Page 52 of Brazen Deceits

“Is this a tragedy? It’s sounding like there’s a sad ending on the horizon for struggling artist and his muse.”

“Muse gets wise, figures out that artist will never actuallylivewith her, and leaves. Artist then either offs himself or uses his broken heart to create the best work of his life, forever tying pain to success.”

I sigh. “I’m glad you’re not a professional storyteller, Walker. That’s depressing.”

He taps the wheel once, his smile gone. Did I already lose him? “So where are we in this tragic love story?”

He taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. “We’re in the muse forcing the artist to experience life part. We’ll be out on the town, but eccentric. Basically, anything that pops into your head and that little voice says, ‘Don’t do that. That’s a terrible idea.’ Yeah, ignore that voice. That’ll be your part.”

“So crazy, rainbow chasing, slightly manic, and likely high?”

Another mini laugh—I’m getting there. “More or less. I’ll be in awe of your free spirit, but I’ll keep trying to stop you, so we can record moments for later drawings and paintings. Maybe even sculptures.”

“Should I always be camera ready?”

He shakes his head. “No, just be you. I’ll force those moments. Don’t worry.”

“Do you usually have your characters planned out like this? Do you all do this? Or is this a Walker special?”

The pause makes me worry I’ve messed up again, but eventually, he answers. “Sometimes it’s on the fly. But most of the time, I take at least a minute to tug some thread of myself to the surface and riff off that. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it’s like there are bits and pieces of myself that I can mix and match to make a different version of myself as needed.”

I nod along. “I have something similar, but it’s not that easy for me. It’s like there are three or four Claras, and they all are there, all the time, but I can only really be one of them at a time.” I shake my head, confused. “That sounds like I’m crazy, but it’s more like every moment I choose which Clara belongs, and that Clara deals with it. And that sounds even crazier.”

“No, I think I follow what you’re saying. Like, if the situation calls for you to be quiet and focus, that spitfire that throws flames back at Trips sits quiet and the focused Clara comes out.”

I laugh. “You put it better than I can. Yeah. That’s what I was trying to say.”

I watch a copse of trees out my window, a windbreak between fields, the calm in the car magic after all the tension. “Do you think other people have the same thing?”

A mile marker says we’re almost to Madison. They probably have great thrift shops by the university. Walker cuts into my thoughts. “I don’t think so. Jansen can’t really pretend to be anyone else, you know? Same with Trips. They are who theyare, no matter what the situation is. Sometimes it works and sometimes…”

“Sometimes Jansen dumps a Big Gulp on your head while you’re driving?”

Walker bursts out laughing. “Exactly.”

I watch the joy fill Walker’s face, a hint of hope battling it out against the dread in my gut. How do I keep him smiling? How do I get him to talk to me so we can figure out where we went wrong?

I clear my throat. “Do you want to stop in Madison? I bet there are some good thrift stores by the campus.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Maybe a little.”

“We’ll shop, then get a late lunch. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

We sit in companionable silence for a few more miles. “One last question,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think struggling artist and muse need to roll into town wearing matching iridescent outfits? Because that’s what I’m imagining.”

He laughs for nearly a whole mile.

I might be able to make this work. Maybe. This needs to work. I need him. And he needs me, too. We have a little over forty-eight hours for me to get him to see how good we are together. A lot can change in that amount of time.

God, please let it be enough time to fix us. And please don’t let it be the perfect amount of time to destroy us completely.

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