It’s like the time as a kid we played hide and seek with a bunch of kids at a birthday party. I crammed my tiny body into the cabinet under a bathroom sink and pulled a storage basket of towels in front of me. (Hide and seek is one of the places where being petite really comes in handy.)
The nervous twisting in my belly as I waited to be found gave birth to a shaky and overpowering anxiety, and I stayed hidden for four hours. The police might have been called.
To be clear: I learned no lessons that day, and my current situation is a prime example of this.
“I know. I know,” I finally say. “I should have told you.”
They wait, but my tongue feels thick. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to something? But because of the last-minute trip to CVS, we skipped dinner, so it wasn’t something I ate.
Is it possible to be allergic to the truth?
Winnie scoffs. “That’s it? You’re not even going to make excuses?”
“Would any excuses be enough?”
“No,” they say in unison.
“How long have you been lying your cute little butt off to us about Mari moving back to Costa Rica?” Winnie asks.
I sigh. “First, my butt is not little. My butt could take either of your butts in a butt battle.”
“Anytime, sister,” Winnie says, looking like she’d happily take the challenge right now. “Any. Time.”
“Why would we be having a butt battle?” Lindy asks. “What even is a butt battle?”
Winnie and I both ignore the question. “Second, I’ve only known for a few weeks.” A month, really, but few is a vague term. “Mari made me promise not to tell anyone. You know how this town is.”
“I’m pretty sure she assumed you’d tell the two of us,” Winnie says.
She probably did. But every time I thought about telling Lindy and Winnie, every time I opened my mouth to spill, I heard a whooshing noise in my head, like ten thousand birds were taking flight at once between my ears. My pulse would race and my throat would feel like it was closing up. Not unlike how I feel now.
“But why would you go?” Winnie demands. “I understand Mari going back home, especially if her aunt is sick. But what’s there for you in Costa Rica?”
It’s a good question. But another good question is: What’s there for me here?
Why would I stay?
I don’t voice the questions that have been pinging around my brain for weeks like a little kid hopped up on caffeinated cupcakes. It would offend my two best friends to voice it.
Because they’re here. They matter.
But they also have Pat and James. They have solid relationships hustling them toward the next season of life—especially if Lindy’s pregnant. (She hasn’t had time to take the test yet.) And even though we’re still best friends, things shift when people get into serious relationships. It’s the circle of life—only instead of getting trampled by wildebeests, it’s the slow and steady march of time stomping on your heart as friendships shift.
No matter how many guys I’ve tried to give my heart to, they always give it back. Usually a little beaten up, a little more worn-down. I cannot seem to make a relationship work.
My friends are headed toward spring and summer, while I’m stuck in winter with its chill air and frozen pipes. It’s a winter that is very much discontent. And I see no signs of a thaw. I need a change. Something to get me out of my rut.
“I’m going to meet family I’ve never met. And Mari found an artist who agreed to mentor me. Nothing here has really been working out, career-wise. This seems like a solid move, to learn from someone who’s painting full-time.”
My friends have no rebuttal for this one. It’s no secret that my painting career is more of a hobby at this point, at least in terms of the financial return. It’s the only thing I want to do. But I wasn’t quite prepared for how difficult it is to sell my work.
Painting—I can do. Marketing, selling, and promoting my paintings—not in my wheelhouse.
My work is abstract, mostly focused on color and movement. Not like one giant black dot on an otherwise white canvas that looks like a toddler could do it. There’s texture and color and, because I work in acrylic, which dries quickly, layer upon layer.
My boss, Mr. Silver, on the other hand, seems to think my paintings do look like a toddler painted them. He refused to hang them in his gallery and, as a way of throwing me a bone that had been filed down to a fine point, he hired me. I was just desperate enough to say yes while waiting to have divine inspiration on how to sell my work. I mean, delivering for Door Dash wasn’t taking my art career anywhere.
But I hate myself for it a little more, every time I walk into the gallery on Main Street.