus. “So talk to me about why you didn’t like the painting you gave me. Were you too caught up with the failure to realize your vision?”
“No. The focal point wasn’t strong enough, and I didn’t have enough color balance. I didn’t like the texture, either. It didn’t do what I wanted it to do.”
“But I love that painting. Does that mean I don’t know anything about art? I mean—okay. I don’t know anything about it. I’ve always wished I could draw, or even simply write.”
He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t he decided not to bring that up? But his recalcitrant mind flickered to the stories he used to write at the summer house, and he wondered what had ever happened to those.
Clearing his throat, Skylar pushed those thoughts aside. “I don’t understand visual art. I admit that. But explain this to me…is your dislike of it an illustration of that failed vision, or is it something else?”
“No.” Xander leaned forward a little. He was intense now, focused and arresting. “See, this is the magic of art. I can love or hate my own work, but the viewer is who turns it into something. I made that painting, but you gave it life. Art isn’t real until it’s viewed.” He grimaced, lowering his sandwich, but even as he retreated, he still had his inner fire. “This is where I always get it wrong. I know I need to connect to people in order to understand my own art, but…I’ll be honest. I hate people.”
You don’t say. Skylar laughed. “Maybe that feeds your art, though. Maybe you don’t have to go to all the parties, just some of them.”
“I don’t want to go to any party, ever. I get nervous around people. I’d rather be by myself.”
And yet you ran until you nearly had a heart attack, hurrying to have lunch with me. “Even hermits need a few friends.”
“I’m a shitty friend. Ask Zelda. It’s better if I stick to cats.”
Zelda? Skylar wanted to ask about this Zelda person, but he knew better. Not yet. “You have cats?”
This turned out to be another point of entry, as Xander softened. “Yeah. Hokusai and Hiromu.”
The names sounded…familiar. Sky took a shot in the dark. “Painters?”
A tiny smile. “A printmaker and a manga artist. Both Japanese, as it happens. Hiromu—the cat—is a longhair, and a real softie. Gets her feelings hurt easy. Always wants me to hold her. Hokusai is an asshole, but he mostly gets bored. He can be good, when he feels like it.”
Cats and art. Skylar wanted to ask about the cats’ namesakes, especially the manga artist, but he tucked those points of entry away as topics to bring up the next time Xander started to shut down.
He considered, briefly, bringing up Hotay & Moo, but he had the same ridiculous fanboy flutter as the last time, so he didn’t go near the subject.
He kept the conversation light—asked Xander how much time he spent in his studio, at home, and at the college. Once Xander was fully at ease again, Sky led him gently into a more back-and-forth conversation, laying bait for Xander to ask him about his major, his life at the frat house. Unsurprisingly, the latter made Xander sour again. “I couldn’t imagine living with so many people.”
“It gets tough at times, I won’t lie. But when I need somebody, my brothers are there for me.” Skylar hesitated, a shadow falling over that line he’d said so many times. “It’s been a little tougher this year. The mural incident was a blow to our reputation, and the leadership hasn’t been as on point as I’d like. Next year may be even worse. But I can’t do much, because I’m only the risk management officer. Well—I’m not supposed to be doing much, but they keep acting like I’m still president.” He realized he shouldn’t have said that, and tried to sweep it under the rug with a smile. “Don’t mind me. I just can’t let go of the reins gracefully.”
Xander cocked an eyebrow, his look saying, I don’t believe you, but whatever you need to tell yourself.
Skylar’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to glance at it. It was only Unc inviting him to a party he absolutely wouldn’t be going to, but the time caught him up short. “It’s already one thirty?”
Xander jolted, panicked. “Oh, shit. I have to get going.”
Skylar waved him on. “You go. I’ll pack this up. But I’ll see you tonight at seven, yes? At Java House? Or would it be more convenient for me to meet you at your studio this time?”
“I—I don’t know.” Xander ran a hand through his hair.
“Tell you what. Let’s make it seven thirty, and I’ll swing by your apartment and pick you up. Or we can stay there, if you’ve had enough running around town by that time.” He flashed his phone. “Just give me a text and let me know what you’d like to do.”
“Okay.” Xander hovered, looking like he wanted to say something, couldn’t find it, then hunched into himself and gave an awkward wave. “Bye.”
Skylar waved back, projecting as much nonthreatening confidence as he felt Xander could take. “See you later. Have a great day.”
He watched Xander go, then went about putting away the remains of their picnic. As his hands worked, so did his mind, rushing forward as it sifted and sorted everything he’d learned during lunch. He ruminated on it on the way back to Delta Sig, and when he got there, he gave the most perfunctory of greetings to Unc before hurrying to his room, opening his computer, and typing as furiously as he could. He ignored three texts from Carolyn—he wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere with her or any Tau-Kapp.
Art is not finished, only abandoned. The quote rang like a bell in his head, tearing down everything he’d set up for Xander’s project, and in the ruins he saw the glittering, terrible scaffolding of some art all his own.