7.
Graham
I was surprised that girl, Chloe, had come back. Pleasantly surprised, I admit, though I reminded myself about my resolution to not hook up with anyone this summer. And honestly, I hadn’t expected to see her again, except then she mentioned her sculpture project and I offered to help, which had totally come out of left field. I could have stood her up or come up with some excuse not to go, but in the end, I decided to meet up with her, because I had nothing better to do and because there was something about her that I found intriguing.
I went down to the Bennet Center for the Arts, where she said she’d be working. Ah, art school. I might’ve toyed with the idea of attending art school myself at one point, though I shelved it quickly after realizing how expensive schools like that were. I probably could have qualified for some sort of financial aid, but it would be a huge headache, because I knew I’d need my mother and Wade’s information as well. I also knew I didn’t need to pay thirty thousand dollars a year to learn about art.
I’d never been to the Bennet Center before, though I’d certainly driven by it plenty of times. It was actually a lot bigger than I realized; from the road, you could see a modest-looking, renovated, Cape-style home that I thought made up the whole place; in reality, though, there was a connecting archway off the back of the house that attached it to a long, barn-like structure where the studios and performing spaces were located.
There were several people hanging out on the porch, artist types with wild hair and Birkenstocks, paint-stained smocks. They watched me approach but didn’t say anything, and then after I’d passed by, they went back to their conversation. I went inside and found myself in a high-ceilinged lobby with artwork adorning the walls. There were leather armchairs set up in groups of four and on the far wall was a table with muffins, donuts, and several coffee carafes. I went over and poured myself a cup, and when I turned back around, Chloe was walking through the door.
“Hey,” she said.
The coffee was scalding hot and burned the tip of my tongue. “Ouch,” I said. “I mean, hey. How’s it going?”
“Good. Sorry I’m a little
late. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, just got here, checking things out.”
“Have you been here
before?”
“No. I don’t usually hang out with artists.”
The group of people that had been outside came back in and walked past us, talking about the continuum of bas relief techniques.
Chloe looked at me and grinned. “Yeah, some of the people around here take themselves a little bit too seriously. Come on, the studio I’m working in is down here.”
I followed her down a long hallway. “How’s the arm?”
She was wearing a three-quarter sleeve cardigan, which she pushed back to reveal the tattoo, which was almost healed and looked quite nice.
“It came out so good,” she said. “I love it.”
I smiled, feeling that
familiar sense of happy pride I always felt whenever I saw my work out in the
world. The feeling never got old; I guessed it was similar to the way a parent
must feel seeing their kid score the winning point. “What about your parents?
Do they love it, too?”
“It would seem the weather gods are on my side,” she said. “It’s been mild
enough that I’ve been able to get away wearing longer sleeves. Plus, I get cold
easily, so I haven’t really been arousing any suspicion.” We went into one of
the studios, which was a large room with big windows. There was a table set up
in the middle, and several easels pushed into the corner. A counter and sink
were against the far wall and opposite that was a big cupboard that housed all
the supplies.
“So, the show is at the end of August,” Chloe said. “I’ve got some ideas, but I haven’t decided on anything yet. That always seems to be my problem—whenever I have a project to do, I have okay ideas, but nothing spectacular. And I’d really like to come up with something spectacular, because this is the first show that I’ve been in that wasn’t held by the school. Also ...” she paused, and I could tell she was debating whether or not she wanted to actually tell me whatever it was she was about to say. “My parents think that I shouldn’t be pursuing art as a career, and I’d like to prove them wrong. I’d like to show them that I actually do have talent and that I haven’t just been wasting my time at art school.” She looked at me. “Were your parents always supportive of your art? I mean, you’re obviously really successful.”
I stifled a laugh. “No, I wouldn’t say that my parents were supportive of my art at all.”
“I’m sorry. It sucks, doesn’t it? It’s really shitty to be passionate about something and then have your parents just kind of shit all over it.”
“It does, but I think it also just makes you work harder for it. Kind of like you’re doing now, you know? You want to prove your parents wrong, so you’re going to make this wicked-dope sculpture. Maybe if your parents were more supportive of it, you wouldn’t feel the motivation to work so hard. That’s how it was for me, anyway.”
She was quiet for a moment and then nodded slowly, a smile spreading across her face. She had a dimple on her left cheek. “When you put it that way, it really doesn’t sound so awful. Almost like it’s a good thing!”
We sat at the table and she pulled her sketchbook from her bag. “I didn’t really even need to come into the studio today; I’m not going to start working with the clay until I at least get some sort of sketch down,” she said. “But sometimes places like this give me inspiration.”
We spent the next few hours talking about art and doodling in her sketchbook. I was surprised when I looked at the clock to see how much time had gone by.
“Shit,” I said. “I better get going; I need to go open the shop.”
We walked out to the parking lot. Her car was parked just a few spots over from my truck.
“Thanks so much for helping me,” she said.
“It’s no problem, though I really didn’t do anything.”
“No, you did. Just having someone to talk to and share ideas with is really helpful.”
We weren’t standing that far apart from each other; less than an arm’s length. It would have been oh-so easy to just lean down and kiss her, which is exactly what I wanted to do. And the way her head was tilted back just a little, looking up at me, it seemed pretty clear that she wouldn’t have minded it either.
But I knew where that would lead, and seeing as not even a week had passed since that conversation with my mother—who had been so adamant that there was no way in hell I’d be able to go the whole summer without hooking up with someone—I took a big step back and reached over to yank the door of my truck open.
“All right,” I said briskly. “I had a good time, thanks.” It would be best to just get out of there as fast as I could. Not that I was unable to control myself, but making a hasty exit seemed the only way to ensure that nothing would happen right now.
“Oh, um ... okay. Sure. Thanks again.”
My exit wasn’t quick enough that I was able to miss the look of confusion that flashed across Chloe’s face, though she did a good job at disguising it. I felt something close to anxiety as I started the truck and took off, sticking my arm out the window to wave at her but not bothering to look again. What the fuck? I chalked the anxious feeling up to my psyche simply not being used to being denied what it wanted. I wouldn’t classify myself as a hedonist, but I’d always had good luck when it came to women and until today, I’d never not allowed myself to explore my carnal urges.
I did allow myself a glance in the rearview mirror, right before I pulled out of the parking lot. She was standing there, watching me go, and though I was too far away to make out the expression on her face, I imagined it to be one of confusion, and possibly hurt—the same sort of look she’d gotten that first night I met her when I told them I wouldn’t be giving them tattoos.