by Harper Bliss
“I think she might have forgotten it was the 14th of February when we agreed to meet up tomorrow.” I snicker inwardly at the memory of the look of horror on Anna’s face.
“She must really, really like you then.” Cynthia’s shoulders relax. “I loved her. I thought we were going to grow old together. That was something we would have long, lazy conversations about. What we’d do when we were both old and gray.” She pauses. “When we eventually split, it was long overdue. I finally walked away from her, but I was still devastated. I was tired and angry and so sad about it all, because it didn’t work out, and it really felt like she didn’t want it to work anymore. As if she was actively fighting me on everything and trying to prove that she was now, suddenly, somehow defective. That despite all the evidence to the contrary—because we’d been happily together for years by the time she received her diagnosis—she was no longer cut out to be in a relationship.” She stops abruptly, as though she has said too much.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Cynthia.”
She shakes her head. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone about her diagnosis and it’s a promise I kept. Anna doesn’t disclose her ASD easily, which was also a problem between us, because she only ever had me to discuss it with, and what did I know? I’m not a mental health professional. So, in a way, I’m glad she told you, Zoe, but… Yeah, I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry it ended badly.”
“Me too.” She straightens her shoulders. “Anyway, I believe I came here to get a present for my boyfriend.”
“That you did.” Eve always told me I had the innate ability to make anyone open up to me without even trying. It worked with Anna and now with her ex as well. “Come with me.” I lead her to the Cookbook section, which has proven very popular so far. “How about some Paul Hollywood?”
She nods, then rolls her eyes. “I suspect John’s secretly a huge fan, so yes, please.” She smiles a little sheepishly. “They do have the same kind of piercing blue eyes and John’s much nicer, so it’s all good.” She gives a sudden nervous giggle when I hand her the book. “Look, Zoe, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. Anna hurt me but that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about her. I worry about her sometimes still. I don’t mean to question your intentions, but please don’t see her as a ‘cause’ or anything less than any other human. She may not be neuro-typical, but, in essence, she’s just like the rest of us, even though she likes to claim otherwise.”
“I won’t,” I say, although that’s hardly a promise I can make. I’m not one to overthink this kind of thing. All I really want is to spend some more time with Anna. “I have no inclination to fix her or to take her on as some sort of challenge or anything like that.”
“You know what?” Cynthia holds the book I gave her close to her chest. “I believe you, Zoe. And I’m glad Anna has found someone she can confide in. I’m not entirely sure she’ll be happy with the conversation we’ve just had, so break that to her gently, will you?”
“I will.” I ring up her purchase and wrap the book in hot pink wrapping paper. “If John’s interested in baking, why did you come to a bookstore instead of getting him some baking supplies?” I ask, when I hand her the wrapped present.
“It’s your window display,” Cynthia says. “It’s simply irresistible.” She puts the book in her bag. “I have to run.”
My first thought is that I can’t wait to tell Anna what her ex said about my exuberantly red window display. I can’t keep the fact that Cynthia and I talked about her and her diagnosis from her, anyway. I just hope she won’t run away again when I tell her. Although that might prove hard, since I invited myself to her house.
21
Anna
While I get the blank canvas and paints ready, I need to tell myself over and over that this is not a Valentine’s Day present. I’m painting this because I have no choice. I need to get this image out of my head. I need to spend time with it and process it in the only way I know how. I can also choose not to give it to Zoe. She may actually think it’s weird.
I’ve put my painting song, “This Is Me”, on repeat. I must have heard it a million times by now and the message of the lyrics may as well be part of me. It’s coming up to the jubilant chorus and I want to have my first brush stroke on the canvas by the time the music swells to a high. So I begin.
By the time the songs starts winding down and I pause, as I always do, to let the words “And I know that I deserve your love” sink in, the first sketch has been made.
I can’t explain where the ability to do this comes from, or how my brain can make it happen, but I’ve always been able to see a painting in my head and replicate it on the canvas. The colors. The shapes. The details. It’s all there. All I have to do, I used to joke when Cynthia asked me about it, is turn up with a brush in my hand. She could never understand that, for me, it was that simple.
But I can’t just paint any picture at any given time. I can’t come into the painting studio off my kitchen, which has the same kind of light streaming in, and tell myself to paint the landscape in front of me or something my mother has asked me to paint. I’ve tried many times but it doesn’t work that way. I guess, when I really think about it, which I do often, I can only paint what’s on my mind—or in my heart. And today, that’s Zoe.
There’s so much to unpack, so much to unravel, so much I can’t communicate or express in any other way. While I paint this picture of her, while I try to catch the warmth in her gaze in a blend of various shades of brown, the easiness of her smile with a few flicks of my wrist as I drag my brush across the canvas, I can only think of her. But the thoughts don’t come to me in words or sentences. They’re just feelings, sensations, a wave of awareness coursing through me. And trying to make Zoe’s essence come to life in my painting, or at least what I think is her essence to me in this moment—her kindness and her patience and the way she has of drawing me out—is also my way of preparing for this date, of not trying to screw it up before it happens by being in my head too much and overthinking it to death.
Because that’s how I screwed up my relationship with Cynthia. I can see that now, after more than two years apart. I convinced myself of the fact that she didn’t want to be with me anymore after she found out who I really was, and then I made it come true. Meanwhile, I forgot to ask her what she really wanted. Because I was scared of the answer, perhaps. Or because I was so full of stubborn self-hatred that I couldn’t possibly conceive that she might think of things otherwise.
I have many paintings of Cynthia in the basement, many versions of her in all sorts of colors. But today, I’m painting Zoe. In my head, she’s wearing white, and it contrasts so deliciously with the darker color of her skin. The song repeats itself and I paint and paint, and it feels so good, so utterly glorious, to feel close to Zoe in this way—my way. To just feel my way through it as her face becomes more and more detailed on the canvas. And then the light starts to go and Hemingway appears in the doorway and looks at me in that way he has, his eyes so full of adoration, because he’s not human and he can look at me like that, and I know it’s time to stop.
I look at my work of the past few hours and I’m pleased with what I see. And for a brief moment, I can fully enjoy what it’s like to be me. I may not be able to connect to other people very well, but I connect with this. This makes me come alive and, most of the time, that’s all I need.
Then it’s time to scrub the paint off my hands and switch off the music, because I’m late to meet Sean and Jamie at Lenny’s and I always get nosey questions from them when I dare to turn up only five minutes late.
“Jaden’s going on a proper date with Brooklyn tomorrow,” Jamie says. “This can only mean one thing: his old man is getting truly old.”
“You may be older, but you’re also wiser,” Sean says. “And, well, looking on the bright side, if they do get serious, Jaden will have a very foxy mother-in-law.”
“He’s only fifteen,” I blurt out.
“Oh, she speaks,” Jamie says. “What’s with you tonight, Anna? Is it because tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day and you don’t have a date?”
I roll my eyes, because that’s the only reaction a comment like that deserves.
“Or is it because Cynthia’s with John now?” He doesn’t let up.
“I have absolutely no problem with that. I’m glad she’s with someone. And John’s a nice guy.”
“In all seriousness,” Sean says. “Were you surprised when you found out Cynthia was dating a man now?” I can so tell he’s been sitting on that question all week, waiting for the time when we all had a beer in our hand to ask it.
“Surprised? Yes. A bit. I hadn’t expected it.”
“You didn’t know she was bisexual?” Sean asks.
“She never told me. So no, I guess I didn’t know.”
“But it doesn’t bother you?” Jamie asks.
“No, of course not. Why would it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. No reason, I guess.” He looks at me quizzically.
“John is a good guy,” Sean adds. “They both deserve a happy ending.”
I quirk up my eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
“You deserve a happy ending as well, of course, Anna. I just never really know if you’re already living your happy ending or whether you’re still looking for someone else to be happy with…” He shakes his head. “That came out kind of wrong.”
“It’s fine,” I say. Sean’s my best friend and Jamie’s my brother, which, in theory, makes them ideal confidantes, but I can’t tell even them about having dinner with Zoe tomorrow. Not even when things were going south with Cynthia did I open up to them in that way.
It’s not how the three of us are together—it’s not something I’ve ever thought I needed. I don’t believe I need it now, but part of me does want to blurt out that, somehow—I still don’t really know how or why—I’ve scored a date with that ‘foxy lady’.
“You know I’m not looking for anything,” I say. “I’m perfectly happy hanging out with you guys every Friday night.” I hold up my bottle of beer. “And I can even find it in my heart to wish you both a lovely Valentine’s Day, if you must succumb to the pressure of that particularly cynical side of capitalism.” I throw in a smile. “If you’re willing to part with your hard-earned cash to tell the women in your life on that specific day of the year that you love them, that’s also fine with me. I wish you lots of fun doing it.”
“Okay.” Jamie sits up. “Now I know that something’s going on with you, Sis. First you say nothing for half an hour, you just sit there brooding, and now you wish us a happy Valentine’s Day.” He shakes his head. “Something’s not adding up here.”
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there, Jamie,” I assure him. Another reason why I can’t tell them about the date is that, when you’re me, there’s always a distinct possibility that things will go south. My anxiety about messing up the date has started to flare up already, and not even trying to paint it off me has helped. I must be showing my anxiety, especially to the people who know me best. “I was painting before I came over. It just took a while for my brain to catch up.”
“What were you painting?” Sean asks. He’s been begging me for a painting of his wife for years, and while I have nothing against Cathy whatsoever, I haven’t been able to reproduce her features on a canvas.
“A self-portrait,” I blurt out.
“Really?” Jamie says. “Because you don’t appear to be big on self-love today.”
“I’m my own Valentine, every day of the year,” I say. “So I decided to paint myself. That’s all.”
“Before the new girl came to town,” Jamie says, “Jaden wanted to take drawing lessons, but now he’s suddenly become way too busy for them.”
“The kid’s smitten,” Sean says. “I know you’re old, Jamie, but don’t you remember what it was like back in the day? The first girl that, for the life of you, you couldn’t get out of your head.” He sighs. “Those were the days.”
“I don’t have to remember. I just have to take a good look at my eldest and I’m instantly reminded.” Jamie grins. “It’s Brooklyn this, Brooklyn that. If he deigns us worthy enough to share with, of course. But even if he doesn’t, it’s written all over his face. He just can’t help himself.”
Their conversation makes me think of how my own expressions are never that readable. If they were, surely these two would have figured me out by now. They would have worked out that it isn’t just Brooklyn capturing hearts in Donovan Grove. Her mother’s doing a good job of that as well. Maybe the fact that both Sean and Jamie picked up on something means that I must be showing some signs of outward infatuation. Am I infatuated with Zoe? It’s hard not to be. But for me, there’s only ever been a very thin line between opportunity and the feeling of being overwhelmed.
“Anna?” Sean’s voice interrupts my train of thought. “You were miles away. Again.”
“Sorry. Yes, Jaden’s in love. How lovely,” I mumble.
“If I didn’t know any better,” my brother says, “I’d think you were hung up on some lovely lady as well.”
I shake my head to dismiss him.
“Anna, come on,” Jamie insists. “Jaden might be in the throes of puberty, but do you really think he doesn’t tell me anything? I know you’re having Zoe over for dinner tomorrow night.”
“W—what?”
“I wanted to let you tell me yourself, but you really weren’t catching my drift.”
“Wait a minute,” Sean butts in. “You’re going on a date with Zoe? On Valentine’s Day.” His eyes are the size of saucers.
“It has nothing to with Valentine’s Day,” I protest. I curse myself for letting the obvious escape me again. Of course, Zoe would have told her daughter, and if Brooklyn is as smitten with Jaden as he is with her, the subject of her mother dating his aunt must have come up. “And it’s just dinner.”
“Just dinner?” Jamie says. “The last time you cooked an elaborate meal, we came this close to calling the fire brigade.” He holds his thumb and index finger very close together—exaggerating gravely, as usual.
“Zoe’s cooking,” I say matter-of-factly, while I rack my brain for the missed signs of Jamie giving me the opportunity to tell them about Zoe. But my mind is whirring around way too frantically for me to retrieve anything from my short-term memory.
“Hallelujah.” Jamie gives me a thumbs-up. He knows me well enough to not ask why I didn’t spontaneously volunteer any information about the date. “Let me know if you need help with anything, Sis. Some DIY around the house to make it look extra nice.” Jamie hung all the frames in my house—and there are many. In fact, he and Sean did most of the painting and hung the wallpaper—and all the other practical things I’m too clumsy to handle myself.
“You’re going out with the foxy lady,” Sean says, then nods, as though something is only just now sinking in. It probably is.
“Can we stop calling Zoe the foxy lady from now on, please?” I can’t help a smile from spreading on my lips regardless.
“It won’t be easy,” Sean says, “but I’ll try.”
22
Zoe
“I know you don’t do Valentine’s Day,” I say, once Anna has ushered me into her kitchen, where all the ingredients I asked her to pick up at the store are laid out on the table, arranged in little groups.
I’ve been racking my brain about this all day—in between tending to the store on the busiest day it’s had so far—and I concluded it would be best to just give Anna her present as quickly as possible. If I risk her going on another anti-Valentine’s rant, which I think is highly likely considering the date, I might lose the courage to give it to her at all. And I really want her to have it, but I also don’t want to make too big a deal out of it in order to not make her too uncomfortable.
“But I got you this.” I take a package out of my bag. Before I give it to her, I say, “It’s actually quite a funny story.” I�
�m still getting used to Anna’s glam outfit—her kind of glam, anyway. Instead of blue jeans, she’s wearing a pair of shinier, black jeans, with a shirt on top that actually looks like she tried to iron it. She made an effort—and she looks mighty good in the shirt, regardless of the creases. “Your colleague, Sean, asked me for something silly he could give you for Valentine’s Day, just to annoy you, really.” Her face isn’t giving much away. “And it did get me thinking… and I suppose I could have waited until your birthday, but I have no idea when your birthday is, Anna. And fuck it, I just really wanted to give this to you today.”
“Wait.” Anna scratches her cheek. “What does Sean have to do with this?”
“Him asking me for a silly gift for you somehow sparked the idea in my head for what I’m about to give you now. That’s all. I wasn’t going to let him give you this.” This gift is by no means silly, I think. I might be feeling a little too pleased with myself about it. But I’m utterly convinced Anna will love it, which is another reason why I can’t wait to give it to her.
“You got me a Valentine’s Day gift?” There’s slight panic in her voice now.
“How about we consider it simply ‘a gift’?” I step a little closer. “Here you go.” I hand her the hefty, rectangular package, which I have wrapped in gaudy pink-with-red-hearts wrapping paper—because I couldn’t help myself.
“Okay.” Anna smiles now. She turns the package around in her hand. “The shape looks quite familiar.” She gives it another once-over and then, gently, peels off the wrapping paper.
“Look inside,” I urge her.
She opens the front cover of the hardback copy of A Little Life I gave her. Then she stills, as she reads what the author has written inside it, especially for her.
“Damn.” She keeps staring at the book. “That is so very nice.” She looks up now. “I’m a bit lost for words.”
