by Lori L. Otto
We would undoubtedly run into one another at some point, at some event, party, club, gallery. We would be strangers. We would be two people who had difficulty forming words into meaningful sentences... sentences that wouldn’t hurt one another, that wouldn’t remind us of our past, that would attach to them no emotions. We would talk about the weather. We would talk about the news. We would talk about anything but us... if we were even able to speak at all.
It’s unimaginable to me, to think we’ll be in the same city, pretending to not be. I can’t let that happen. When I go back, I’ll figure out how to fix this. It has to be fixable. I love her too much to be without her. I just have to make it through this time apart from her.
I wonder how I’ll make it a day, a week, a month or two without Emi in my life. I know this will be good for me, in the end. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I wonder if it will for her. I wonder if she can ever feel the same way about me as I feel about her. It’s been nearly thirteen years. The only times she’s ever shown a romantic interest in me is when copious amounts of alcohol are involved. I learned quickly from that night her freshman year in college that I wasn’t what she was looking for, but still, I hoped she would see in me what I saw in her. How naïve I was. How eager. How much I wanted her to love me, even then. Still now.
For me, now, the first step is to figure out who I really am. I have jumped from one relationship to the next for so many years that I’m not sure who Nate– just Nate– is anymore. I need to focus on myself, be introspective, learn to find love in other things, like my work or nature or music... or myself. It’s not just about romantic love, sexual love. There is so much more to life. And when I think about it, I think Emi knows that side of life so well, knows herself better than most, knows how to find love in the world around her. But she is unfamiliar with the romantic love, the sexual love. It almost seems like we are the missing pieces to each other’s life puzzles. Could either of us truly feel whole, without the other?
I smile at the thought. The thought that, together, we can understand the world, but apart, we are each oblivious to half of what’s important. How can “we” not be meant to be? It seems so obvious in this moment. I will fix this. This will work. It has to. I’m meant to be with her. I love her and I want to be with her.
I laze around the suite all day, spending a little time sketching and a little time reading. It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt at peace with things. I feel completely unburdened. It’s strange... it’s as if I’ve been living some sort of half-truth all my life, like I’ve never been allowed to be completely honest with myself. I just find comfort in knowing, really knowing, what I want.
At four, the hotel concierge calls to let me know that a rental car has been dropped off for me. I ask him to hold the keys, deciding not to venture out this evening. I order room service and begin to make plans for tomorrow. I begin to think about the project. Since the majority of my inspiration comes from some kind of frustration or pain or void, I know this is going to be epic, having never felt such loss in all of my life. Even with the hopefulness I have for something more with Emi, I know I can channel the sadness that lies beneath into something much bigger, much better than anything I’ve done before.
I consider my life without her. There is no color in that world. No beauty. No life at all. I’m an artist, I’m supposed to have color and beauty. My life is altered, worse, without those things. I know this isn’t my destiny, my fate. She is. She must be.
I don’t know if she’ll be receptive to the idea of “us” at all. I don’t even know how to bring it up. I know she cares about me, but if I lay it all on the line for her– if I tell her that I’m in love with her– I’m fairly certain she will not immediately love the idea. She may never love the idea. If I focus on the pain of her rejection, it will help me in two ways. It will help me create the work I was brought here to do, and it may help to prepare me for an undesirable outcome. It just can’t end like that.
Just thinking about her turning me down brings a lump to my throat. How I hope she sees the potential in “us.”
The phone rings as I’m about to turn on the television for a distraction. It’s my mother. I wonder if I should tell her about Kiersten, about my decision about Emi. I should. It would put her mind at ease, and honestly, I should probably thank her for pointing out the obvious, even though I thought I hid it well. Part of me wants to do that. The other part doesn’t want me to tell her she was right. I answer the phone on the fourth ring.
“Mom.”
“Nate, honey, you made it to LA okay?” she asks with concern.
“I did. Sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
“I know you’re busy... and I figured you were still angry with me.” I should let her off the hook.
“Yeah, I’ve been busy settling in.”
“Nathan, I’m sorry about the other night. Maybe I misspoke. It was a little out of line, I guess.”
“No, Mom–”
“I just don’t want you making a big mistake. But you’re smart enough to figure this out. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. I’m sure Kiersten is a nice girl. I know I can be a bit intimidating. I’m sure she was nervous.”
“Mom, shut up for a second.” She sits in silence, waiting for me to continue. “I think you were right, Mom.”
“About?”
“Everything... I’m not sure what to do about it yet, but you are right about my feelings for Emi.”
“Nate,” she sighs.
“I’ve always loved her, but it’s always been understood that we would never pursue a relationship with one another. So I don’t really know what’s going to happen.”
“What are you going to do about Kiersten?” she asks.
“It’s over. She broke it off. She hates me, but it’s best that it happened when it did. Eventually I’d have to be honest with myself and accept that what I feel for Em is... well, love,” I explain.
“And what did Emi say?”
“She doesn’t know anything. I’ll talk to her when I get back to New York. I need to let everything settle.”
“Settle?” she asks. “What needs to settle? You should call her now and tell her how you feel!”
“Mom, I appreciate your willingness to speak up and offer some guidance, but I’ve got it from here. I want some time alone. I have to think this through, make sure it’s worth the risk of not having her in my life at all if she decides this isn’t what she wants.”
“I just don’t think she’ll decide that.”
“Well, unless she has come right out and told you that, you can’t know. I have to be prepared for anything... and I need to be alright with myself, just in case. Plus, I want to tell her in person.”
“I guess I can respect that,” she says. “I’m proud of you, Nathan.”
“Thanks, Mom. I just hope it all works out.”
“So do I, honey.”
“Thanks for calling, Mom. I’ll do better about keeping in touch.”
“Okay.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Have a good time in LA.”
“Thanks. Goodnight.”
“Night, Nathan.”
CHAPTER 11
Four weeks have passed since I arrived in LA. The painting is almost complete, and I’m honestly impressed with the progress I’ve made. In another day or two, the large mural should be finished. Albert requested that I do a few smaller pieces for private rooms, and I was already able to finish those in my spare time in the hotel. He stopped by a few times to check in, but has given me freedom to create whatever I like. He and Shannon were both very complimentary, feeling that all the pieces accentuated the architecture and design perfectly.
I have avoided talking to Emi in this time period in order to channel the feelings of anxiety into my art. Sometimes the emptiness is too much to bear, but I find I’m most productive when I feel like I’ve lost her forever. It’s gotten to the point that I wonder if I’ll have to find a new career if I can ever convince her
to love me. I laugh at the thought, because if, by chance, that does happen, I know that the passion between us will inspire me far more than pain and sadness. I know it in my heart.
I’ve also had a lot of time to just enjoy life by myself. I’ve read a couple of books, visited half a dozen galleries, driven up the California coast, and written two songs. I’m amazed at how much I’ve done in the past few weeks... and I still feel certain about my feelings for Emi. Her absence from my life has served me well, but now that the LA restaurant opening is nearing, I want to call her and find out how she’s doing. I would really like to see her. It’s actually more like a need; I need to see her.
Before I leave for work, as I’m plotting my call to her, a text message comes through. It’s her. My heart palpitates quicker, a smile spreading across my face at the sight of her name on my phone and the realization that we were both thinking of the other.
“I don’t know if it’s okay to tell you this, but I kiss you.”
I let out a small laugh, reading it again. I don’t know if it’s okay to tell you this, but I kiss you. I kiss you? Wow. The smile grows, knowing it’s a typo but hoping deep down it’s a freudian slip. I stare at it for a few more minutes, waiting for her to send a corrected text. It doesn’t come.
I dial her number slowly, taking a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. I can’t wait to talk to her. Her voice rattles me. She sounds happy. “Nate?” she says through her smile.
“Emi,” I sigh. “My god.” I don’t even know what to say next. It is just so good to hear her.
“Did you get my text message?”
“I did, but I don’t really understand it,” I tease her.
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Oh. What don’t you understand?”
“It’s just–”
“You don’t miss me...” she cuts me off, mumbling to herself, obviously hurt.
“Oh, god, no, Emi,” I quickly tell her, hoping to ease any doubt she is having. “That’s not what your text said!”
“What do you mean?”
“It said, ‘I don’t know if it’s okay to tell you this, but I... kiss... you.’”
“Kiss you?” she asks sheepishly.
“Yes, kiss you.”
“Oh,” she laughs. “Damn fingers get in the way. I miss you.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I figured that’s what you meant. I think I would know if you were kissing me.”
“Probably...” She’s silent, silent for too long.
“Emi?”
“Yeah?”
“What is it?” I ask.
“You didn’t say you missed me,” she states quietly.
“I didn’t?” I ask, caught off-guard. “I thought I did. I do, Emi. I really do miss you. It is so good to hear from you. I was just thinking about calling you when your text came through, actually.”
“Really?” she asks.
“Yes, really.”
“Why?”
“Just to see–” A loud noise on her end of the line cuts me off. “Where are you?” I ask once the noise is gone.
“Hey, Nate, I hate to cut this short. I didn’t think you’d respond, but can I call you later?”
“Yeah, I’ll probably be at the restaurant working, but I’ll have my phone on. Please... do...”
“Cool,” she sighs. “Goodbye, Nate.” I hate hearing her say that, and correct her immediately.
“Goodbyes suck, Em. Like ya.”
“Okay,” she laughs, hanging up shortly after.
Later that evening at the club, the aroma of savory food begins to overtake the smell of paint. The chefs have been busy preparing samples for Albert, Shannon and me to taste. It’s the first day I haven’t been alone in the space to work, but I still feel free to create, even with the chefs coming in to watch me work as they take breaks. My inspiration– and drive to finish– has been fueled today by the earlier phone call. I’ve kept my music turned down, not wanting to miss her call tonight.
A distinctive chime alerts me from my phone. Emi. Anxious, I wipe the paint from my left hand on my jeans and pull my phone out of my pocket.
“Goodbyes do suck.” I sigh heavily, unable to suppress the smile at her text.
“Yeah, they do, Em,” I sigh and speak quietly to myself. “Tell me about it.” I drop the phone to my side and look up, thanking God for the message from her. The phone chimes again before I can place a call to her.
“I’d rather tell you about how much I prefer hellos.”
I stare at the phone, perplexed. It’s like she read my mind.
“Okay, then tell me,” I respond.
A small pinging noise echoes off the walls of the empty restaurant.
“Hey, Nate.” I turn around abruptly, staring directly into the spot lights I’ve been using in my makeshift studio. I block the glare with my hand and finally see her in the shadows, standing alone by the door with a suitcase at her feet. Wearing a gauzy black dress and black heels, she certainly doesn’t look like the woman I know as my friend. Her hair falls in loose curls, framing her big smile and green eyes perfectly. She looks amazing.
We walk quickly to one another, but I stop her before she touches me.
“Wet paint,” I explain quickly, pointing at my clothes, my arms.
“I don’t care,” she laughs with a tear dropping from her eye. “You better hug me.”
I pick her up and swing her around a few times before settling her on her feet. “What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to say hi.”
“You were gonna call,” I stammer. “Not that I’m not happy to see you,” I add quickly.
“Okay, I just wanted to see you. And say hi. Among other things.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Kate picked me up from the airport.”
“Well, hi, Em,” I say happily, pulling her back into me. She clings to me tightly and sniffles into my shirt as I kiss her forehead. When I pull away, the bright light shows just how much wet paint I’ve managed to get on her. “Hold on.”
I run to the sink and grab a clean rag, dampening it and carrying it back over to her. Ignoring the mess I’ve made of her dress, I focus my attention on the light orange daub on her right cheekbone. From memory, I matched the color of her hair perfectly. I gently wipe it away, along with another tear or two. “How are your hands?” I pick them up and examine them closely, feeling the soft skin under my calloused fingers. I blot some lingering paint from them as well.
“It’s breathtaking, Nate.” She stares at the painting on the wall behind me, taking a step toward me, her shoulder brushing up against my arm lightly.
I turn around to watch her as she examines my work. The soles of her shoes tap softly on the unfinished concrete floor as she moves closer to the mural. I follow her, staying close to her, not wanting there to be even an inch of distance between us. Not anymore.
Her hand rises, reaching for a wisp of the orange paint. I quickly stop her from touching my work-in-progress. My fingers wrap around her small hand, slowly pulling it back toward her body.
“Careful, it’s still wet,” I say softly. She drops her hand to her side, and I stroke her arm with my thumb, starting at her shoulder and stopping at her wrist when her other hand closes around it. My breath catches in my throat. I briefly wonder if the air conditioner has been cut off, or if the spot lights just got a lot hotter in here. I can feel a bit of sweat forming on my forehead.
“What inspired you?” Emi asks.
“The breakup,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she begins, turning around in front of me and looking down at the space between us. “Your mom told me you two broke up. I’m really sorry.”
“Not that breakup,” I correct her, lifting her chin so her eyes can look into mine. “I guess ours wasn’t really a breakup,” I try to explain.
“What do you mean?” I’d never noticed how adorable her eyebrows were. My finger traces one of them, trying to wipe the confused look from he
r face, but it only worsens as she tries to process the smile breaking across mine.
“That’s what it’s felt like. Being without you. Thinking of my life without my best friend in it. It’s kind of sucked,” I admit, still not believing she’s here. “It’s good to see you, Emi.”
“Good,” she says, her breath shaky, her eyes looking into mine warily. “It’s good to see you, too.” She turns back around to examine the painting once more. “Nate, it’s the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Then I’ve clearly accomplished what I set out to do.” Because that’s what you are to me. I put my hands on her shoulders, kneading gently. The faint smell of her shampoo stirs up so many memories I have of her. I hold her still, breathing her in.
“Are there other people here?” she asks me.
“Yeah, the chefs are in the kitchen. Why?”
“I just need to talk to you. I think we need to be alone to have the conversation I want to have.”
“Okay.” She turns back around. “I kind of have plans tonight,” I tell her. “Albert and Shannon– that’s the owner and interior designer– they’ll be here any minute now for a tasting.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding. “I can wait–”
“That’s not what I meant, Em,” I laugh. “Stay. Please, stay. The restaurant seats four.” I point to the one, lone table situated by a window overlooking the city. It must have been set up earlier today, as I hadn’t seen it before.
“I don’t want to impose...”
“You’re not. Absolutely not. They’ve been trying to set me up since I landed at LAX. They’ll be happy I have a girl with me tonight. And I’ll be happy to not have to talk to them about my preference in hair color, or education, or music for once.”
