Page 30 of True Sight
“Okay, so I need your help with something very important. My guys are coming back tomorrow to paint before they lay the floors in here and I need to decide on a color. Now I stopped at the hardware store—sucha fun place to go, I had no idea—and found a few samples I want to test out. Knowing myself better than most, I know I’ll need a second opinion, that’s your job.” He is rattling things off so quickly I can hardly keep up.
“Now, the samples are over there and the brushes are right here. Pick a container and make a few swatches and then we can decide which one is best.” His finger circles the room, pointing to the supplies he mentioned before looking back at me with his signature wide smile. My eyes squint at him for a moment, trying to catch up with everything he just said to me.
“I’m sorry, you invited me here to look at paint samples?” I feel my nose crinkle as I ask the question.
“That’s right,” he declares confidently, swinging the paintbrush he already picked up.
“Henry, when you texted me I thought you had a question about your project that needed answeredtoday. That’s why I came right over—not to help you pick out a paint color for your…what is this room?” Looking around, I can’t tell what the space will be used for. I assume some kind of physical activity that if I did I would pass out from, but it’s still too empty to tell.
“It’s the main studio room. All, if not most, of our dance classes will be held here as well as other classes we’re hoping to offer in the future. Weight lifting, cardio, maybe some barre or pilates. Alex isdyingto offer cycle classes but I told her if we offered those, the bikes would have to go upstairs. I’m not giving up this beautiful room with all these windows so she can put her little bikes in here, no sir.” He starts to open one of the small plastic containers of paint and dips his brush in. When he pulls it out, I notice it is a warm beige color which surprises me. I would have guessed he’d go for a more neon, 90’s look for the space based on how he dresses.
“But why did you ask me?—”
“I figured it would be good for you, for your mind,” he interjects, making a few swipes of paint along the drywall. He doesn’t look at me or even glance in my direction, he just continues to put a splotch of paint on the wall. My eye almost twitches at how messy he’s being.
“I told you I didn’t want to talk about that.”
“Well then it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you to talk, I asked you to paint,” he jests, casting me a sideways glance. I hold his stare for a moment before dropping my shoulders and succumbing to his request. I pull my jacket off and drop it on the floor, giving Annie the perfect spot to curl up and go to sleep which she happily does. Looking around the room, I take in all the supplies, including all the samples of paint.
“I thought you said you got a few samples?” I grumble, looking at the fifteen or so containers that are lined up along the wall.
“Trust me, love, for me, this is a few.” When he winks atme again, I do my best to pretend to not notice the aggravating feeling of my stomach flipping over once again.
It takesus almost two hours to get all the samples on the wall. It would have taken less time but Henry and I argued for a solid twenty minutes about the best way to go about getting a solid idea of the paint color. He wanted to just slap a few strokes up on the wall and call it good. I, on the other hand, told him that doing it that way wouldn’t give him the best idea for the true color and that we should do even, straight rectangles of each color. It also took us forever because he only bought two paint brushes, which meant after every swatch, we would have to go and wash the brushes in the sink and dry them off before using them again. After he put a half-cleaned brush into a fresh sample for the third time, I forced him to sit down and let me do it.
Now we’re both on the floor, staring at the wall which is now adorned with fifteen evenly spaced rectangles painted onto it in varying colors and shades. The colors are warm neutrals or shades of white except for one that has a definite tinge of pink to it. We’ve decided to sit and wait for the samples to dry before picking one. He’s sitting next to me a few feet away, legs stretched out in front of him and leaning back on his hands. Meanwhile, I’m slumped over my knees sitting cross-legged and craning my neck to keep my focus on the wall and nothing else. As promised, we didn’t talk while we painted—minus the arguing and him calling me a ‘prat,’ whatever that meant—and I’m glad for it. I don’t want to talk about what happened a few days ago, I want to move on and forget it happened.
When he lets out an airy chuckle out of nowhere, I turnto look at him. His eyes are scanning the wall as a soft grin spreads across his face.
“What?” I raise a brow at him.
He shakes his head gently. “Nothing. I just sometimes can’t believe this place is real. That it’s actually happening.” His head swivels to take in the space around us to signal that he is talking about the studio.
“It’s something we wanted for a long time, I just can’t believe it’sactuallyhappening.”
My hands fall behind me and I bend my legs at an angle. The position is much more comfortable than before.
“Who’s ‘we?’” I ask, actually wanting to know his answer. I never take a personal interest in my clients but something about him makes me want to know more.
“My gran and I. After I fell in love with exercising and dance specifically, she and I came up with this dream. My own place, my own studio. It’s just a shame she isn’t here to watch it come to life.” When his voice dips, I know exactly what he means. My brain tells my mouth to say ‘I’m sorry’ or any other variation of the condolence, but it won’t move. It’s as if someone super glued my mouth shut and I can’t form the words. “She was the only one to believe that I could do it, that I could get here. Especially after my dark period.”
He pauses and looks at me before speaking again, this time in a whisper. “That’s what I call my depressed era.” He says it as if he is saying something funny but I don’t think there’s anything funny about the idea of Henry being anything other than what he is today—a physical manifestation of a fucking ray of sunshine walking around on two overly toned legs. He doesn’t wait for me to respond before speaking again.
“After I told my parents I’m gay, they subsequently kicked me out on my arse. I couldn’t deal. They said horriblethings about me, about my future. Do you know what it’s like to hear your mother say that she no longer wants to see you because of who you love?”
Again, my mouth fails to form words so I simply shake my head.I don’t know what it sounds like for my mother to say anything. She’s been dead since I was eight and I can no longer recall the sound of her voice.
“Well,” he scoffs, looking back at the wall of drying paint, “it doesn’t feel good. The way they turned me out royally fucked me up for a bit. I’m pretty much dead to them. They want nothing to do with me. Then I met Ellie who encouraged me to reach out to Gran directly. I was terrified but once I called her, I knew I’d made the right choice. She had nothing but love for me and encouraged me to come up with this dream. When she passed, she left me the money to make it happen. So that’s what I’m doing—making it happen.”
He glances back at me and gives me a wary smile. “I really appreciate you coming to help me with this, I know it’s probably not how you wanted to spend your Sunday.”
“My grandmother died too,” I blurt unwittingly. All the muscles in his face suddenly fall as my eyes go wide, surprising myself with my share.
“Oh, Conrad, I’m so?—”
“It happened a long time ago. I was away at college when she passed but it was hard. She practically raised me since my parents are dead too,” I deadpan and his eyes flitch half a millimeter. “I’m sorry, I’m bad at telling people about this.” I clear my throat and rub the back of my head.
“You don’t have to tell me anything.”
