Page 61 of Beneath Your Beautiful
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eden
“Ready?” I asked, tucking my rolled-up artwork under my arm. I reached into the back for my tote bag and Killian grabbed the bucket of wheat paste from my hand. I’d kept it between my feet on the drive to Bushwick.
“Born ready,” Killian said, closing the hatch.
“How did I know you’d say that?”
He gave my butt a playful swat. “What do you need me to do?”
“Just stand guard. I’ve got this.”
He leaned against the wall of the derelict warehouse I deemed perfect for my art after I had him drive around Bushwick a few times scoping it out, his arms crossed over his chest, booted feet crossed at the ankle. “Stop distracting me,” I said, pulling on Latex gloves because this goop was messy. I was dressed all in black, like a ninja on a stealth operation. Killian was dressed all in black because that was his usual attire. “Why are you so sexy?”
Killian smirked then held his hand over his forehead like a visor and looked up and down the street. “Coast clear, Doctor Madley. Are you prepared for surgery?”
I snorted laughter and held up my glove-covered hands, palms facing me. “I’m going in.”
He chuckled as I dipped my long-handled brush in the bucket of wheat paste I mixed in my kitchen earlier and applied it to the wall in long, sweeping strokes. Who knew that graffiti with Killian at three in the morning could be this much fun? Who knew Killian could be this much fun?
In the three weeks since our date, everything had changed. For someone who had never been in a relationship before, Killian stepped into the role of boyfriend with ease. We spent most of our nights together now, and his talent in the bedroom was a bonus. My sex life had never been this active or this good. But his talents extended beyond the bedroom. Mr. Fix-It fixed things in my apartment I hadn’t even realized were broken or in need of fixing. The hinges on my doors didn’t squeak anymore, and he did something to the shower head that increased the water pressure. He fixed the fourth gas ring on my stove I’d never bothered using because it wouldn’t turn on. Last week, I dragged him along on a shopping trip and came home with an overdyed vintage rug and some throw pillows that instantly cozied up my living room.
The same day I’d been bitten by the interior design bug, Killian drove me to the art store and I stocked up on butcher paper, acrylic markers, and X-ACTO knives.
Now I worked quickly—getting busted would be a bummer. My dad would not be impressed. I knew his view on graffiti. He considered it vandalism, not art. Unrolling my artwork, I stood on tip-toes to affix the top to the paste. Killian swatted me away. “Hey.”
“I’ll get the top. You want it here?” He didn’t need to stand on tiptoes. He was a giant among men.
“Yeah. Just smooth your hands over the top to get the bubbles out and…” He didn’t need further instructions. He was good with his hands. When he secured the top part, we worked our way down until the whole piece was glued to the wall. Hopefully, it was on straight. This paste dried quickly, and I’d rip the paper if I tried to move it. After I’d finished sketching and painting the two separate pieces, I’d painstakingly cut them out, overlapped and glued them together, aiming for a 3-D effect.
I brushed on another coat of wheat paste over the top of my art to seal it, and it was done. I pulled my camera out of my tote bag. Killian took the bag from me and packed all my supplies in the back of his Jeep. “I hid the evidence,” he said, joining me on the sidewalk.
“You’re the best.” I leaned in for a kiss. He lifted me off the ground, and I wrapped my legs around him, cinching them tight around his waist. This was quickly becoming my favorite mode of transportation. If Killian could carry me everywhere, he probably would. I chuckled at the thought.
“What’s so funny, Chuckles?”
“You. We did it.” I was so keyed-up I could barely contain the joy fizzing inside me.
What. A. Rush.
“Youdid it. And it’s fucking amazing.”
I jumped down to the ground. “I need to get some photos.”
Not only was I thrilled we’d gotten away with it, but now my art was part of this wall, this street, the fabric of this neighborhood. My artwork won’t last forever. Someone might paint over it. Deface it with vulgar words. The paper will eventually peel. The elements will attack it. Reminders that nothing lasts forever. But right now, my life-sized mom lives on a wall in Bushwick.
I had no idea what it felt like to see your artwork displayed in a gallery, but I wasn’t sure how it could compare to this. A lot of street artists I read about said they do what they do, not only for the rush, but because art should be accessible to everyone. Art is subjective, so it would be conceited to think everyone will appreciate what I put on this wall. Putting my mom out there was such a personal thing. But choosing to make it accessible to the public was a risk I chose to take. No matter what happened, I wouldn’t allow myself to regret it.
I snapped photos, zooming out so I could get the whole piece in one photo. My mom was wearing a blue headscarf, holding a thin paintbrush poised above the dark pink lotus flower of the mandala, as if she was putting the final touches on it. I spent the longest time working on her hands, to make sure I got them right—the long, slender fingers, the veins, the half-moons on her nails. Her green eyes were vivid, and a smile tugged at her lips, not fully formed. The gauntness of her face made her cheekbones stand out more prominently, and I remember thinking in the moments after she’d died that she had never looked more beautiful. Like she was at peace.
We were all there when she’d died, gathered around her hospice bed, and for a few moments, an eerie calmness had come over me. I felt like she was holding my hand and whispering in my ear that everything was going to be okay. Physically, she was already gone, but I felt her presence in the room like a strong vibration running through my whole body. One look at Sawyer’s stricken face told me he wasn’t feeling the same thing I was. A few minutes later, Sawyer stood and kicked his chair over. He kicked and punched every inanimate object in the room before announcing that he was running home and slammed out of the room. Garrett tried to go after Sawyer, but my dad stopped him. “Let him go. We all grieve in different ways.”
When we got home from the hospice, I headed to the woods behind our house. I found him lying on the dead leaves, staring at the sky, his hands balled into fists. Still angry and most likely cursing a God he’d stopped believing in. I lay on the ground next to him and neither of us said a word. By then, those few moments of positive energy after my mom died had disappeared and been replaced with the reality—my mom was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. All I felt was an overwhelming sense of loss and sadness.
“You okay?” Killian asked, jolting me out of my memories.
“Yeah. Just thinking about my mom.”
