If I were eleven years old again, I would shake my Magic 8 Ball and ask it silly questions, like โDoes Auburn Mason Reed like me? Does she think Iโm cute?โ
And I might be making assumptions based on the way sheโs looking at me right now, but I expect the answer would be โIt is decidedly so.โ
We continue walking away from the bar, toward her apartment, and considering itโs quite a few blocks away, I can probably think of enough questions between here and there to get to know her a whole lot better.ย e one thing Iโve been wanting to know most since I saw her standing in front of my studio tonight is why sheโs back in Texas.
โYou never told me why you moved to Texas.โ
She looks alarmed by my comment, but I donโt know why. โI never told you I wasnโt from Texas.โ
I smile to cover up my mistake. I shouldnโt know she isnโt from Texas, because as far as she knows, I know nothing about her other than what sheโs told me tonight. I do my best to hide whatโs really going through my head, because if I were to come clean with her now, it would make me look like Iโve been hiding something from her for the majority of the night. I have, but itโs too late for me to admit that now. โYou didnโt have to tell me. Your accent told me.โ
She watches me closely, and I can tell sheโs not going to answer my question, so I think of a di๏ฌerent question to replace that one, but the next question is even more rushed. โDo you have a boyfriend?โ
She quickly looks away and it makes my heart sting because for some reason, she looks guilty. I assume this means she does have a boyfriend, and
dances like the one I just shared with her shouldnโt happen with girls who have boyfriends.
โNo.โ
My heart instantly feels better. I smile again, for about the millionth time since Iย rst saw her at my door tonight. I donโt know if she knows this about me yet, but I hardly ever smile.
I wait for her to ask me a question, but sheโs quiet. โAre you gonna ask me if I have a girlfriend?โ
She laughs. โNo. She broke up with you last week.โ
Oh, yeah. I forgot weโve already visited this subject. โLucky me.โ
โย atโs not very nice,โ she says with a frown. โIโm sure it was a hard decision for her.โ
I disagree with a shake of my head. โIt was an easy decision for her. Itโs an easy decision for all of them.โ
She pauses for a second or two, eyeing me warily before she begins walking again. โAll of them?โ
I realize this doesnโt make me sound good, but Iโm not about to lie to her. Plus, if I tell her the truth, she might continue to trust me and ask me even more questions.
โYes. I get broken up with a lot.โ
She squints her eyes and scrunches her nose up at my response. โWhy do you think that is, Owen?โ
I try to pad the harshness of the sentence about to come out of my mouth by speaking softer, but itโs not a fact I necessarily want to admit to her. โIโm not a very good boyfriend.โ
She looks away, probably not wanting me to see the disappointment in her eyes. I saw it anyway, though. โWhat makes you a bad boyfriend?โ
Iโm sure there are lots of reasons, but I focus on the most obvious answers. โI put a lot of other things before my relationships. For most girls, not being a priority is a pretty good reason to end things.โ
I glance at her to see if sheโs still frowning or if sheโs judging me. Instead, she has a thoughtful look on her face and sheโs nodding.
โSo Hannah broke up with you because you wouldnโt make time for her?โ
โย atโs what it boiled down to, yes.โ โHow long were the two of you together?โ
โNot long. A few months.ย ree, maybe.โ โDid you love her?โ
I want to look at her, to see the look on her face after she asks me this question, but I donโt want her to see the look on my face. I donโt want her to think my frown means Iโm heartbroken, because Iโm not. If anything, Iโm sad that I couldnโt love her.
โI think love is a hard word to deย ne,โ I say to her. โYou can love a lot of things about a person but still not love the whole person.โ
โDid you cry?โ
Her question makes me laugh. โNo, I didnโt cry. I was pissed. I get involved with these girls who claim they can handle it when I need to lock myself up for a week at a time.ย en when it actually happens, we spend the time we are togetherย ghting about how I love my art more than I love them.โ
She turns and walks backward so she can peg me with her stare. โDo you? Love your art more?โ
I look straight at her this time. โAbsolutely.โ
Her lips curl up into a hesitant grin, and I donโt know why this answer pleases her. It disturbs most people. I should be able to love people more than I love to create, but so far that hasnโt happened yet.
โWhatโs the best anonymous confession youโve ever received?โ
We havenโt been walking long. We arenโt even to the end of the street, but the question she just asked could open up a conversation that could last for days.
โย atโs a tough one.โ
โDo you keep all of them?โ
I nod. โIโve never thrown one away. Even the awful ones.โ
is gets her attention. โDeย ne awful.โ
I glance over my shoulder to the end of the street and look at my studio. I donโt know why the thought to show her even crosses my mind, because Iโve never shared the confessions with anyone.
But she isnโt just anyone.
When I look at her again, her eyes are hopeful. โI can show you some,โ I say.
Her smile widens with my words, and she immediately stops heading in the direction of her apartment in favor of my studio.
 |
Once upstairs, I open the door and let her cross the threshold that has, up to this point, only been crossed by me.ย is is the room I paint in.ย is is the room I keep the confessions in.ย is is the room that is the most private part of me. In a way, I guess you could say this room holds my confession.
ere are several paintings in here Iโve never shown anyone. Paintings that will never see the light of dayโlike the one sheโs looking at right now.
She touches the canvas and runs herย ngers over the face of the man in the picture. She traces his eyes, his nose, his lips. โย is isnโt a confession,โ she says, reading the piece of paper attached to it. She glances at me. โWho is this?โ
I walk to where she is and stare at the picture with her. โMy father.โ
She gasps quietly, running herย ngers over the words written on the slip of paper. โWhat doesย Nothing but Bluesย mean?โ
Herย ngers are now trailing over the sharp white lines in the painting and I wonder if anyone has ever told her that artists donโt like it when you touch their paintings.
atโs not true in this case, because I want to watch her touch every single one of them. I love how she canโt seem to look at one without feeling
it with both her eyes and her hands. She looks up at me expectantly, waiting for me to explain what the title of this one means.
โIt means nothing but lies.โ I walk away before she can see the expression on my face. I lift the three boxes I keep in the corner and take them to the center of the room. I take a seat on the concreteย oor and motion for her to do the same.
She sits cross-legged in front of me with the boxes stacked between us. I take the two smaller boxes o๏ฌย the top and set them aside, then open the lid on the larger box. She peeks inside and shoves her hand into the pile of confessions, pulling out a random one. She reads it out loud.
โ โIโve lost over one hundred pounds in the past year. Everyone thinks itโs because Iโve discovered a new healthy way of living, but really itโs because I su๏ฌer from depression and anxiety and I donโt want anyone to know.โ โ
She places the confession back in the box and grabs another. โWill you ever use any of these for paintings? Is that why you keep them in here?โ
I shake my head. โย is is where I keep the ones Iโve seen in one form or another before. Peopleโs secrets are a lot alike, surprisingly.โ
She reads another. โ โI hate animals. Sometimes when my husband brings home a new puppy for our children, Iโll wait a few days and then drop it o๏ฌย miles from our house.ย en I pretend it ran away.โ โ
She frowns at that confession.
โJesus,โ she says, picking up several more. โHow do you retain faith in humanity after reading these every day?โ
โEasy,โ I say. โIt actually makes me appreciate people more, knowing we all have this amazing ability to put on a front. Especially to those closest to us.โ
She stops reading the confession in her hands and her eyes meet mine. โYouโre amazed that people can lie so well?โ
I shake my head. โNo. Just relieved to know that everyone does it. Makes me feel like maybe my life isnโt as fucked up as I thought it was.โ
She regards me with a quiet smile and continues sifting through the box. I watch her. Some of the confessions make her laugh. Some make her frown. Some make her wish sheโd never read them.
โWhatโs the worst one youโve ever received?โ
I knew this was coming. I almost wish I had lied to her and said I throw a lot of them away, but instead I point to the smaller box. She leans forward
and touches it, but she doesnโt pull it toward her. โWhatโs in here?โ
โย e confessions I never want to read again.โ
She looks down at the box and slowly pulls the lid o๏ฌย of it. She grabs one of the confessions from the top. โ โMy father has been . . .โ โ Her voice grows weak and she looks up at me with daunting sadness. I can see the gentle roll of her throat as she swallows and then looks back down to the confession. โ โMy father has been having sex with me since I was eight years old. Iโm thirty-three now and married with children of my own, but Iโm still too scared to say no to him.โ โ
She doesnโt just place this confession back into the box. She crumples it up into a tightย st and she throws the confession at the box, like sheโs angry at it. She puts the lid back on it and shoves the box several feet away. I can see that she hates that box as much as I do.
โHere,โ I say, handing her the box she hasnโt opened. โRead a couple of these. Youโll feel better.โ
She hesitantly removes one of the confessions. Before she reads it, she straightens up and stretches her back, and then inhales a deep breath.
โ โEvery time I go out to eat, I secretly pay for someoneโs meal. I canโt a๏ฌord it, but I do it because it makes me feel good to imagine what that moment must be like for them, to know a complete stranger just did something nice for them with no expectations in return.โ โ
She smiles, but she needs another good one. I sift through the box until I
nd the one printed on blue construction paper. โRead this one. Itโs my favorite.โ
โ โEvery night after my son falls asleep, I hide a brand-new toy in his room. Every morning when he wakes up andย nds it, I pretend not to know how it got there. Because Christmas should come every day and I never want my son to stop believing in magic.โ โ
She laughs and looks up at me appreciatively. โย at kidโs gonna be sad when he wakes up in his college dorm for theย rst time and doesnโt have a new toy.โ She places it back in the box and continues sifting through them. โAre any of these your own?โ
โNo. Iโve never written one.โ
She looks at me in shock. โNever?โ
I shake my head and she tilts hers in confusion. โย atโs not right, Owen.โ She immediately stands and leaves the room. Iโm confused as to whatโs going on, but before I take the time to stand up and follow her, she returns. โHere,โ she says, handing me a sheet of paper and a pen. Sitting back down on theย oor in front of me, she nods her head at the paper and encourages me to write.
I look down at the paper when I hear her say, โWrite something about yourself that no one else knows. Something youโve never told anyone.โ
I smile when she says this, because there is so much I could tell her. So much that she probably wouldnโt even believe, and so much Iโm not even sure I want her to know.
โHere.โ I tear the paper in half and hand a piece of it to her. โYou have to write one, too.โ
I write mineย rst, but as soon as Iโm done, she takes the pen from me. She writes hers without hesitation. She folds it and begins to throw it in the box, but I stop her. โWe have to trade.โ
She immediately shakes her head. โYou arenโt reading mine,โ she says
rmly.
Sheโs so adamant, it makes me want to read it even more. โItโs not a confession if no one reads it. Itโs just an unshared secret.โ
She shoves her hand inside the box and releases her confession into the pile of other confessions. โYou donโt have to read it in front of me in order for it to be considered a confession.โ She grabs the paper out of my hands and shoves it into the box along with hers and all the others. โYou donโt read any of the others as soon as they write them.โ
She makes a good point, but Iโm extremely disappointed that I donโt know what she just wrote down. I want to pour the box out onto theย oor and sift through the confessions until Iย nd hers, but she stands up and reaches down for my hand.
โWalk me home, Owen. Itโs getting late.โ
|
We walk most of the way to her apartment in complete silence. Not an uncomfortable silence in any way. I think weโre both quiet because neither of us is ready to say good-bye just yet.
She doesnโt pause when we reach her apartment building in order to say good-bye to me. She keeps walking, expecting that Iโll follow her.
I do.
I follow behind her, all the way to apartment 1408. I stare at the pewter number plaque on her door, and I want to ask her if sheโs ever seen the horror movieย 1408, with John Cusack. But Iโm afraid if sheโs never heard of it, she might not like that thereโs a horror movie with the same name as her apartment number.
She inserts her key into the lock and pushes open the door. After itโs open she turns around to face me, but not before motioning toward the apartment number. โEerie, huh? You ever seen the movie?โ
I nod. โI wasnโt going to bring it up.โ
She glances at the number and sighs. โI found my roommate online, so she already lived here. Believe it or not, Emory had a choice between three apartments and actually chose this one because of the creepy correlation to the movie.โ
โย atโs a little disturbing.โ
She nods and inhales a breath. โSheโs . . . di๏ฌerent.โ She looks down at her feet.
I inhale and look up at the ceiling.
Our eyes meet in the middle, and I hate this moment. I hate it because Iโm notย nished talking to her, but itโs time for her to go. Itโs way too soon for a kiss, but the discomfort of aย rst date coming to an end is there. I hate this moment because I can feel how uncomfortable she is as she waits for me to tell her good night.
Rather than do the expected, I point inside her apartment. โMind if I use your restroom before I head back?โ
atโs platonic enough but still gives me an excuse to talk to her a little more. She glances inside, and I see aย ash of doubt cross her face because she doesnโt know me, and she doesnโt know that I would never hurt her, and she wants to do the right thing and protect herself. I like that. It makes me worry a little less, knowing she has a semblance of self-preservation.
I smile innocently. โI already promised I wouldnโt torture, rape, or kill you.โ
I donโt know why this makes her feel better, but she laughs. โWell, since you promised,โ she says, holding the door open wider, allowing me inside
her apartment. โBut just in case, you should know Iโm very loud. I can scream like Jamie Lee Curtis.โ
I shouldnโt be thinking about what she sounds like when sheโs loud. But she brought it up.
She points me in the direction of her restroom, and I walk inside, closing the door behind me. I grip the edges of her sink while looking in the mirror. I try to tell myself again that this is nothing more than a coincidence. Her showing up at my doorstep tonight. Her connecting with my art. Her having the same middle name as I do.
at could be fate, you know.
