Emerald

by Elle Casey

  “What?!” he yells, his face red and sweaty.

  I’m struck dumb. Seeing him there without a shirt on is enough to send my heart into overdrive. His chest is sweaty too. He has a tattoo over his heart that reads Sadie.

  I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Who is Sadie?”

  He stares at me for a few seconds, his nostrils flaring, his breathing reminding me of an angry bull. Time stands still, only starting again when he finally answers. “What do you want?”

  His rudeness snaps me out of the little spell that had temporarily taken over my righteous indignation. “You know I’m trying to paint, right?”

  He shrugs, his body stance relaxing a little bit. “No, actually, I didn’t know that.” He uses the back of his hand to wipe his forehead.

  “Well, I am. And it’s pretty much impossible to do with you making such a ruckus over here.”

  One of his eyebrows goes up. “A ruckus?” He strokes his beard a few times, moving his jaw around.

  “Yes. A ruckus.” I ignore his sexy beard maneuvers and lean over, trying to see around him. “It sounds like you’re in the process of destroying this bedroom.” I can’t see anything but darkness; apparently, he plays with the lights off and his window blocked with a blanket. Weird. I feel bad for my sister, but I hope she’s not going to blame me for the expense he’s racking up by tearing holes in her walls or whatever I heard him doing in here.

  He glances over her shoulder. “Not exactly. More like destroying my equipment.” He has the grace to sound a little chagrined.

  “What equipment? You came here with a backpack and two guitars.”

  “I rented a couple amps and some other stuff. It was delivered earlier.”

  “Oh.” I somehow missed that. It must have happened while I was napping. I guess that explains the loud guitar I was hearing. “Well . . . I don’t think my sister or Ty would appreciate you bringing the house down around our ears while they’re gone.”

  “Probably not.” He rests his arm on the doorjamb and sighs. “I’m just a little frustrated. I’m sorry if I was making too much noise. I’ll try to be quieter.”

  I nod, feeling like a schoolmarm scolding a student. “Good. Thank you.” I turn to go, but then he speaks and I freeze in my footsteps.

  “What are you painting?”

  I force my legs to get moving again and continue into the bedroom without looking back. “Nothing, because you’re being too noisy!” I slam the door behind me, but not before I hear him laugh.

  I walk over to my canvas and stare at it. It’s just as blank as it was an hour ago. The big white space is almost a threat, staring out at me, taunting me: Paint on me, chicken. Paint something . . . or are you too afraid? Make yourself useful around here, why don’t you . . .

  I put on a pair of rubber gloves. I’ve never painted with my fingers before—well, not since I was a small child, anyway—but I might as well give this new technique a try, because this damn canvas ain’t gonna paint itself. It can’t hurt anything to try something different, right?

  I pick up a tube of black paint and put a blob of the color on my fingertips. I use the first two fingers of my right hand to smear it around and then step back to look at it. My heart is still pounding. I don’t know if it’s from the painting craziness or that man across the hall.

  I frown at the result of my first finger-painting attempt. Humph. I’m not impressed so far, but I might as well keep trying. At least I’m getting somewhere.

  I pick up a dark-blue shade and repeat the process, covering up more of the white gesso that serves as the foundation for what my sister has deemed to be the next masterpiece for her apartment. Pfff. Even finger-painting, I can’t do any worse than that fake Jackson Pollock out in her foyer. My energy picks up just a tad.

  I select a deep-green shade next and smooth it into the blue and black. The effect isn’t completely terrible. I’ll probably never show this to anyone, though. I wonder if there’s a place in New York City where I can safely and legally burn a canvas.

  I grab another couple of colors and play around with them, warming to the idea of finger painting as an adult. What’s happening on the canvas right now is nothing like my old style—it’s more abstract and amorphous—but it’s keeping me busy, at least. I feel the stress created by Sam’s discordant destruction across the hall start to ease out of my body. I think I read somewhere that therapists use finger painting with the mentally ill. I’m not sure I want to examine too closely what this is saying about me right now.

  The next color has to be exactly right. Purple maybe? I’m not sure. I select a tube and hold the color up to my fingertips. Maybe. This could be the one I need to use next.

  I put a giant helping of it in my palm and place the tube down on the table. Smearing my gloved hands together, I prepare myself for this daring move that’s already feeling really good in the deepest part of my creative self. I’m just reaching out to touch the canvas, fingers loaded with glorious violet paint, when a horrible noise comes from out in the hallway again.

  Bana, bamp, bamp, bowowowowww, derrrr, neerrrrr neeerrr!

  I flinch but move my fingers closer to the canvas anyway. This is really going to be the beginning of something special, I can feel it. I just need to get past the noise and . . .

  Louda dout dout dow, de deeer deeer de deeer deeerr woww!

  I cringe. Whatever creativity I was feeling bubbling up in me is now simmering down to nothing again. I cannot believe this. What is his damn, freaking, fracking, frucking problem?!

  “Goddammit!” he shouts. I hear what sounds like furniture moving, wooden legs scraping across floors. But I don’t remember his bedroom even having wooden floors. What in the Sam Hill is going on in there?

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, in and out. I am locked and loaded with my purple paint, ready to dive into the creative process. This painting session need not end here. I can live my life while he is living his. His problems are not my problems, and my problems are not his. This is my world, and I’m the only one in it. Peace and serenity exist inside my bubble. Serenity now . . . serenity now . . . I can do this . . .

  I reach out with my eyes closed and make contact with the canvas. Down and to the right. A sweeping motion, that’s it, yessss . . . This is going to be so beautiful . . .

  “That’s it! Fuck this shit!” Sam shouts.

  My eyes fly open as his reality comes crashing into mine. I grab the bottoms of my gloves and snap them off my hands, sending purple paint across the tarped area to land on the formerly pristine wall. Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick! What the hell!

  I’m across the room in two seconds, running full out. Sam is so going to get a piece of my mind. I fling my door open in time to see his back disappearing down the hall.

  “Where are you going?!” I shout, outraged at the idea of him missing out on the dressing down I was about to give him.

  “Out.”

  I leave my room to follow him. “Where?” I know what my sister would say about all this: He can’t leave angry! Who knows what trouble he’ll get into? Maybe he’s going to the airport to take off for LA. Maybe that girl Sadie is waiting for him. He avoided my question about who she was. She’s probably the reason he left early, and now he’s regretting that decision.

  “What do you care?” He stops at the end of the hall and spins around to face me, waiting for my answer.

  I slow down as I approach him, shrugging. I need to be cool. Amber needs my help. I can’t tell him what a shitty shithead he is for being so loud and inconsiderate . . .

  “I don’t know. I was just thinking . . .” Panic level ten! Quick! Say something that makes sense! “If you’re going out, maybe I can hitch a ride with you?” I have no idea where this is coming from. I don’t want to go anywhere with him! What the heck? I think Amber brainwashed me with all that finding-his-buttons stuff in the cab.

  He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “I was just going to get some air.”

/>   I smile brilliantly. Hallelujah. This is so much better than hearing he’s leaving for California or that he’s going out to score some drugs or climb up onto the roof of the building.

  Words tumble out of me. “That sounds great. Really great. Phew. I could really use some fresh air myself. Do they have that here?” I’m getting a cramp in my face from smiling so hard.

  He walks toward me and stops a foot away. I don’t know what to say, but my smile slips away out of nervousness. What is he going to do? Why is he so close?

  He reaches up and gently swipes his thumb across my cheek. “If you’re going to go outside, you’re probably going to want to clean your face off first.”

  My hand slowly rises to my cheek. “Oh, no. How bad is it?” I have been known to paint almost as much of myself as I have my canvases.

  His smile is almost sad, which is weird. “It’s not bad,” he says. “Just a couple specks here and there. I may have smeared some, though.”

  I hold up my finger. “Don’t leave without me. I’m just going to go wash my face, and I’ll be right back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere special,” he warns as I hustle back to my room.

  “Perfect. I don’t like going to special places.”

  His chuckle follows me down the hall.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When I get to my bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. “What are you doing? Where did all that come from?” I can’t believe I’m being so stupid. The guy was about to leave me alone in an empty apartment where I could finally get something accomplished, and the first thing I do is what, exactly? Volunteer my services as his tour guide? How can I be a tour guide in a city I don’t even know myself?

  I turn on the water and pump some soap from the dispenser onto my hands. It quickly turns green. The rubber gloves did not protect me completely, but to be fair, the pigment was probably there before I put the things on. I’m a messy painter, which is why, at home, I’ve been relegated to doing my work out in a shed where no one else goes.

  I scrub the blue and green paint specks off my nose and wipe away the purple smear that Sam spread across my cheek. As I stare at my complexion, I almost wish I had some makeup to brighten my look a little. I’m too pale. I look . . . sad or something. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now.

  I double-check to make sure I have nothing in my teeth before I leave the bathroom and, on an impulse, grab the little pile of change I found in the bottom of my suitcase. As I head back down the hall toward the foyer, I try not to act like I’m in a hurry, like I’m not panicked that he’s already left, like I’m not actually looking forward to being with him for another minute more. I pause to adjust my skirt and check my nonexistent watch, just for good measure, but I have nothing to worry about. He’s standing in the same place I left him, and he’s facing the elevator doors; he’s missed all of my cool moves.

  As I step into the foyer just behind him, he pulls a plastic card out of his pocket and holds it up at me. “You have your key?”

  “Uh . . . no. Can we use yours?”

  “Sure, but what if we split up? Won’t you need your own?”

  I nod as my heart sinks a little. “Yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be right back.” I go into the kitchen and grab the key fob and card off the counter, sliding them into my small purse.

  So what if we get separated? I head back to the foyer. We don’t have to stick together. I was just offering to keep him company, but he doesn’t need to take me up on it. It’s not really rejection. Or it is, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything. I’m not really responsible for him. He’s a grown man and I’m a grown woman, and if we go our separate ways after leaving here, well, Amber will just have to chill about it.

  We step on to the elevator together. “You have anywhere special you like to wander around here?” he asks as he selects the button for the lobby.

  I think of what Amber told me to do: Find his buttons and push them. “No. I just got here today. I don’t know the city at all.” We’ll see if the helpless damsel in distress works as a hot button for Mr. Weirdo Beardo.

  “Oh. I thought you’d been here for a little while.”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  When he doesn’t offer to show me around or make another comment, I decide this button isn’t going to work with him. Maybe I should have just taken charge and picked a place I’ve heard of, faked my sense of the city. Oh well. Too late.

  Our trip down to the ground floor is utterly silent. I wish I were better at small talk, but . . . mmm . . . no . . . I pretty much suck at it. I’ve always depended on Amber and Rose for starting and keeping a conversation going. I literally cannot think of a single thing to say to this man.

  What I really want to know is who this Sadie girl is, but I can’t very well ask him about her again; that would be rude. Since he didn’t answer me before when I asked and he managed to change the subject, I have to believe this is an off-limits topic . . . which of course makes me want to talk about that and only that until I get to the bottom of the mystery. She could be his girlfriend. Or a woman who broke his heart and left him in the dust. Or maybe she’s his mom. I don’t remember if Amber ever mentioned her when she was telling me about Ty.

  When we get outside into the dark night, the cold air hits me and goes right down into my bones, making me wish I’d brought a jacket. Sam walks fast, and I struggle to keep up, ignoring the pain in my knee. I’m soon happy for his speed, though, because it’s warming me up quickly.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I ask, almost matching him stride for stride. I have to take an extra step for every three or four of his to not fall behind. The pain in my knee has disappeared. This may be because the cold has numbed my skin all the way through.

  “I was thinking Central Park. I don’t know when it closes, though.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks at it. “It’s ten now.”

  “Does it close? I thought it was open twenty-four hours.”

  “I heard they had problems with crime in the park, so they started closing it at night.”

  “Oh. That’s probably a good idea.” My teeth chatter at the end of my sentence.

  “Are you cold?” He slows down to look at me.

  “No,” I lie, trying to sound really convincing. “It feels great out here. Invigorating. It was getting really stuffy up in that room. I needed to get out.”

  “Yeah, in mine too.”

  Maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems like he slows down a little bit to make it easier for me. We’re not at the point where we’re strolling, but I also don’t feel like I’m competing in a 5K anymore. I’m warm enough to fend off the chill without a jacket, but I’m also not sweating. Nice.

  We get to the edge of the park and stop to read a little sign. “It’s going to close in three hours,” Sam says, looking left and then right. “Which way?”

  There’s live music coming from our right, so I gesture that way, feeling inspired for Sam. “Let’s go over there.” Maybe hearing somebody else playing will help motivate him to stop using his guitar as a baseball bat on his amp or his furniture or whatever. Watching somebody else paint does that for me sometimes. Other times it makes me feel completely unworthy to pick up a paintbrush, but hopefully that won’t happen in the park tonight. The stuff someone is playing down the path from us doesn’t sound particularly fabulous from here, so hopefully it’ll just remind Sam how talented he is. I have to believe the sounds coming from his bedroom earlier were just him banging out his frustration with his life. Amber can’t be that tone-deaf.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  We wander down the path together, other people passing by, some with dogs, some jogging alone, some as couples walking hand in hand. Two lovebirds walk by practically wound around each other, and I feel a little jealous of the affection between them. I do love my life, but sometimes I wish I had somebody to share it with. I can’t help but glance at Sam as this thought flit
s through my mind.

  His head is tilted down, and he looks like he’s brooding again, his beard resting on his chest. The man I marry won’t be anything like Sam. Not that Sam’s a bad person or anything—I mean, as far as I know—but he’s just too . . . overemotional. And he has a reckless way about him that makes me feel very . . . unsettled. He’s too . . . too . . . just too much . . . of everything.

  No, the man I fall in love with will be kind and serene. Easy to get along with. Sweet and gentlemanly. He’ll love animals and children. I definitely want to have children someday.

  “A nickel for some chalk,” he says, still focused on the ground. I’m not sure that his comment is for me or that I even understood him properly until he finally looks at me expectantly.

  “What? I’m sorry, I missed that.”

  He keeps looking at me for a few more seconds before shifting his gaze to the path ahead. “I said, a nickel for your thoughts.”

  “Oh.” I laugh. “I thought you were trying to buy some chalk.”

  “What?” He looks at me again, half-smiling and confused.

  No way do I want to tell him what I was just thinking. Quick! Distraction! “Since when are thoughts worth a nickel?” I’m charmed, imagining that my thoughts are more valuable to him than someone else’s.

  “Inflation.”

  “Oh. Inflation. Of course.” So much for being charmed.

  “Are your thoughts for sale?” he asks. He pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to me.

  I take whatever it is without thinking. It’s warm and heavy—an actual nickel. Does this mean he just paid for my thoughts and I have to share them? Because there is no way on God’s green earth that I’m going to tell him the sappy, girly things that were just running through my mind. Not even for a whole quarter would I do that.

  “Want to know what I was thinking?” he asks, making me realize that I left his question hanging without answering it.