Page 66 of Taking A Chance

I hear the sound of him retreating into his apartment and then slamming the door as I get mine open. I throw my bag inside, slamming my own door. This whole thing was a terrible idea.God, I’m really going to have to fucking move now.

I topple to the floor as tears start to stream down my cheeks.Stupid. This was stupid.

God, you’re so stupid.

My duffel drags behind me, the zippers making a scratching sound as I pull it to my bedroom and dump it out all over the floor. The pink silk nightgown falls last, floating down on top of the pile and taunting me. Ignoring it, I slip my shoes off and crawl into bed, not bothering to change, clean up, or even plug my phone in. The blankets are promptly pulled all the way up over my head, and this is where I’ll stay until I have to go back to work on Monday.

That’s also when I’ll start looking for a new place to live. Maybe it’s time to finally buy a place.

Until then, I’ll cry all this out and avoid Declan like the plague.

37

Declan

Three weeks ago,Cora broke my heart in the hallway of our apartment building. Three weeks ago, she showed me that no matter what I do, she’ll still have the same false opinion of me, driven by her own past issues. I’ve tried four times to get her to listen to me, to come over and let me show her I’m not lying. But she won’t have any of it. She barely looks at me, and every time she does, her eyes are red rimmed and glossy, like she’s been crying. I hate it all so much.

Of course, all this does is break my heart even more. At this point it’s absolutely shattered. Do you know what artists with broken hearts do? They hurl themselves into their work, and they don’t look back. They paint, write, sculpt all that pain into something tangible, touchable. Which is exactly what I’ve done since then.

I look at the canvas in front of me. It’s the most recent piece I’ve completed. Delicate lines and monochrome shades of pink and lavender fill the entire canvas. The show I have tomorrow will be unlike anything I’ve done before. All the original pieces I’ve been working on will be picked up later today, including this one.

The installation team and I will meet first thing in the morning for setup. Unlike my last show, no other artists are being featured. This one is at a smaller gallery, and it’s just me. Althoughsmallerdoesn’t mean worse. Sure, there’s less space, but that means the gallery is that much more selective about who they feature. I’ve been in negotiations with them for months about a solo show. Their one condition was that it had to be all new work, to which I agreed.

I had my concerns, considering I was struggling at the time to find new inspiration. Then Cora happened, completely changing that for me. As I stand back and look at the collection of pieces now, I want to burn them. They’re every reminder I don’t need right now.

The phone rings, distracting me from my thoughts. I run to it, praying it’s Cora, but I’m let down.

“Hello?” I say, into the receiver, the inflection in my voice nearly gone.

“Jesus, man, why do you sound so sad?” Ryan asks.

“Because I am sad,” I say.

“Listen, why don’t you come out with me and Natasha. She has no hard feelings about you not finishing the painting. And she’s got some great friends you can meet,” he says.

Ryan thinks his sole job in life is to get me to party when I’m down. He doesn’t understand the weight of brokenness.

“No thanks,” I say, tone still flat. “I’ll pass.” What I don’t say is that I’ll pass on that forever, every time, until the end of time. Natasha couldn’t possibly have any friend I’d be interested in socializing with. Not to mention, I’m not dating or even thinking about dating for a long time. Things will be good and dusty before I try that again.

We hang up after I tell him I’ll see him tomorrow and I turn back to my studio space, which is actually just most of my living room. I make decent money now. Perhaps I should get a bigger place with a separate real studio now. I survey the paint everywhere and decide it’s time. Besides, I don’t think I can live across from Cora anymore. It’ll be good for me to get some distance. It’s been a long time coming, really.

After I sit on my stool, I decide there’s one more painting I need to do. I grab one of the smaller size canvasses I have and press my eyes shut. This one is part memory, part imagination. Something I’ve never really painted before. My eyes open and skim over the white, drawing imaginary lines I’ll soon make with brushstrokes.

One might say the sudden inspiration that’s come over me is worth the sadness I’m enduring. One might even say I should be grateful for it. But I don’t like the people who’d say that. Ryan is one of them.

With each passing day, I contemplate our friendship and business partnership more and more. It seems as time goes on, we grow further and further in opposite directions. What once worked, I’m not sure does anymore. After this show, I’ll have to do some serious evaluating.

I press my brush to the canvas, twisting and pushing the paint around until it begins to form vague outlines of my goal. I reach for the stereo remote, flipping on music without a care as to what it is. I just need noise, a tempo, something to move the paint to.

This might be the last time I ever create something in this apartment. So I want it to be something I can be proud of.

38

Cora

If someone had askedme a few months ago, I’d have said three weeks was nothing. A short amount of time. A blip on the timeline. But now? Three weeks without Declan, without his laugh or kiss or touch, is an eternity.

I cried myself to sleep every night the first week. The second week, he tried talking to me a few times and I ignored him in true Cora fashion, switching back to the stairs and changing up what night I did laundry, just to avoid him.

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