28.
Chloe
I tried not to think about him. I tried to keep myself preoccupied. Down at the art center, I worked on my sculpture, but now everything seemed all wrong. I sat on the stool and remembered him there, next to me. I remembered the day after we’d had sex, how emboldened I’d felt when he’d shown up here, how I’d just decided to give him a blow job, even though I’d never done something like that before. And yes, a part of me had been nervous, had been afraid that it would be obvious I had no clue what I was doing, or he’d tell me to stop or that I wasn’t doing it right. But then I started doing it and it hadn’t seemed that difficult, and I could tell he liked it—a lot. And I wanted to keep doing those sorts of things with him, but now it seemed like that might’ve been the last time, and I didn’t even really know what had happened.
I rested my forearms on the work table and then put my head down on my arms. There was a tightness in my chest and an ache in my throat and I felt like I needed to do something but I didn’t know what. It was an awful feeling, actually, wanting to go back in time and do something differently to make the current situation somehow different. But I’d gone down there and tried to talk to him, and he hadn’t wanted anything to do with me. And then that woman had walked in, who was about a thousand times hotter than I could ever hope to be. Neither of them had to say anything—it was pretty obvious what was going to happen. Was this what dating people was all about? All this fucking drama and turmoil and shitty feelings?
I thought about Tara and all the shit she was going through with Michael, whom she wasn’t with anymore. Maybe I hadn’t really missed anything, not going out with anyone when I was in high school. Because I sure as hell didn’t like feeling like this.
I picked my head up. The first part of the mermaid tail was on the table in front of me; I’d been adding detail to the fin and liked how it was coming out, but I reached out and grabbed it and squeezed, feeling the damp clay give beneath my hands. I kept squeezing, squashing it back into a formless lump.
*****
I went home not long after that because I was just getting frustrated. That’s how it worked with art—sometimes you could channel all your frustrations and anger and anxiety and whatever other negative feelings you were experiencing into productive energy; other times it just crippled you. Nothing productive was happening for me today and I could overhear other people laughing and talking about their works-in-progress and everyone sounded like they were having such a good time that I decided I should just go home.
But I couldn’t even find any respite there. I went upstairs to my room and lay down on my bed. A nap might be good. No sooner had I shut my eyes, though, when there was a soft knock on the door. Before I could even respond, the door opened and my mother breezed in.
“Are you not feeling well?” she asked, perching at the edge of my bed.
“I’m not sick.”
“You don’t usually lie down during the day, though. Just catching up on a
little beauty rest?”
“I guess that’s one way of putting it.”
“Is that really all that’s going on?” she asked. “You look so glum. Is everything all right? Are you having a hard time with your art project?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped. I knew she was just trying to help, but I hated how trite she made it sound by saying “art project.”
She gave me a surprised look. “Well, you don’t sound fine. Is there something you want to talk about? Talking about it helps sometimes, you know.”
“It’s ...” I hesitated, part of me insisting that I not elaborate any further, but a larger part of me wanting to just talk to someone about it. My mother waited, looking at me expectantly. “I just like someone, is all. Or liked someone, and I don’t think he feels the same way. And, as you’re so fond of reminding me, I don’t have much experience when it comes to dating, so I’m not used to feeling like this. I don’t think I actually like it much, to be honest.”
My mother patted my leg. “Oh, Chloe, I’m sorry to hear that you’re feeling like this. I remember all too well what it was like to be interested in someone and not have the feeling reciprocated. It’s not a great feeling; you’re right.”
It was the first time in quite a while that I could recall saying something about how I truly felt and having my mother just agree with me. I turned my head and looked at her. “Thank you for saying that.”
“But that’s just the way it goes. You’ve got to risk feeling bad because if you don’t, you’ll miss out on all the opportunities that you have to feel great. And sometimes things don’t always work out how we want them to. But that’s okay—it’s a learning experience.”
“I know. I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just thought ... I don’t know what I thought. I guess I realize that I have no clue about any of this.”
“That’s no reason to give up or get discouraged. Sweetheart, you’re young. You’re beautiful. But more importantly, you’re a good person and you’ve got a kind heart. There is no doubt in my mind that you will meet someone—the right person for you. You will. This guy that you’re talking about—how well did you really know him? He just doesn’t sound like your type. And you may not want to hear this, but I know you better than anyone else. I’m your mom, after all. And I know that the right person is out there for you. Like Parker. How is everything going with him?”
“Nothing is going on between us.”
“Well, you went to that
... what was it? A bike thing?”
“A bike race.”
She smiled. “Right. The bike race. You went to that with him, and it sounded like you guys had a fun time. When are you going to see him again?”
“I really don’t know, Mom. He’s been bugging me to hang out this week and I told him that I was busy. Because I am.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, I’m sure you could find some time to see him. Even to just grab a quick bite to eat?”
“Why are you so intent on me seeing him?”
“Because he’s a good kid! From a good family! Just like you. I can tell that you want to be dating, and I’m trying to encourage that. I want that for you. You don’t think that I want to see you unhappy like this, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well good, because I don’t! In fact, I’ve got a great idea. Let’s go do something fun. Just the two of us. We’ve hardly spent any time together and the summer is halfway over. It’s a gorgeous day; there’s no reason for you to spend it moping in your bedroom.”
She sounded so enthusiastic about it that I couldn’t help but feel a little bit better. Maybe I did just need a change of scenery, something to get my mind off of Graham, and the fact that when it came to dating, I had absolutely no clue what I was doing.
*****
We drove up to Provincetown, which someone in college had once told me was the “gayest city in the U.S.,” even though it wasn’t actually a city. It was a funky, little, seaside town, the very tip of Cape Cod, an artist’s enclave, as well as a mecca for all things gay. Just a fun spot, overall, though for my mother, certainly a bit out of her comfort zone.
“Oh, my,” she said under her breath. Two, well-muscled men, wearing little more than leather thongs and flip flops, walked by us, holding hands. We passed by another man dressed as a woman, in a long, sequined evening gown and impossibly high heels. My mother’s eyes widened even further. “Let’s go in here,” she said, tugging me into a restaurant we were walking by. “I heard this place is supposed to be pretty good, actually.”
“Sure,” I said.
The restaurant had a distinctly European feel: minimalist décor, everything very modern. We were seated on high stools at a round table for two. “Abigail will be right over to take your drink order,” the hostess—who may have actually been a man—told us.
“Great,” my mother said, and we both began looking at the menus.
Abigail turned out to be a pretty girl with a pierced nose and very short, spiky hair, dyed bright pink. Except in the front, she had left her hair long and had side-swept bangs. Both her arms were covered in colorful tattoos, from her shoulders all the way down to the backs of her hands. I tried not to think about Graham.
“Now that’s quite the look,” my mother whispered to me after she’d taken our order.
“I kind of like it,” I said. “She doesn’t have to worry about brushing her hair every morning.”
“Now,” my mother said.
“Let’s talk about something nice, shall we? How is your sculpture project
coming along?”
“Uh ... it’s okay,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her that it actually wasn’t
coming along at all.
“Your father and I will come to the opening. I want you to know that. It’s important to us that we be there and see what you’ve been working on.”
“Great,” I said, feeling even worse about the whole thing. I just had to not think about that right now, either. There didn’t seem to be anything safe to think about. I started ripping my napkin into little bits, wishing that I had just stayed at home in bed.