I squirm in my chair as soon as he tells me his hourly rate. ereโs no way I can a๏ฌord this with my income.
โDo you work on a sliding-scale basis?โ I ask him.
e wrinkles around his mouth become more prominent as he attempts to keep from frowning. He folds his arms over the mahogany desk and clasps his hands together, pressing the pads of his thumbs against one other.
โAuburn, what youโre asking me to do is going to cost money.โ No shit.
He leans back in his chair, pulling his hands to his chest and resting them on his stomach. โLawyers are like weddings. You get what you pay for.โ
I fail to tell him what a horrible analogy that is. Instead, I glance down at the business card in my hand. He came highly recommended and I knew it was going to be expensive, but I had no idea it would be this expensive. Iโll need a second job. Maybe even a third one. Actually, Iโm going to have to rob a damn bank.
โAnd thereโs no guarantee the judge will rule in my favor?โ
โ e only promise I can make is that Iโll do everything I can to ensure the judge does rule in your favor. According to the paperwork that was led back in Portland, youโve put yourself in a tough spot. is will take time.โ
โAll I have is time,โ I mumble. โIโll be back as soon as I get my rst paycheck.โ
He has me set up an appointment through his secretary and then sends me on my way, back out into the Texas heat.
Iโve been living here all of three weeks and so far itโs everything I thought it would be: hot, humid, and lonely.
I grew up in Portland, Oregon, and assumed I would spend the rest of my life there. I visited Texas once when I was fteen and although that trip wasnโt a pleasant one, I wouldnโt take back a single second of it. Unlike now, when Iโd do anything to get back to Portland.
I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes and begin heading in the direction of my apartment. Living in downtown Dallas is nothing like living in downtown Portland. At least in Portland, I had access to almost everything the city had to o๏ฌer, all within a decent walk. Dallas is spread out and expansive, and did I mention the heat? Itโs so hot. And I had to sell my car in order to a๏ฌord the move, so I have the choice between public transportation and my feet, considering Iโm now penny-pinching in order to be able to a๏ฌord the lawyer I just met with.
I canโt believe itโs come to this. I havenโt even built up a clientele at the salon Iโm working at, so Iโm de nitely going to have to look for a second job. I just have no idea when Iโll nd time to t it in, thanks to Lydiaโs erratic scheduling.
Speaking of Lydia.
I dial her number and hit send and wait for her to pick up on the other end. After it goes to voice mail, I debate whether to leave a message or just call back later tonight. Iโm sure she just deletes her messages, anyway, so I end the call and drop the phone into my purse. I can feel the ush rising up my neck and cheeks and the familiar sting in my eyes. Itโs the thirteenth time Iโve walked home in my new state, in a city inhabited by nothing but strangers, but Iโm determined to make it the rst time Iโm not crying when I reach my front door. My neighbors probably think Iโm psychotic.
Itโs just such a long walk from work to home, and long walks make me contemplate my life, and my life makes me cry.
I pause and look into the glass window of one of the buildings to check for smeared mascara. I take in my re ection and donโt like what I see.
A girl who hates the choices sheโs made in her life. A girl who hates her career.
A girl who misses Portland.
A girl who desperately needs a second job, and now a girl who is reading the HELP WANTED sign she just noticed in the window.
Help Wanted. Knock to apply.
I take a step back and assess the building Iโm standing in front of; Iโve passed by it every day on my commute and Iโve never noticed it. Probably because I spend my mornings on the phone and my afternoon walks with too many tears in my eyes to notice my surroundings.
CONFESS
atโs all the sign says. e name leads me to believe it might be a church, but that thought is quickly dismissed when I take a closer look at the glass windows lining the front of the building. ey are covered with small scraps of paper in various shapes and sizes, concealing views into the building, removing any hope of taking a peek inside. e scraps of paper are all marked with words and phrases, written in di๏ฌerent handwriting. I take a step closer and read a few of them.
Every day Iโm grateful that my husband and his brother look exactly alike. It means thereโs less of a chance that my husband will ๏ฌnd out that our son isnโt his.
I clutch my hand to my heart. What the hell is this? I read another.
I havenโt spoken to my children in four months. Theyโll call on holidays and my birthday, but never in between. I donโt blame them. I was a horrible father.
I read another.
I lied on my rรฉsumรฉ. I donโt have a degree. In the ๏ฌve years Iโve been working for my employer, no one has ever asked to see it.
My mouth is agape and my eyes are wide as I stand and read all the confessions my eyes can reach. I still have no idea what this building is or what I even think about all these things being plastered up for the world to see, but reading them somehow gives me a sense of normalcy. If these are all true, then maybe my life isnโt quite as bad as I think it is.
After no less than fteen minutes, Iโve made it to the second window, having read most of the confessions to the right of the door, when it begins
to swing open. I take a step back to avoid being hit, while I simultaneously
ght the intense urge to step around the door and get a peek inside the building.
A hand reaches out and yanks down the HELP WANTED sign. I can hear a marker sliding across the vinyl sign as I remain poised behind the door. Wanting to get a better look at whoever or whatever this place is, I begin to step around the door just as the hand slaps the HELP WANTED sign back onto the window.
Help Wanted. Knock to apply.
DESPERATELY NEEDED!!
BEAT ON THE DAMN DOOR!!
I laugh when I read the alterations made to the sign. Maybe this is fate. I desperately need a second job and whoever this is desperately needs help.
e door then opens further, and Iโm suddenly under the scrutiny of eyes that I guarantee are more shades of green than I could nd on his paint- splattered shirt. His hair is black and thick and he uses both hands to push it o๏ฌ his forehead, revealing even more of his face. His eyes are wide and full of anxiety at rst, but after taking me in, he lets out a sigh. Itโs almost as if heโs acknowledging that Iโm exactly where Iโm supposed to be and heโs relieved Iโm nally here.
He stares at me with a concentrated expression for several seconds. I shift on my feet and glance away. Not because Iโm uncomfortable, but because the way he stares at me is oddly comforting. Itโs probably the rst time Iโve felt welcome since Iโve been back in Texas.
โAre you here to save me?โ he asks, pulling my attention back to his eyes. Heโs smiling, holding the door open with his elbow. He assesses me from head to toe and I canโt help but wonder what heโs thinking.
I glance at the HELP WANTED sign and run through a million scenarios of what could happen if I answer his question with a yes and follow him inside this building.
e worst scenario I can come up with is one that would end with my murder. Sadly, thatโs not enough of a deterrent, considering the month Iโve
had.
โAre you the one hiring?โ I ask him. โIf youโre the one applying.โ
His voice is overtly friendly. Iโm not used to overt friendliness, and I donโt know what to do with it.
โI have a few questions before I agree to help you,โ I say, proud of myself for not being so willingly killable.
He grabs the HELP WANTED sign and pulls it away from the window. He tosses it inside the building and presses his back against the door, pushing it open as far as it will reach, motioning for me to come inside. โWe donโt really have time for questions, but I promise I wonโt torture, rape, or kill you if that helps.โ
His voice is still pleasant, despite his phrase of choice. So is that smile that shows o๏ฌ two rows of almost perfect teeth and a slightly crooked front left incisor. But that little aw in his smile is actually my favorite part of him. at and his complete disregard for my questions. I hate questions.
is might not be such a bad gig.
I sigh and slip past him, making my way inside the building. โWhat am I getting myself into?โ I mutter.
โSomething you wonโt want to get out of,โ he says. e door closes behind us, blocking o๏ฌ all the natural lighting in the room. at wouldnโt be a bad thing if there were interior lights on, but there arenโt. Only a faint glow coming from what looks like a hallway on the other side of the room.
As soon as the beat of my heart begins to inform me of how stupid I am for walking into a building with a complete stranger, the lights begin to buzz and icker to life.
โSorry.โ His voice is close, so I spin around just as the rst of the
uorescent lights reach their full power. โI donโt usually work in this part of the studio, so I keep the lights o๏ฌ to save energy.โ
Now that the entire area is illuminated, I slowly scan the room. e walls are a stark white, adorned with various paintings. I canโt get a good look at them, because theyโre all spread out, several feet away from me. โIs this an art gallery?โ
He laughs, which I nd unusual, so I spin around to face him.
Heโs watching me with narrowed, curious eyes. โI wouldnโt go so far as to call it an art gallery.โ He turns and locks the front door and then walks past
me. โWhat size are you?โ
He makes his way across the expansive room, toward the hallway. I still donโt know why Iโm here, but the fact that heโs asking me what size I am has me a little more concerned than I was just two minutes ago. Is he wondering what size co๏ฌn Iโll t in? How to size the handcu๏ฌs?
Okay, Iโm a lot concerned.
โWhat do you mean? Like as in my clothing size?โ
He faces me and walks backward, still heading in the direction of the hallway. โYes, your clothing size. You canโt wear that tonight,โ he says, pointing at my jeans and T-shirt. He motions for me to follow him as he turns to ascend a ight of stairs leading to a room above the one weโre in. I may be a sucker for a cute, crooked incisor, but following strangers into unknown territory is where I should probably draw the line.
โWait,โ I say, stopping at the foot of the stairs. He pauses and turns around. โCan you at least give me a rundown of whatโs happening right now? Because Iโm starting to second-guess my idiotic decision to place my trust in a complete stranger.โ
He glances over his shoulder toward wherever the stairs lead and then back at me. He lets out an exasperated sigh before descending several steps. He takes a seat, coming eye to eye with me. His elbows meet his knees and he leans forward, smiling calmly. โMy name is Owen Gentry. Iโm an artist and this is my studio. I have a showing in less than an hour, I need someone to handle all the transactions, and my girlfriend broke up with me last week.โ
Artist. Showing.
Less than an hour?
And girlfriend? Not touching that one.
I shift on my feet, glance behind me at the studio once more and then back to him. โDo I get any kind of training?โ
โDo you know how to use a basic calculator?โ I roll my eyes. โYes.โ
โConsider yourself trained. I only need you for two hours tops and then Iโll give you your two hundred bucks and you can be on your way.โ
Two hours.
Two hundred bucks.
Something isnโt adding up. โWhatโs the catch?โ
โ ereโs no catch.โ
โWhy would you need help if you pay a hundred dollars an hour? ere has to be a catch. You should be swarmed with potential applicants.โ
Owen runs a palm across the scru๏ฌ on his jaw, moving it back and forth like heโs attempting to squeeze out the tension. โMy girlfriend failed to mention she was also quitting her job the day she broke up with me. I called her when she didnโt show to help me set up two hours ago. Itโs kind of a last-minute employment opportunity. Maybe you were just in the right place at the right time.โ He stands and turns around. I remain in my spot at the bottom of the stairs.
โYou made your girlfriend an employee? atโs never a good idea.โ
โI made my employee a girlfriend. An even worse idea.โ He pauses at the top of the stairs and turns around, looking down at me. โWhatโs your name?โ
โAuburn.โ
His gaze falls to my hair, which is understandable. Everyone assumes I was named Auburn due to my hair color, but itโs strawberry blond at best. Calling it red is a stretch.
โWhatโs the rest of your name, Auburn?โ โMason Reed.โ
Owen slowly tilts his head in the direction of the ceiling as he blows out a breath of air. I follow his gaze and look at the ceiling with him, but nothing is up there other than white ceiling tiles. He takes his right hand and touches his forehead, then his chest, and then continues the movements from shoulder to shoulder, until heโs just made the sign of the cross over himself.
What the hell is he doing? Praying?
He looks back down at me, smiling now. โIs Mason really your middle name?โ
I nod. As far as I know, Mason isnโt a strange middle name so I have no idea why heโs performing religious rituals.
โWe have the same middle name,โ he says.
I regard him silently, allowing myself to take in the probability of his response. โAre you serious?โ
He nods casually and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He descends the stairs once more and hands me his license. I look it over, and sure enough, his middle name is Mason.
I press my lips together and hand him back his driverโs license. OMG.
I try to contain the laughter, but itโs hard, so I cover my mouth, hoping Iโm being inconspicuous about it.
He slides his wallet back into his pocket. His eyebrow raises and he shoots me a look of suspicion. โAre you that quick?โ
My shoulders are shaking from the suppressed laughter now. I feel so bad. So, so bad for him.
He rolls his eyes and looks slightly embarrassed in the way he attempts to hide his own smile. He heads back up the stairs much less con dently than before. โ is is why I never tell anyone my middle name,โ he mutters.
I feel guilty for nding this so funny, but his humility nally gives me the courage to climb the rest of the stairs. โYour initials are really OMG?โ I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing back the smile I donโt want him to see.
I reach the top of the stairs and he ignores me, heading straight for a dresser. He opens a drawer and begins rummaging through it, so I take the opportunity to look around the massive room. ereโs a large bed, probably a king, in the far corner. In the opposite corner is a full kitchen anked by two doors, leading to other rooms.
Iโm in his apartment.
He turns around and tosses me something black. I catch it and unfold it, revealing a skirt. โ at should t. You and the traitor look about the same size.โ He walks to the closet and removes a white shirt from a hanger. โSee if this works. e shoes you have on are ne.โ
I take the shirt from him and glance toward the two doors. โBathroom?โ He points to the door on the left.
โWhat if they donโt t?โ I ask, worried he wonโt be able to use my help if Iโm not dressed professionally. Two hundred dollars isnโt easy to come by.
โIf they donโt t, weโll burn them along with everything else she left behind.โ
I laugh and make my way to the bathroom. Once Iโm inside, I pay no attention to the actual bathroom itself as I begin to change into the clothes he gave me. Luckily, they t perfectly. I look at myself in the full-length
mirror and cringe at the disaster that is my hair. I should be embarrassed to call myself a cosmetologist. I havenโt touched it since I left the apartment this morning, so I do a quick x and use one of Owenโs combs to pull it up into a bun. I fold the clothes I just removed and set them on the countertop.
When I exit the bathroom, Owen is in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of wine. I contemplate whether or not I should tell him Iโm a few weeks shy of being old enough to drink, but my nerves are screaming for a glass of wine right now.
โFits,โ I say, walking toward him.
He lifts his eyes and stares at my shirt for much longer than it takes to acknowledge whether or not a shirt ts. He clears his throat and looks back down at the wine heโs pouring. โLooks better on you,โ he says.
I slide onto the stool, ghting to hide my smile. Itโs been a while since Iโve been complimented and Iโve forgotten how good it feels. โYou donโt mean that. Youโre just bitter over your breakup.โ
He pushes a glass of wine across the bar. โIโm not bitter, Iโm relieved. And I absolutely mean it.โ He raises his glass of wine, so I raise mine. โTo ex-girlfriends and new employees.โ
I laugh as our glasses clink together. โBetter than ex-employees and new girlfriends.โ
He pauses with his glass at his lips and watches me sip from mine.
When Iโm nished, he grins and nally takes a sip.
As soon as I set my wineglass back down on the countertop, something soft grazes my leg. My initial reaction is to scream, which is exactly what happens. Or maybe the noise that comes out of my mouth is more of a yelp. Either way, I pull both of my legs up and look down to see a black, long- haired cat rubbing the stool Iโm seated on. I immediately lower my legs back to the oor and bend over to scoop up the cat. I donโt know why, but knowing this guy has a cat eases my discomfort even more. It doesnโt seem like someone could be dangerous if they own a pet. I know that isnโt the best way to justify being in a strangerโs apartment, but it does make me feel better.
โWhatโs your catโs name?โ
Owen reaches over and runs his ngers through the catโs mane. โOwen.โ
I immediately laugh at his joke, but his expression remains calm. I pause for a few seconds, waiting for him to laugh, but he doesnโt.
โYou named your cat after yourself ? Seriously?โ
He looks at me and I can see the slightest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs, almost bashfully. โShe reminded me of myself.โ
I laugh again. โShe? You named a girl cat Owen?โ
He looks down at Owen-Cat and continues to pet her as I hold her. โShh,โ he says quietly. โShe can understand you. Donโt give her a complex.โ
As if heโs right, and she can actually hear me making fun of her name, Owen-Cat jumps out of my arms and lands on the oor. She disappears around the bar, and I force myself to wipe the grin o๏ฌ my face. I love that he named a female cat after himself. Who does that?
I lean my arm on the counter and rest my chin in my hand. โSo what do you need me to do tonight, OMG?โ
Owen shakes his head and grabs the bottle of wine, storing it in the refrigerator. โYou can start by never again referring to me by my initials. After you agree to that, Iโll give you the rundown of whatโs about to happen.โ
I should feel bad, but he seems amused. โDeal.โ
โFirst of all,โ he says, leaning forward across the bar, โhow old are you?โ โNot old enough for wine.โ I take another sip.
โOops,โ he says dryly. โWhat do you do? Are you in college?โ He rests his chin in his hand and waits for my response to his questions.
โHow are these questions preparing me for work tonight?โ
He smiles. His smile is exceptionally nice when accompanied by a few sips of wine. He nods once and stands straight. He takes the wineglass from my hand and sets it back down on the bar. โFollow me, Auburn Mason Reed.โ
I do what he asks, because for $100 an hour, Iโll do almost anything. Almost.
When we reach the main oor again, he walks into the center of the room and lifts his arms, making a full circle. I follow his gaze around the room, taking in the vastness of it. e track lighting is what catches my eye
rst. Each light is focused on a painting adorning the stark-white walls of the studio, pulling the focus to the art and nothing else. Well, there really
isnโt anything else. Just oor-to-ceiling white walls, a polished concrete
oor, and art. Itโs both simple and overwhelming.
โ is is my studio.โ He pauses and points to a painting. โ atโs the art.โ He points to a counter on the other side of the room. โ atโs where youโll be most of the time. Iโll work the room and you ring up the purchases.
atโs pretty much it.โ He explains it all so casually, as if anyone is perfectly capable of creating something of this magnitude. He rests his hands on his hips and waits for me to absorb it all.
โHow old are you?โ I ask him.
His eyes narrow and he dips his head slightly before looking away. โTwenty-one.โ He says it like his age embarrasses him. Itโs almost as if he doesnโt like that heโs so young and already has what appears to be a successful career.
I would have guessed much older. His eyes donโt seem like the eyes of a twenty-one-year-old. eyโre dark and deep, and I have the sudden urge to plunge into their depths so I can see everything heโs seen.
I glance away and place my attention on the art. I walk toward the painting closest to me, growing more and more aware of the talent behind the brush with each step. When I reach it, I suck in a breath.
Itโs somehow sad and breathtaking and beautiful all at once. e painting is of a woman who seems to encompass both love and shame and every
single emotion in between.
โWhat do you use besides acrylics?โ I ask, taking a step closer. I run my
nger across the canvas and hear his footsteps close in on me. He pauses next to me, but I canโt take my eyes o๏ฌ the painting long enough to look at him.
โI use a lot of di๏ฌerent mediums, from acrylic to spray paint. It just depends on the piece.โ
My eyes are drawn to a slip of paper next to the painting, adhered to the wall. I read the words sprawled across it.
Sometimes I wonder if being dead would be easier than being his mother.
I touch the paper and then look back at the painting. โA confession?โ When I turn and face him, his playful smile is gone. His arms are folded tightly across his chest and his chin is tucked in. He looks at me as if heโs nervous about my reaction.
โYep,โ he says simply.
I glance toward the windowโat all the pieces of paper lining the glass. My eyes move around the room to all the paintings and I notice strips of paper adhered to the walls next to every one.
โ eyโre all confessions,โ I say in awe. โAre these from actua
l people?
People you know?โ
He shakes his head and motions toward the front door. โ eyโre all anonymous. People leave their confessions in the slot over there, and I use some of them as inspiration for my art.โ
I walk to the next painting and look at the confession before I even look at the interpreted piece.
Iโve never let anyone see me without makeup. My greatest fear is what Iโll look like at my funeral. Iโm almost certain Iโll be cremated, because my insecurities run so deep, theyโll follow me into the afterlife. Thank you for that, Mother.
I immediately move my attention to the painting.
โItโs incredible,โ I whisper, spinning around to take in more of what heโs created. I walk to the window of confessions and nd one written in red ink and highlighted.
Iโm scared Iโll never stop comparing my life without him to how my life was when I was with him.
Iโm not sure if Iโm more fascinated by the confessions, the art, or the fact that I feel like I can relate to everything in here. Iโm a very closed-o๏ฌ person. I rarely share my true thoughts with anyone, regardless of how helpful it might be for me. Seeing all of these secrets and knowing that these people have more than likely never shared these with anyone, and never will, makes me feel a sense of connection to them. A sense of belonging.
In a way, the studio and the confessions remind me of Adam.
โTell me something about yourself that no one else knows. Something I can keep for myself.โ
I hate how I always tie Adam in to everything I see and do, and I wonder if and when that will ever go away. Itโs been ve years since I last saw him. Five years since he passed away. Five years, and Iโm wondering if, like the confession in front of me, Iโll forever be comparing my life with him to my life without him.
And I wonder if Iโll ever not be disappointed.
