Chapter 20

Henry

I haven’t left my loft for days, ordering takeout and groceries online for sustenance. I don’t want to talk to anyone out of fear of stuttering again. When it comes to stuttering, it’s like the floodgates open, and my brain reverts right back to when it all started. I try, and I try, but I can’t shake it.

It’s morning, but I’m not sure what day of the week it is. I really don’t care. The things that mattered to me, my art and Meadow, have faded away. I never did finish that vase, and I haven’t spoken to her since that day she banged on my door, begging me to let her in. I just couldn’t. How could I? I was so embarrassed. I still am. Every time I think about the Greg Silverman review, his despicable lies, I feel queasy.

What’s worse than being labeled a fraud?

I brew myself a pot of coffee since I didn’t get much sleep, spending another restless night tossing and turning. Sleeping used to be so much easier after making love to Meadow. I can still recall the sensation of her touch, the way she smelled and tasted… how amazing it felt to be deep inside her.

I want to fuck away every horrible thing that’s happened since the supposed triumph of my showing at Pathways.

I stare at Verdi, and she must sense my unease because she saunters over to weave between my legs in a show of feline solidarity. I pet her and think about a time when my life was simpler.

My phone rings. Meadow’s name lights up the screen. She has called a few times since the day I told her to leave, but I never answered the phone. I really don’t want to pick up now. But something inside of me just can’t press the “ignore” button.

I answer but don’t say a word.

“Henry?” she says.

I clear my throat.

“Henry, are you there?”

“Yeah.” Relief flows over me in waves when I spit out the syllable without stuttering over it.

“It’s me.”

“I know.” Another exhale flows from my lungs. An entire sentence. Sure, it was only two words, but I consider it a win just the same.

“How have you been?”

I need her with me as badly as I ache for distance between us. She’s the cause of my pleasure and my pain. “The same, I guess.”

“I’m really sorry about that Silverman review.”

“Shit happens, right?”

“I’m usually the cynical one. What gives?”

“Is there a reason why you called?”

“Yeah.” She pauses only long enough for me to wonder what she’s thinking. What she’s wearing. Is her hair pulled back or falling down in silky waves around her shoulders? I close my eyes and imagine she’s standing right next to me, close enough that I can inhale her unique scent. “I’ve been thinking about the Silverman review.”

“What about it?”

“He said your work looked commercial.”

“Why are you reminding me?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

“Because… well, maybe there’s a way to counter his stupidity.”

“I’m listening.”

“How would you feel about a professional photographer taking some candid shots of you working at the potter’s wheel? Maybe a video or two. For social media?”

I scrub a hand down my face. “I don’t know, Meadow. What’s the point?”

“If we document your process from start to finish, then we can expose Silverman for the liar he is.”

I sigh. Can’t she see this is a train bound to nowhere? “I don’t even care anymore.”

“How can you say that?” Her voice is a plea and a vow at the same time.

“You don’t understand, Meadow. You’re not an artist.”

“No, I’m not but–”

“This sounds like a bad idea.” I’m not sure how to articulate the extreme emotion I’m feeling. The last thing I want is to make the situation worse. “If the trashcan’s already burning, don’t throw any more garbage in there.”

“Please, Henry. Don’t make me beg.”

“The last time you said that I ended up doing the art showing and look how well that turned out.”

“Okay. I won’t force you, I just figured–” Her tone drips with the regret that mirrors mine.

I close my eyes and give myself a moment to think. What she says actually makes sense, and letting people know my work is authentic is important to me. Besides, I’m so fucking tired of being afraid.

“Fine,” I say before I can force my lips shut. “I’ll do it. Just…”

“Just what?”

“I don’t want you here.”

I hear the air rush out of her. “Wh-why not?”

“I ju-just don’t.” I clamp my teeth shut. Damn! I’m doing it again!

“Henry, I would really like to see you.”

“I can’t, Meadow.” Why is she making this so difficult? Hasn’t she done enough?

“I understand. I’ll arrange to have a photographer come over to your loft.”

“Okay.”

“Take care of yourself, Henry.”

I hang up the phone with so many emotions ripping through me, they make me want to crawl back into bed and throw the covers over my head. Hiding seems like the best alternative.

How did she get me to agree to another shenanigan where the art isn’t the intent behind it? I don’t need any more publicity that could have an overarching negative impact on my future. But Meadow has that effect on me. There is no doubt about it.

I didn’t have a lot of hope in her plan of hiring a photographer, but it was better than what I was doing… moping around the loft all alone.

It’s funny how someone like Silverman can tear me down. It takes so much effort and energy to create a work of art, but it takes practically nothing for a critic to render their opinion. I really wish that he worked for some blog nobody ever heard of. But the fucking New York Times! Every paragraph he writes is like a death sentence.

And considering I’ve had zero sales since the column came out… it’s been a death sentence on my career. I’m pissed as hell and I’m going to start taking control.

***

As anger continues to choke me, I really don’t feel much artistic inspiration, but it’s been so long since I’ve been at the potter’s wheel that I’m willing to force myself to create. It’s not a good feeling, but it’s better than sitting around the loft just bitching at Verdi all day. As I shape and mold the clay, it takes shape slowly. This isn’t my best work, but it’s a start. I try to recall happy times like me picking apples or baking the apple pie with Meadow and the beautiful moments that followed.

In my mind, I can see Meadow’s naked body pressed against mine. She calls my name, and I feel so damn happy that if I die at that moment, I wouldn’t care. Her eyes light up as she holds me close. But a darkness of the heart casts shadows of pain over my recollection. The usually vivid memory fades to gray.

I start to think about the day Meadow showed me the Greg Silverman review. I see myself stuttering and kicking her out… the sad look in her eyes as she heads for the door.

“Damn, what were you thinking, Henry?” I mutter to myself.

The classical music plays as I shape the vase. Maybe this one won’t be so bad. Maybe with a little more effort, it can be beautiful. I stay focused until the door buzzes, my hands covered in clay. The last time I got an unexpected visitor, it was Meadow. Part of me hopes that it isn’t her because I’m just not ready. But the other part of me wishes that it is her because I ache from missing her.

I wash my hands and press the button on the intercom. “Hello?”

“It’s the photographer,” a man’s voice says.

“Okay.” I press the door button.

Shit, I forgot that was today. I pace the floor. Meadow sent me a text to confirm, and it completely slipped my mind. I’m seriously thinking about canceling on the guy. I’m really not in the mood. But I might as well get it over with.

A few seconds later, I’m face-to-face with him. He looks really familiar, and I stare at him a long moment, trying to place his face. I must have seen him at the gallery showing. But I talked to hundreds of people that night, and their names and faces all merge together. He extends his hand to me. “Good to see you.”

“Same here. How do I know you?”

He looks affronted. “I’m Shannon Burch.”

“From Pathways, right?”

He nods, dragging his bag of gear inside with his giant frame. He takes up a lot of space within my loft, not just from his physicality but his equally big personality.

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.”

He tosses a jaunty wink my way, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was flirting with me. But my heart still belongs to Meadow, his best friend, and he has to know that. “I’m a man of many talents. You ready to get started?”

“That’s what I was gonna talk to you about…” I scratch at the scruff on my chin.

He wags a finger in my direction. “Wait. You’re not chickening out, are you?”

“I’m not a chicken, I just don’t feel up to it.”

“Hey, Henry. I’m already here, and it won’t take long.” He takes the camera out of his bag. “Let’s just knock it out in a jiffy. And I’ll be incognito.”

My eyes sweep over his height. “I can’t picture you ever being that.”

He smiles. “You catch on fast, Mr. Garrison.”

I walk back into the studio as Shannon follows me.

“The lighting is great in here.”

I glance at the huge windows. I’ve been so despondent, I haven’t even noticed the beautiful sun streaming in through the paned glass. “Thanks. I guess. I had nothing to do with it. Just the sun.”

Shannon gets his gear ready. “Natural light rules. I can sure see why you love this loft for your work and why you want to stay here.”

I sit down at the potter’s wheel and continue to work.

Shannon snaps a few pictures of me. “You’re doing great, Henry.”

“Thanks.”

I keep molding the clay.

As he crouches down, Shannon looks more like a lumbering bear than a photographer. “Just pretend like I’m not even here and go about your artistic process like you normally do.”

I shake my head. “That’s not gonna be easy. I haven’t really been into creating since… since… well, you know.”

He drops his camera to his waist, the lens dangling from the thin strap. “Yeah, unfortunately, assholes are hard to forget. Come on, if Meadow can put up with the world’s most demanding parents, surely you can swing this.”

I look up at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Please don’t look directly at the camera. It’s called breaking the fourth wall.” He takes several pictures. “And yes, Meadow’s parents put impossible demands on her. The poor girl got punished if she got anything less than an ‘A.’”

“Really?” I frown, considering how harsh that sounds. No matter how intelligent and talented a person is, there will always be certain subjects of learning where they’ll struggle. It’s unrealistic and unreasonable to expect perfect marks from your child.

He nods. “That probably has a lot to do with her take no prisoner’s attitude. Why she’s out there kicking ass and taking names. She figures if she gets them first, they’ll never be able to get her later. You catch my drift?”

I keep one eye on Shannon and one eye on the wheel. “I never knew that. She never told me.”

“Meadow isn’t one for opening up.” He takes a few more pictures. “Do you think I can get a few shots of you with those?”

“Sure.” After stopping the wheel and wiping my hands, I nod and make my way over to the shelf of drying vases. “These are headed for the kiln.”

“They look amazing!” Shannon snaps several photos.

“Meadow’s parents were really that tough on her?”

“They didn’t accept anything less than perfection. Even worse, they did it because she was the girl. Her brothers acted like nimrods and got off scot-free. Apparently, her dad didn’t have much use for girls, but Meadow was determined to prove her worth. No child should have to grow up like that.” He waves his hand. “Step over a little bit to the left. You’re in the shadow.”

I follow his direction.

“Okay, that’s it.” He takes the picture and smiles.

“How do you know all of this stuff about Meadow?”

“I’m her fabulous best friend, of course. I’ve been with her through it all. Even the Jessie fiasco.”

“Are you really a professional photographer, Shannon?”

He scoffs. “Professional is as professional does. As the assistant manager of Pathways, a staff of two, pretty much everything falls under other duties as assigned.”

“Really?”

“No, seriously, I took classes in college. And I have a little portfolio. That’s one of the reasons I got so interested in galleries. I always dreamed of having my own showing. I’ve shot some pretty cool photos over the course of my travels.”

“That sounds cool.” I nod, taking in everything he shared about Meadow. I’m grateful because knowing the information helps me to understand her motivation in this life.

My heart breaks at the thought of what she experienced in childhood. All this time, I thought I had it rough, but it sounds like Meadow went through far worse. On many levels, I understand her much deeper now. My parents were overprotective, but only out of love for me. And they supported my art, whether they understood it or not.

But the gap between us widens, and I’m afraid it might be too late for me.

For us.