by Roan Parrish
I painted the expression that I’d stared at in the picture as if I were seeing it for the first time. And maybe I was.
I painted my own face, slightly blurred and unselfconscious, turning to look at Christopher as his family buzzed around us. And I painted my hand, reaching, reaching, and never touching.
It wasn’t the best thing I’d ever painted, not by a long shot. But it was maybe the most important. Because as I stared at my painted hand, more than anything in the world I wished for it to make contact.
When I first met Christopher, I thought of his happiness as obliviousness. As evidence that he hadn’t been ravaged by the world. But Christopher wasn’t some dude wandering around, oblivious of his privilege, uncaring of its cost. He’d said it several times: he’d done nothing to deserve his happiness. He’d meant it to underscore his guilt, but the truth was it cut just as easily the other way. He hadn’t chosen his emotional makeup any more than I had. Any more than Jude had.
I’d resented him because it seemed like all of this was easier for him than for me. As if he sacrificed less, stood to risk less. And he did, in some ways. But what if instead of being jealous of his ease, I could absorb it? Instead of coveting his consistency, I could depend on it? Instead of resenting his resilience, I could lean on it?
What if, with Christopher, I could burn the world down when I needed to, and he could extinguish a spot for us in the center of it, carve out a safe place for us while the fire raged outside.
Jude’s words echoed in my head. Someone else will love him. He’s very easy to love. It was true. And I also knew that the idea of someone else loving him…of him loving someone else, made my heart pound and my breath go shallow in horror. I wanted Christopher. I wanted him in my corner when shit was rough. I wanted him in my bed, holding me. I wanted his sun to shine on me.
I wanted to soak up his light like a moon, and glow with it.
I dialed Daniel’s number with tears streaming down my face and paint all over me, and when he answered I choked out, “I love him, and I think I really fucked up, and I need you to convince me I can fix it.”
Chapter 20
I dragged the wood from the Italian Market back to my apartment, snow falling in fat flakes that coated my hair like I was an ice cream dipped in sprinkles. Carlo had made the predictable jokes about giving me his wood, but once those had run their course, he’d bored holes in the wood for me and thrown in some soppressata for good measure, even though I hadn’t been there for the food this time.
“This for one of your art projects?” he’d asked.
“Nope. It’s a sign. A…love letter, maybe. Well, letters. Plural. On a sign.” My voice had sounded manic even to me.
“Uh, you feeling okay, hon?” Carlo had asked, clearly concerned.
“No. Not even a little. But I’m gonna fix it.”
“Good luck!” he’d called after me, saluting me with a sausage.
For all that I’d teased Christopher about the Melt sign, I’d never actually considered an alternative, but that was the project before me. I was going to hand-paint Christopher a new sign, and it would be my offering when I apologized for being an asshole, and told him I wanted to try and make our relationship work—really work.
I had tattooed lettering in styles that ranged from typewriter to elaborate cursives to Wild West saloon. The trick was finding the right font to convey the vibe, and then making it both beautiful and readable. Really, Melt’s vibe was Christopher’s vibe: comfortable, welcoming, honest, delicious. It was a neighborhood joint with a nontraditional take on traditional sandwiches, so that was what the sign should be.
I took a gamble and used color, though the inside of Melt was mostly black and white. It was eye-catching and bold: a deep turquoise for the lettering and a bright plum for the border. There was nothing else on the street with that color combination, and they looked beautiful together. I sketched out the font slowly, trying different sizes and different lettering-to-border ratios on scrap paper until I found the perfect combination.
And then I painted into the night, propping the wood up so I could paint both sides at once since I didn’t have time to let one dry before I painted the other. As the sun rose, it lit the turquoise and plum, setting them on fire. It was bold, but comfortable; vibrant, but calm; classic, but with a sense of whimsy. It was Melt. It was Christopher. It was perfect.
From the beginning, we’d both been looking for signs that this thing between us could work. Now I was going to hand him as concrete a sign as I possibly could, so there would be no doubt about how I felt.
✕ ✕ ✕
An hour into the show, I finally relaxed a little. This was likely due in part to the free wine, and in part to the fact that I simply couldn’t sustain the stress of whipping around, Linda Blair-like, every time someone walked through the door, to see if it was Christopher.
I’d fallen into bed for a couple of hours after I finished painting Christopher’s sign, before I made my way over to the gallery. When I’d woken up I’d sent Christopher a text, telling him that I was so sorry for being horrible, that I really hoped he’d come to the show, and that I’d like to talk with him afterward, if he was willing. Then I’d forced myself to turn off my phone so I’d stop looking at it every six seconds, take a shower for the first time in days, and focus on the fact that I had my first solo show in a real gallery, rather than the fact that I’d potentially ruined my relationship.
I’d put on the brightest dress I owned in the hopes of cheering myself from the outside in. It was turquoise with bright red poppies that looked like they’d been spray-painted onto it. I wore my cowboy boots because they had a bit of a heel, and if there was ever a moment I could stand to feel taller, tonight was it.
Malik and I had spent hours hanging and lighting the paintings, and I was really pleased with the outcome. When you walked in the gallery space, you were immediately confronted with the painting of Marcus’s hands, the style and the contrast setting the tone for the whole show. By the time you wended your way through the gallery you’d seen bits and pieces of people, each one inviting you to look closely at their details.
I’d hung the painting of Christopher and me at the back of the gallery, and the impression was that after looking at a lot of art, you stumbled onto a candid scene—something intimate, private, natural.
The response had been great so far, folks wandering in off the street, mingling with people who knew me, or Malik, or the gallery scene. Malik’s friend was playing DJ, and rather than the usual art opening cheese cube platter, Malik’s husband, who was an amazing cook, had made miniature tamales and churros.
I was talking to Marcus when he walked in.
Christopher.
I felt him, like a little zing, a charge in the air. My relief at seeing him was matched only by my nerves at the apology I’d have to make. I was overcome by how much I wanted him. By how right it seemed that he would walk right over to me, because of course he belonged at my side, and how wrong it felt that he wasn’t.
Jude was with him, and as they stood next to each other I was struck by the way their features were versions of one another spun off in opposite directions, by the way things can resonate with each other but still seem so different.
When Christopher caught my eye, I smiled automatically, before I remembered that maybe I didn’t have the right to just smile at him anymore. My smile faltered but he held my gaze, and it was like we were having a conversation across the room. When I started to make my way toward him, though, he waved me off with a gesture that clearly said, This is your time. We’ll talk when it’s over, and turned to Jude.
I spent the next hour chatting with folks while I tracked Christopher out of the corner of my eye. I collected several cards from collectors and gallery owners, sold three paintings, and grabbed the last tamale off the tray right out from under the hand of some dude who looked like he’d wandered in accidentally on his way to a shareholders’ meeting.
When most people
had left, I found Christopher standing in front of the painting of us at the back of the gallery. I went to him with my heart pounding and my stomach clenched.
“Hope you’re not gonna sue me for image infringement,” I joked nervously.
He turned to me and his expression was naked longing. “I seriously don’t have words to describe how amazing you are. The paintings, they’re… And this one… You blow me away.”
Warmth flowed through me, enough to power my tiny engine of bravery. I reached out a hand for him, like I could rewrite the ending to the painting’s story. The feel of his arm beneath my fingers was like groping around in the strange dark and finally touching something familiar. “Can we talk?”
He nodded, then scanned the gallery. Jude was standing near the door, next to Faron, and they were talking, heads close together, Faron’s fingers resting lightly on Jude’s arm. When Christopher caught Jude’s eye, Jude nodded and waved him off, following Faron outside.
“I missed you,” Christopher said, low and sincere. And the generosity of that nearly undid me.
My voice caught in my throat. “Me too,” I choked out. “So much.”
I still had my hand on Christopher’s arm, and I let my hand drop, trying to figure out how to say what I needed to say.
“So,” he said, turning so we were both facing the painting. “Who bought it?”
“What? Oh.” I looked at the blue sticker on the wall next to the painting. “No one. It’s for you. Of course it’s for you.”
“Seriously?”
“You can hang it next to the Melt Monster Mountain Stream painting.”
He stared at the painting and I stared at him.
“Listen, I need to apologize,” I started to say.
“In a minute,” he murmured, still staring at it.
We stood in silence in front of the painting, and I wondered if he saw what I did: him, offering me everything, and me, longing for it, but scared. “Will you come back to my place? I have something for you, and we can talk.”
“Yeah, okay.” His voice was small, nervous, but he followed me.
We walked in silence, and I tried to plan out what I would say. But just as had happened over the last few days, nothing sounded right, and I found myself unlocking the door to my apartment no closer to finding the words than I had been before.
“Jesus Christ,” Christopher said, coughing. He walked over and threw open the two large living room windows. “Ginger. It’s fucking toxic in here.”
I sniffed the air, but I guess I was used to the smell because it didn’t seem too bad to me. At my shrug he made a face, but his exasperation didn’t have teeth and I felt a jolt of hope streak through me.
“I thought maybe if I got you high on paint fumes you would just agree to anything,” I joked nervously.
He raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
“Okay, um. Well, I’m sorry I was such a jerk. I never should have said that about me and Jude. I can’t believe I said that. I was so mad and sometimes when I get mad I don’t, uh, express myself very well. I’m so, so sorry. I really want to do the…thing. The us being together thing. And, um, Ilvyu.”
Christopher cocked his head and squinted. “Sorry, what was that last bit? I didn’t quite…” He cupped a hand around his ear.
My heart hammered in my chest and my palms were sweaty. I rolled my eyes at him. “I said I love you,” I snapped. “Uh. That sounded more aggressive than I meant it.”
Christopher walked over to me, the breadth of his chest and the heat of his body solace in the cold air and the days of loneliness in my apartment.
He was looking down at me, eyes burning with desire and hope and anger and… “I love you isn’t magic, you know? It doesn’t fix everything.”
“It’s a little bit magic,” I said, and he smiled in spite of himself. “But, yeah. I know that. That’s why I started with the sorry part and the wanting to be together part. Did it…uh, did it work? The paint fumes?”
He shook his head and my heart fell. I rummaged around in my brain for the words. I closed my eyes because it was easier if I couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see everything I might have already lost.
“The other day, what I said about you. About Jude. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean it at all. The rest of the stuff…I mostly did mean, but none of it was about you doing anything wrong. That was just about the world.”
I took a deep breath, but didn’t open my eyes.
“Everything good in my life has been a result of me not compromising, not taking the status quo as a given, going for it with all my energy. I guess I’ve always had this feeling that if I started making choices with other people in mind, or if I took time that I could be spending on my art or on the business on other things that I’d lose what I’ve spent so long building. That I’d lose sight of what I wanted. That I couldn’t have both things. But I…I’ve realized lately that I’ve been thinking about it wrong. That I want. . .”
At Christopher’s touch on my cheek, I let my eyes drift open.
“What do you want?” he asked softly, eyes riveted to me.
“I want… I want someone in my corner,” I said, remembering Jude’s words. “I want someone who has their own goals, and we can support each other. Make each other better. I want it to be—what the fuck is that thing? Daniel says the word all the time. Maybe I should text him…”
“You are not texting Daniel for thesaurus options while you’re in the middle of declaring your damn love for me!”
I made a mental note to tell Daniel about my phone-a-friend impulse later and smiled at Christopher. “It’s the thing where two things together are more powerful than either of them are apart,” I explained.
“Uh…like a Care Bear stare?” Christopher offered seriously, and I started cracking up.
“No! Well actually, huh, kind of. Like in Captain Planet when they combine their powers. Wind! Fire! Earth! Water! Uh, I forget the rest.”
“Heart,” Christopher said wryly.
“Oh, right. Jeez, that show was amazing. Oh! Synergy.”
“I don’t think that was one of them.”
“No, the word. Synergy—where the power of the combined things is more than they are alone.”
“I prefer Care Bear stare,” Christopher said.
“Fine, whatever. Care Bear stare. I had a point.”
“What you want.”
“Yes. I want to have someone where we make each other better and amplify each other’s power.”
“I have to tell you,” Christopher said, voice low, eyes intent, “I’m going to think of it as our Care Bear stare and nothing you say will stop me.”
“Christ, fine! Yes, sure, okay. Think of it however you want,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“Ginger?”
Christopher put his hands on my shoulders and leaned down so our faces were close. All traces of teasing were gone.
“I’m ridiculously fucking in love with you. You’ve got to figure some shit out, I know. We both do. I’m not too concerned about it. I think we’re gonna be just fine.”
“I—you do?”
“I do. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. People don’t automatically know how to be in relationships with each other just because they love each other.” The word love felt like a caress. “But we’ll figure it out. I promise.”
“I was such a dick,” I said, fisting the front of his sweater. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know. It’s okay. I’m sorry I was oblivious about how business stuff is for you.”
“Thanks. I…so…are we… Like, what’s the protocol here?” I cringed, but Christopher laughed.
“I think now we kiss the shit out of each other.”
“Yeah, great, good plan,” I murmured, eyes locked on his mouth.
Christopher’s lips met mine, mouth hot and sweet and possessive—everything I was afraid I’d never feel again. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back with all I had, the feel of his body
against mine so right I couldn’t believe I’d even spent a minute wondering if I needed him in my life.
“Oh,” I said, breaking the kiss. “I have something for you.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked, voice dark and low. His eyes raked my body.
“That too,” I said, running a hand up his stomach to his chest. “But in a minute.”
I tugged him across the room.
“You know your crappy sign?” I made a ta-da flourish toward the sign I’d painted.
He knelt down in front of the Melt sign, then looked up at me.
“You like it?”
He stood up and towered over me, silent.
“Uh, is that a yes?”
His eyes were intense and his nostrils flared.
“A no?”
He grabbed me, picking me up.
“What the hell?”
He dropped me onto the bed and knelt, looking at me. And I could see it.
I could see everything.
“I love it,” he said. “I love you. You’re amazing.”
My smile was so big it hurt my face. Because looking up at him, love and respect and admiration shining down at me? It was like looking into the goddamned sun.
Epilogue
One month later
I’d been tattooing at the Philly Tattoo Convention for practically a decade, but this year it felt entirely new. Yesterday my booth had been so busy I’d barely had time to take sips of water between schmoozing, tattooing, and catching up with other industry folks I only ever saw at this con. I’d slept for maybe two hours last night, after raucous post-con karaoke, and was currently standing near the side entrance, trying to figure out on my phone where the nearest coffee in the sprawling convention center was. Of course, the con app didn’t do anything so useful as point out coffee or bathrooms, and I shut it in disgust, resigning myself to wandering aimlessly until I found it, or stalking someone walking with a cup.
