Page 133 of Caper Crush
I dip my brush into the paint and then spread it across the canvas. A big, bright-turquoise streak across the whole canvas, almost like a rainbow arc. I add another, layering on top, like the way I thought we were building layers in our relationship, strengthening it. And deepening. What color could convey that deepening? I mix in a bit of darker blue to my turquoise to see if it captures that. With another brush, I sweep that above the turquoise curve. It makes the turquoise pop. And then I take some yellow to symbolize the hope on top of a gray circle to show how it buoyed up. Not that we were without conflict. I mix some purple into the painting. Still, I thought the conflict strengthened our relationship. I add more of my darker blue mix. It jars against the purple.
Opposites don’t last.
The conflict killed our relationship.
Why haven’t I learned anything from my parents?
I let my tears fall, wiping them away again with the back of my hand. I tilt the painting to let them fall on it.
Maybe I should use more of a dark gray for the conflict. I mix up some dark gray, squeezing the last from the tube that William bought me. I drop it into the wastebasket near my easel. Finished.
I paint the dark gray over the smudged purple, trying to let some purple show through. It is salvageable.
It looks better. It looks good. I add some frothy pink near the gray to lighten it. And some light-yellow streaks as if the sun is peeking out behind some clouds. I label itTears 4:40and put it aside.
It’s good. It gives me a feeling of happiness.
I wash my hands and my brushes in our kitchen sink. TheI’m an accountant, not a magicianmug is sitting in our drain rack. I can’t bring myself to give it away, but I don’t want to be reminded of him. I bury it behind the rest of the cups on our shelf. His toothbrush is still in my bathroom. We hadn’t progressed far enough that he had a drawer in my bedroom. I should also burn my box of mementos. Or not.
I staple together a small, rough canvas using the old sweatshirt I grabbed when he came over to give me the paints, centering the sweatshirt’s pocket. I pull out my box of mementos from times with William. I’ll make this into art too. That’s probably the best way to get over him. I glue the finished, rolled-up, gray paint tube to the sweatshirt canvas. I put William’s handkerchief in the pocket with a little bit peeking out. He might want it back. I find my expired MetroCard from the subway ride we took together, and the catering menu Kimberly gave us, and glue those to the canvas. And my McDonald’s toy. Some shells from Fire Island. The matchbox from our restaurant date. And yet, these pieces barely explain the totality of our relationship. It’s more the conversations and the support. Our texts.
I print out a snapshot of the text exchange about fountain pens and the Japanese letters for Faito and glue those on. I handwriteFaitoandFighting!on a slip of paper and glue it on. I take out the pressed cherry blossoms and drop them on top like confetti. I carefully glue in each pressed cherry blossom to the place where it dropped—except one has landed on the exclamation point dot of theFighting!text. I put that one pressed petal back in the box.
I should fight for William.
Chapter thirty-eight
IshouldfightforWilliam, but he doesn’t even want me to come over. Boundaries beware. That should be enough of a sign that we don’t suit. I don’t want to schedule appointments with my boyfriend.
The door opens. Tessa is home.
“You’ve got paint all over your face.” She walks up and peers at me more closely. “Have you been crying?”
I nod.
“Why? You’re not worried about the press again, right?” she asks.
“William and I broke up.”
“What? Why? But he was here this morning waiting for you. When you were out with Peter.”
“Why didn’t you text me?”
“He said not to tell you. He was here for about a half hour, waiting and looking at your paintings.”
“How did he say not to tell me?”
“Like, ‘Don’t tell her. I’ll catch her another time.’”
“Did he seem like he still liked me?” I ask. “Yesterday, he said he doesn’t think we’re going to last long term because we are too different.”
“Oh man.” Tessa whistles. “No. I should have told you this before, but I didn’t think it would have such consequences.”
“What?”
“Thijs and I were in your room, behind the coatrack, on the beanie bag. He was about to play one of your guitars for me. Nice move—to dare him to play for me.”
“And?” I ask.
