Page 17 of Broken People

“What’s up with the art stash? Did you have it smuggled in and you aren’t sure if you’re in the clear yet? Probably want to find a secondary location for it for a while, if that’s the case.”

“Are you an expert in illicit art dealings then?” he asks.

“I’m an expert in general illicitness. I come from a long line of criminals…probably. I honestly wouldn’t know.”

“Come and see for yourself, if you want.”

“Okay,” I say, with a tone akin to a verbal shrug. I set the small, white box of spicy noodles down on the coffee table and cross the apartment with a hint of trepidation. Is this it? Is this the moment that I discover his irreconcilable flaw?

I sit down next to a teetering pile of canvases of every size and pick up a couple of small ones from the top, one in each hand, turning them over. They’re charcoal drawings; these two are of an older woman’s face. The amount of detail takes me back at first, as I almost confuse them for photographs. I start sifting through the pile and it’s more of the same medium, but a variety of subjects. The larger ones are mostly landscapes and cityscapes—a lot of places that are familiar and dear to myself—and all clearly done by the same artist.

“Did you draw these, Jake?” I ask.

“Yeah, I did,” he says.

“Well, these are amazing,” I tell him. “What are they all doing in here? I mean, why hide these? You’re extremely talented. They should be…adorning your cold, sad walls.”

“Still hate my apartment, I guess.”

“No, I don’t I’m just…deflecting because asking personal questions isn’t something that I’m good at, I guess. I mean, my writing is personal to me. It’s hard to share it sometimes, so I get it if you don’t want to share your art.”

“I don’t share my art because I’m just not that person anymore, and it’s a reminder of that. And I don’t like it,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. I don’t push but continue to go through and admire the discarded canvases scattered across the floor, trying to at least stack and organize them with the kind of dignity they deserve as I go.

“The short version of that story is that I’ve always loved drawing. When I got to college, I did what I was supposed to do, and I majored in accounting. I took some art classes too, but my parents weren’t too happy about my grades and blamed it on all the time I wasted on art. I was wasting their money, too, on something that wasn’t going to get me anywhere. There were a lot of fights about it, and all my friends and family agreed with them. So, I stopped taking the classes. After that, I didn’t like looking at this stuff anymore. I couldn’t see it every day. It wasn’t my outlet; it didn’t make me happy anymore. It made me really fucking sad.”

“I’m sorry, Jake. They were wrong, you know. You deserved better than that.”

“Yeah well, that’s the unfortunate thing about having a family. You have to live up to their expectations instead of your own,” he says. I draw back a bit, and he sees it. “I’m sorry,” he adds, “I didn’t mean that, not like that. I’m not sure how to say what I mean.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I get it.”But I’d be happy to exchange some freedom for not being completely alone in the world,I don’t say. I could probably use some higher expectations, too, even if they weren’t my own.

“It’s hard to look at them even now,” he says. “It feels weird—embarrassing even.”

“Well, they certainly aren't anything to be embarrassed about. They're amazing," I tell him. "What made you decide to share it with me?”

“I don’t know,” he says. "Right place at the right time.”

I nod, sinking down onto the hallway floor, my back against the wall, and go back to the pile of canvases I’ve started organizing by size. I spot file boxes filled with what I believe must be more drawings, but I don’t ask to see them. I remember how I’d seen him with that sketchbook in my bar that night and think that he must not have given up on art entirely.

“Actually, that’s not true,” he says. “I wanted you to know this about me, because I thought that you’d understand how I felt about it. I don’t show people or talk about it because the people in my circle don’t get it. They roll their eyes. They feel the same way that my parents felt. I knew you wouldn’t.”

“I do get it. I do understand. And it is sad. You deserve to…live authentically. As your whole self, no matter what that means to you. Everyone does.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not even sure if I know how to do that at this point,” he says, pulling a black garment bag from the closet. “Found it.” He heads back towards the room, and I can hear him pulling hangers from the closet and tossing them onto the bag.

Maybe I’m right about Jake after all. Holding evidence of his depth in my hands, I wonder how the person who created these drawings could ever be shallow like they say. How could he be anything other than a bottomless ocean? I also wonder if, between the two of us, we’ve had too much practice shutting down and burying our feelings and the things that matter to us to ever make this work. I mean, here we are, and after spending weeks like this, we haven’t even given a name to it. Maybe I should read the writing on the wall, or better yet, the lack of art on the wall, and do the same before I get any more invested than I already am.

I set the last of the drawings back down in the pile and shoot a glance toward the door. It would be easy to run out again. He’s distracted. He would be gone for the next few days, and that would make it easier for him to forget about me. Maybe he would anyway. I’d be devastated and low for a while, but if I waited, it would be even worse. At least I’d get out of the awful fundraiser looming in my near future.

Just as I’m able to will my legs to make their first move, he comes back out of the bedroom and walks in my direction. I casually sink back down those last couple of inches and wonder if he notices, and he sits down on the floor in front of me, putting a hand on each of my knees.

“Ruby,” he says, “I didn't mean to sound like such a dick. I'm sorry. The thing that I said before, you know, about not knowing how to be that person anymore, I didn't really mean that. What I meant to say was that I think that maybe I could be that person with you.”

I can’t think of the right thing to say, but I think that my eyes do. He reaches his hands under my knees, and he pulls me to the ground, climbing on top of me. Now, we won’t need to say anything at all.

eight

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