“Butterfly,” Daniel informs him, smiling more with his eyes than his mouth.
“Is it difficult?” Todd tries, angling his head so the bedside lamp shines on his face.
“Difficult?” Daniel shrugs. “I mean, it’s sometimes hard pushing yourself. I find butterfly the easiest for me, but there are some people who find it the hardest. It’s really just about what you’re good at and what you enjoy.”
There’s clearly a science to swimming. Todd isn’t stupid; a lot of time and effort goes into something like that. “I think I’d be great at sinking.”
Daniel smirks and rolls his eyes. “I doubt it.”
“I almost die every time I have to walk up these stairs. I’d drown before I got to the other end of the pool.”
“What?”
Todd types it out on his phone again.
Daniel laughs as he reads. “I’m sure there are arm floaties in your size.”
Todd pushes at him under the covers. “How considerate.”
“I’m always really considerate.”
Todd wants to agree with that, because Daniel has considered his needs and his situation. He’s probably raised that way. But they’re teasing now, so there’s no room for being nice.
“Who said that? Because I’ve only ever heard you say that and I don’t think it counts.”
“Wait,” Daniel says, and chucks a paperback from his side of the bed, hitting the light switch, and Todd is momentarily blinded by the sudden light. “Sorry. It became too difficult for me. Can you repeat please?”
“I said: Who said that? Because I’ve only ever heard you say that, and I don’t think it counts.”
“It’s my house. I decide if it counts or not.”
“Oh, my god, is this not a free country?”
Daniel smirks. “It’s free if you agree.”
A part of Todd wants to move closer and press his face to the place where Daniel’s shoulder and neck meet. He doesn’t. He gives Daniel a gentle kick under the covers.
“When’s your next competition?”
“Sorry?”
“When’s your next competition?”
“Next week.” Daniel eyes him. “Do you want to come?”
Yes. “Sure. Are you going to wear those shorts?”
His question makes Daniel frown, until his realization dawns. “Oh, that. No, it’s called a drag suit. It’s to create more drag when you’re practicing, so that you’re faster when you compete.”
“Huh.” Todd blinks. So there is an entire science to this. “Does drag mean that it’s heavier?”
“Basically, yes. The suits we compete in create much less water resistance.”
Stifling a yawn, Todd eyes him. “I think I like the ones you wore today better.”
“Remind me to get you a pair.”
“I don’t think it’s the right season for swimwear,” Todd points out, and his chest is warmer than it’s been in a long time, if ever.
“You’re hanging out with the wrong people then.” Daniel chucks another paperback at the light switch.
Chapter Seven
Naturally, because things are going great, they have to turn to shit.
Todd is working, going over their shortlist of artists that are about to exhibit when Cruella sweeps through the doors. She’s wearing fur, per usual, but considering the fall weather outside, it’s more legitimate this time around.
“Todd,” she greets, flinging her arms out.
Todd resists rolling his eyes as he closes the folder with the list. “Gloria.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” she says in a tone that doesn’t make her sound sorry at all. “You know how it is with competition. Sometimes you have to seize an opportunity when you see it.”
Unease crawls up his spine as he scrutinizes her. She has made things up before, just to make herself sound better, but there’s something about the pleased expression on her face that makes him suspect that this time there’s something behind her words.
“What do you mean?” He hates giving her an advantage, but there’s nothing else he can do. He needs to need to know what she’s up to.
“Giselle. Such a talented girl. I know she’s your friend, but sometimes money speaks louder than friendship.” Gloria gestures airily, and Todd tries to remember if he’s ever told her about Giselle and her upcoming exhibition. He doesn’t think he has, which makes this even more worrying.
“What about her?”
“I offered her money up front, not only commission from sales. I’m so sorry, darling, but that’s business for you, right?”
He doesn’t point out that the norm is for new artists to get commission from sales. She’s always done things differently.
Taking her word that Giselle decided to exhibit somewhere else would be stupid. He’s going to have to ask Giselle directly, but his stomach is tight with worry and suspicion.
“I don’t really care,” he says, because he comes up with nothing else. He doesn’t want to ask too much or give away anything. She doesn’t need to know about their financial trouble.
“I just wanted to apologize personally.”
“Sure. We appreciate it. Have a good day.”
Pressing her lips together, Cruella sweeps out the door. As soon as she is out of sight, he grabs his phone and types a text to Giselle, asking her if she’s still planning to showcase with them. This could be just another of Cruella’s lies, and, if it is, Giselle shouldn’t be pulled into the drama.
When his shift is over, Giselle still hasn’t replied. There could be any number of logical reasons for that, that doesn’t have anything to do with her choosing another gallery. But… it can’t be this difficult to reply with just a quick yes, can it? Even if she’s working, or painting, she should’ve been able to reply. It occupies his mind on his way home, and he’s almost run over twice when crossing the streets.
His parents aren’t around when he gets home. Crap. He could’ve used the distraction of talking to Dad or having Mom entertain him with stories from work. He focuses on studying for finals and finishing a school project. Giselle still hasn’t replied when he’s finished, and the voice at the back of his mind telling him they’ve lost her, grows more and more insistent.
It takes three days to get an answer, and that’s only because he spots Giselle outside one of his classrooms.
“Giselle!” he calls.
The crestfallen look on her face tells him everything, even before he has the chance to catch up to her.
“So, it’s true?” He stops in front of her with his heart somehow both sinking and racing.
“She offered me a lot of money,” Giselle whispers. She doesn’t quite look him in the eye, and color is rising to her cheeks. “I’m really sorry, Todd. I appreciate the fact that you reached out to me, but I have to think about myself and I want to make a living out with my art.”
Anger coils, hot and prickly, in his stomach. How freaking difficult could it be to just say this right away? But instead of giving in to the urge to say something rude really loudly, Todd takes a deep breath, pushes away the worry about how they’re going to keep the gallery afloat now, and mentally counts to ten. Despite his anger, a part of him can understand her. Most of the people he’s surrounded with every day are in the same position: worried about leaving college and wondering if they’re going to be one of those who succeed or one of those who don’t. He can’t blame her for seizing a better opportunity. However, he does blame her for handling it utterly crappily and putting him in a terrible position.
“No, I get it,” he sighs. “But you should’ve told me.”
“I’m really sorry.” She looks as if she’s about to cry.
“I probably would’ve done the same.” Shrugging, Todd shoves his hands into his pockets. “I hope it will be a success.”
He d
oesn’t. He wants to, but he doesn’t.
“You’re not mad?”
“I am, but I can’t blame you. We’re all trying to make it out of here with some kind of success, right?”
“I’ll call Mrs. Floral today.”
“You should. She deserves to hear it from you.”
Giselle nods, visibly swallowing, before she hoists her bag up farther on her shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Todd.”
* * *
Maybe Giselle alone wouldn’t be so bad, but several of the other artists also decide to leave. They’re her friends and naturally they’re going to hear about getting paid better next door. Todd can’t blame them, either.
He’s not surprised when he’s met by Mrs. Floral’s pale face the next time he comes to work. In just a few days, things have turned from carefully hopeful to a black hole, swallowing up anything that even resembles hope.
The gallery is empty now, compared to only six months ago. The walls seem bare.
“We’re going to have to close,” she says, and Todd sinks down in the nearest chair.
“All right.” It’s as if he’s a balloon, deflating with every second that passes, as the cold, hard truth about their situation dawns on him.
“We did our best, honey, but sometimes it doesn’t work out no matter how hard you try.”
“I really thought it was going to work out,” he whispers.
Mrs. Floral pats his cheek, as if he’s the one in need of comfort. “You did an amazing job. I would never have come this far without you.”
“How long do we have?”
“We’ll close up after Christmas.”
“I’ll have to tell the kids.”
It’s the worst thing Todd can remember doing in a while. His stomach aches as he stands in front of them. He’s supposed to tell them about Dadaism, but he can’t pretend his mind isn’t elsewhere, that everything is going to be okay.
“So, I have something to tell you.”
“Are you dying?” Logan blurts and Clara shrieks.
“No!” Todd hurries to say. “No, I’m not dying. No one’s dying.”
“My grandma’s dog is dying,” Raina says. “She has cancer.”
Wow, that came out of nowhere. “I’m sorry about your grandma’s dog, Raina.”
“It’s sad, but she’s in pain now, so it’s better.” It’s matter of fact, as if she’s repeating words her parents have told her fifteen times already.
“It’s okay to be sad anyway,” Todd says, making his voice gentle. “Will you be okay when I tell you something else that’s also sad?”
“Did someone else die?” Logan asks, eyes big and horrified.
“No Logan, no one died.” Todd sighs and drags a hand over his face. Jesus. This isn’t going as planned. “I don’t have a good way to tell you this. I wish I didn’t have to at all, but it’s only fair that I tell you before I tell your parents. We’re going to have to close the gallery, and Kids & Canvas won’t continue next semester. I’m so sorry. I know you guys like being here and hanging out with you is the best part of my week.”
There’s a long, stretched-out silence. Jamal stares at the table, his hands wrapped hard together, knuckles turning white. Logan has collapsed backward in his chair, staring at the ceiling, and Clara looks at him as if he’s cancelled Christmas.
“I’m sorry,” Todd whispers. “I’ve been trying to fix this, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.”
Jamal doesn’t say or do anything for the remaining thirty minutes. Todd wants to talk to him, but not in front of the other kids. He’d like to offer a hug, but he’s the one who failed them.
When the gallery is empty and the kids have been picked up by their parents, he sits on the too-low, pink plastic stool in their room and cries.
He can’t fix this.
At home that night, he sits on the floor trying to make Sandwich jump the obstacle. The fact that she refuses has very little to do with Todd still wanting to cry. So he calls Mela.
“The gallery is closing,” he greets.
There’s a moment of silence before she says, “What?”
“Cruella stole some of our artists.” He picks at a rip in his jeans. They’re worn, and should probably go into the trash, but they’re his most comfortable pair. “All of them, actually. She offered them more money than we can, any money, to be honest, where we only pay commission. There’s nothing we can do about it. The kids’ program is gone as well.”
“That sucks,” she says, voice quiet. “I’m really sorry. I know how hard you’ve been working.”
“It really does suck,” Todd agrees. “What the hell do I do now?”
“You find another job.”
She’s right, of course. He needs the money, like every other college kid, and he needs something to put on his resume. A gap wouldn’t look good at all. But the kids? For them there are not a lot of other options. For some, there are none.
It sounds as if she’s opening the squeaking doors to her closet.
“I’m coming over, all right? Let’s hang out tonight.”
It’s not really a question. First of all, Todd’s never going to say no to hanging out with her. It’s been a while. Second, even if he did, she would’ve showed up anyway. She never lets him wallow alone.
An hour later, the doorbell rings, and Todd can hear Dad’s overjoyed, “Mela!”
They’ve been friends for so long that Dad considers her a part of the family. It’s as if his favorite child is coming home whenever she visits.
The next moment, his bedroom door opens, and Mela enters in bright green pants and a polka-dot shirt.
“Heya,” she says and walks over to him, where he’s still sitting on the floor. She crouches and hugs him, presses her cheek to the top of his head, and digs her fingers into his upper arm. “Do you wanna play cards?”
They do—that silly game they came up with when they were eight that doesn’t make all that much sense—and Mela wins every round, but Todd doesn’t care. He’s just grateful that she’s here.
“Did you have to cancel anything important?”
She meets his gaze over the cards. “This is the most important thing right now.”
“Playing cards?”
“Beating your sorry ass so hard that you forget about being sad.”
Todd snorts, but his chest is warming. “Gee, thanks.”
“And I’ve missed you a lot lately. Any excuse to hang out is a good one.”
“Jesse won’t be annoyed?”
“If Jesse gets annoyed about me wanting to be there for my best friend when he’s having a rough time, he’s not a guy I want to date.”
Biting back a smile, Todd takes his turn and picks a card. “Did you tell him as much?”
“I didn’t have to. I told him I had to be with you today and he was A-okay with that.”
“God, how is he so great?” Todd sighs dramatically. He means every word, but she doesn’t need his approval.
“He also gossips a lot, so I happen to know that you spent an extra night at Daniel’s.”
Instead of looking at her, Todd focuses on his terrible hand. “Do you have any reliable sources for that?”
“I have you, and the way you’re totally avoiding this question tells me everything.” Mela smirks, as she wins another round. “Did you bang, or what?”
“Who the hell uses that expression anymore?” Or ever.
She points at herself and pauses as if she’s about to mic drop. “Me.”
“No, we didn’t bang. We’re friends.”
At that, she shrugs. “Sometimes you can be friends who bang.”
“We’re just friends without the banging.” He flicks his hand of cards at her.
“Do you like him, though?”
He doesn’t know why the thought of denying it
crosses his mind. “Yeah. I think I do.”
“Maybe tell him that.”
“No.” His palms grow sweaty from the thought. “There was this moment where we were joking around and having fun, when I was so sure that we were gonna kiss. It was the perfect opportunity. And we didn’t.”
“So?”
It’s Todd’s turn to shrug now. “So clearly he doesn’t feel that way.”
“It’s not like you kissed him and he turned you down. Maybe he thought the same thing about you.”
“He’s the one who stepped back, not me.”
“The fact is still that you were the one to turn him down, if you recall? It’s only logical that you also reach out to him if you’ve changed your mind.”
“I’m not logical,” Todd sighs. “I’m a coward.”
“A coward with pride issues,” Mela amends, and Todd suspects that it might be the most accurate description of him of all time.
“I’m working on both.”
“I know. I still love your proud, coward ass.”
Laughing, Todd leans back against the side of the bed and rests his head on the mattress. The paint on the ceiling is cracked only when stared at. Maybe he needs to stop looking for the cracks.
“When are you guys getting married?” he asks, steering the conversation to Mela and Jesse.
“God, stop that. We haven’t even been dating for six months.”
Collecting the cards and putting the drying rubber band around them, Todd leans back against the bed. “Lots of celebrities marry after a month or two.”
“They also tend to get divorced within less than a week.”
“So maybe you guys could make it to two.”
“You’re terrible. I’m gonna give you away to Daniel, and he’ll have to take care of your sorry butt.”
That doesn’t sound entirely terrible, but thinking about Daniel takes his mind to weird places where it really shouldn’t be.
“Are you staying for dinner, though?” he asks instead of indulging in that subject.
“Of course I’m staying for dinner. I’m staying the night.”
Todd chest swells until he’s sure that his ribs are going to crack. He might be losing his job, but he still has her. Whatever happens, he’ll always have her.
Brush Strokes Page 19
