by Mariah Dietz
“Death,” Greg says.
Lo contemplates this as she turns back to her magazine.
“Neither.” My answer has him frowning at me in the mirror.
“Life is not about longevity. We are not guaranteed any amount of time. You know this. Every day, we have to work to earn our invitation to hell by pushing every boundary and limit there is.” He pauses and glances to Lo. “I believe God has a good sense of humor and knows I’m kidding, don’t worry.”
“She’s an artist. You don’t have to convince her not to push papers and live to work,” I assure him.
“An artist?” He squeezes my hand with his ring-covered fingers.
“What kind of artist?” he asks.
Lo timidly glances over the top of her magazine, reminding me of when I first met her. Neither of us seems fully aware of what our relationship is, which is funny when we have been so close and relaxed on numerous occasions over the past year. I know her shyness is likely due to Greg’s presence rather than mine, but it still annoys me.
“She draws. She paints. She’s even good with crayons,” I answer, not waiting to hear her vague response that I know will be underrated. While her confidence has grown, she is never even slightly boastful.
“Anything I might have seen?” he asks, running a brush through my hair.
I snicker. “Since when do you peruse art galleries?”
“Social media!” he exclaims. “These days, it’s how we see everything!”
“I haven’t gone viral yet.”
I watch Lo in the reflection of the mirror as she smiles easily. Everything about her suddenly seems calm and relaxed. I am envious of how so few things penetrate her.
“That’s what you need to do,” Greg sings. “Do something that will create all sorts of attention. Then, everyone will see your work.”
“She’s dating King,” I say.
Slowly, Greg moves his gaze to Lo. “Why aren’t you using that?”
She shrugs, her weight shifting with discomfort. “That’s not exactly how I imagined breaking into the art scene.”
“Break in however you can.”
Silent judgments pass over Lo’s face as Greg’s attention turns to a large tangle his brush is stuck in, and my annoyance with her passiveness evaporates as I am reminded of how genuine she is.
“So, what are we going to do today?” Greg asks.
“I need a change.”
“How drastic?” He tilts his head as he meets my eyes in the mirror.
“Drastic.”
“All right. Let’s do it!”
The three of us discuss length, color, texture, and bangs. Greg learns that Lo knows far more about art than he ever realized when she defends several suggestions she made. Ultimately, I tell them to go to town, and open a magazine Lo tossed to me.
Greg cuts, trims, razors, and measures while I find every last drop of coffee in my cup because, although it’s kind of gross, I do enjoy the buzz it offers. While drinking, I page through a magazine.
Greg knows I won’t blow-dry and style my hair at home, but he insists on showing me how. Using several large brushes I don’t own, he lists off their names and purpose. And then fusses with a few hairs before covering every inch of his creation with hair spray. Then, he spins me as he makes a catcall. “If I weren’t married and ten years too old for you, I’d ask you out.” He winks.
I stare at my reflection. My hair is barely past my shoulders now with ombre coloring of lighter browns and darker streaks. It isn’t loud and eye-catching, but soft, subtle, and absolutely beautiful. Greg is joking with Lo that she could be his new consultant while I run my fingers through the strands, admiring the many colors revealed as they fall back to my shoulders. She convinced him not to cut bangs, knowing I wouldn’t maintain them or come in often enough for him to. The coloring makes my complexion warmer, my eyes brighter. It really does look like a piece of artwork.
After paying Greg, I drop my cup in the trash can and tuck every last piece of hair into my hood before stepping out into the rain. We make a run for my truck and then both rub our palms together as my truck warms up.
“It’s cold out!” Lo says, blowing into her cupped hands.
“It’s freezing.”
“Want to get some lunch? I’m starving.”
“What sounds good?”
She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
While we work, the guys will announce what they want for lunch as their way of saying they’re hungry, and since that is often before I am hungry, they’ll generally pick what or where we eat.
“We can go eat at a food truck or have Mexican. There’s a good Chinese place a few blocks from here.” She cranes her neck around to see the cross streets.
Lo knows Portland better than I do even though I’ve lived here all my life. She doesn’t drive, relying on public transportation and walking, thus learning shortcuts, interesting monuments, and some of the best-kept secrets of our ever-changing and growing city.
“What about Indian food?”
“Yeah.” She sits straighter and verifies our location. “Head up four blocks, and then make a right. We have to go east a little, but there’s a really great place not too far off.”
I follow her directions until we’re parked in front of a small brick building that shares space with a dry cleaner. Inside, the ceilings are elaborately painted with bright colors that make them impossible to overlook.
The hostess greets us with a smile and takes us to a booth where she hands us each a menu.
“It smells so good,” I say, taking another deep breath.
Lo looks up from her menu and smiles. “Some stuff is really hot, but if you ask them to make it less spicy, they will.”
A few moments later, our server greets us and fills our water glasses. “Can I help you with anything on the menu?”
“Do you guys have a sampler plate?” I ask.
She smiles, her lips stained a deep ruby. “Yes, absolutely.” Pointing to numerous dishes, still providing me with too many choices, she turns to Lo and asks if she has any questions before allowing us another moment.
I chew on my lip, debating what sounds best, when Lo clears her throat. “If you want, we can order a couple of the sampler plates and share, if you can’t make up your mind.”
“I’ve never had Indian food,” I admit.
“Never?” She looks personally offended. “We need to remedy this, stat.”
Her long neck stretches forward, and our waitress appears. It’s after two, so the place is nearly desolate.
“Order the ones that interest you most,” Lo says.
So I do.
I’M STILL BURPING the taste of curry as I fill my shopping cart with Lo by my side. Lunch was fantastic. There were several dishes I had to stop myself from continuing to eat to ensure I would have enough room to try everything and a few I had to train my expressions not to look repulsed as I swallowed.
“How are things going with the New York art galleries and your work?”
Our conversation during lunch was kept light, discussing things like my hair and how much we both liked it, the different dishes we were trying, and me eventually grilling her on her home state of Montana in an attempt to keep her from asking about where I have been this week. She allowed me to keep the focus on her though I could tell she knew my motives.
Her steel-colored eyes address me, once again catching the fact that I haven’t allowed much silence between us. “It’s good. I just wish King would relax.”
“About you moving?”
She nods and grabs a few yogurts that she deposits into her basket. “Artists don’t have to live where they sell their work. If they did, artists would only ever be in a single state or area, and our intention is to be everywhere.” She picks over the different flavors before selecting a few more containers.
“Maybe he wants something more serious?”
Her gaze locks on mine. “Like black-licorice serious?”
My brow furrows. “What?�
��
“See, when King and I fight or disagree, he doesn’t allow me to build up my defenses. He basically opens the door and lays a fifty-foot barricade in the way to guarantee I can’t even try.” Her eyes widen as she looks to the side, as though considering her words, and then nods. “At first, it really bothered me because it felt so intrusive. Sometimes, I just wanted to be able to be pissed off at him. I wanted to have a few moments where I could stomp my feet and growl and think he was a giant asshole. Then, I realized how glad I was that he didn’t allow me to push him away and fester on whatever was bothering me. With King I can lay it all out there and tell him exactly what I’m feeling and thinking. Generally, we’re able to come up with either a solution or at least an understanding of why something is bothering me. Often, I don’t want him to fix it. Hell, I don’t need him to fix it, but sometimes I do, and the fact that he’s willing to help means more to me than anything.” Her eyes are still stretched, expressing her sincerity. “Kash is me, but you’re King.”
“King is a thousand times more difficult than I am.”
She laughs but doesn’t agree or oppose my statement.
“I will always care about Kash, but I’m beginning to realize that maybe … maybe what I have always perceived as reasons we’re good together is really just the ease of our relationship.”
Her smile falls, but she doesn’t say anything.
We don’t discuss Kash again as we continue down each aisle, something I usually despise doing because I lack the patience for doing so, but Lo’s presence helps. She doesn’t get annoyed when I circle down the same aisle for the third time after deciding I should get some rice because it won’t go bad and can be quite versatile or when I go back to the dairy section because yogurt suddenly sounds good to me too. Occasionally, she tells me updates about her roommates, Allie and Charleigh, which are highlighted with intended humor. Other moments, she fills our conversation with Mercedes, telling me about a recent movie they went to see, and her latest homework dramas. While she adds some cherries to her cart, she mentions how King has been teaching Robert how to cook some new dishes that are low in unhealthy cholesterols and saturated fats.
I have only been gone for a few days, not even a full week, yet it feels like I am reminiscing and absorbing each of her words like it has been entire months since I have been there to spend time with everyone.
I PUNK OUT and text Kash after 1 a.m. AM to tell him I won’t be coming to work again. It’s a lousy thing to do, but being able to put off seeing him is what finally allows me to fall asleep. I need to do this for me, regardless of it being selfish or not. Monday, I will return to work with a new resolution, ready to sort things out, but for one last day, I just want time to myself.
MY HAIR IS blow-dried. My clothes have been chosen for style, rather than comfort and ease with riding. My makeup is a little heavier than usual, and my shoes don’t lace.
I glance at my phone as it vibrates against the granite of my bathroom sink, expecting to see another text from Tommy. We’re meeting this afternoon to hang out and then go to dinner. He wants to drive all the way to Hood River, which concerns me because that means being together in a car with nothing to do but talk or listen to the radio for several hours. I suggested we check out a Thai restaurant Lo had mentioned was good and then go somewhere downtown where there would be options to do or see nearly anything.
Unfortunately, I don’t find a text agreeing to stay downtown, but a message from Kash. He never did respond to me taking yesterday off, and while it isn’t unusual for me to hear from him on the weekends since we don’t work normal business hours, I feel like I have to gather strength to pick up my phone and read his text.
Kash: They sent the final images for the Canadian ad. They’re adding a 4 pg story. Mind coming over to look at it?
As I contemplate a reply, my phone vibrates with another received message.
Kash: Or I can come to you.
That isn’t a good idea. The Knight house is guaranteed to have others around, hopefully one of them being Mercedes since I still have yet to reach out to her.
Me: I can be there in 20.
Kash: Thanks.
His reply seems too formal. Has he ever thanked me for coming over? Why does everything feel different? How long have we been growing apart?
I huff, shaking my head, as I look over my reflection. Everything about today feels off.
THE DRIVE TO the Knight residence is both quick and wet. Rain is coming down, as though it has the intention of keeping me in my house for yet another day or maybe more.
Reaching the front door, I open it like I have every day for more years than I haven’t, and let myself inside. The scent of orange greets me, stronger this time. The house still isn’t super clean and organized, but it’s moving in the right direction. While I wish Lo would stop taking care of them and force them to be adults, I’m grateful she’s doing it for Mercedes.
“Hey,” Kash says, poking his head out of the office. He looks nervous or possibly shocked; his brown eyes evidently widen, even with his hat pulled down so low. He steps out into the hallway, his shoulders rounded with hesitancy. “You changed your hair!”
Reflexively, my hand goes up to touch the shortened locks.
“It looks great. You always look amazing.”
I smile shyly. For some reason, sarcasm is a much easier and more comfortable form of communication between us.
“How was the drive? I was getting ready to call and suggest I come over,” Kash says, taking another step toward me.
My eyes narrow with genuine curiosity as I stare even harder at him, trying to ascertain what is happening. “Why?”
The bill of his hat rises with his eyebrows. “Why what?”
“Why were you going to offer to come over?”
“I was … worried. It’s like one giant puddle out there.”
“Why is admitting that so difficult?”
Kash shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “What?”
“Why is it so hard to admit you were worried about me?”
He draws his head back. “It’s not. I just…”
“Just what?” I push forward, not allowing him to retreat back into his comfortable state where all we rely on are subtle exchanges.
Maybe it’s because of Lo’s earlier advice, maybe it’s that I am about to go on a date with a guy for the first time in so many years that I can’t recall my last one, or maybe I’m just tired of him not caring enough to finally tell me that he does.
“You just seem to be mad all the time lately. I didn’t want to upset you.”
My stupid blow-dried hair falls into my face as I drop my chin with annoyance and confusion. “You thought it would piss me off if you admitted you were concerned about my safety? Really?”
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes!” I cry, throwing my arms up in the air. “I can, and I do. If you had spent ten minutes thinking about me and our relationship over the last ten years, you would know I’m not a flowers-and-candy kind of person. I never have been, and I never will be. I don’t care about that stuff.”
With wide eyes and a pounding heart, I stare at him, seeking understanding. He holds my stare, anger fueling his eyes that are now slanted.
My shoulders are nearly level with my ears when I drop them. “I didn’t come here to fight. I’m sorry. Let’s just look at the stuff and make sure it’s what we want to use.”
He places one hand on the back of his head and extends the other, pointing toward the office.
Kash and I don’t fight. We have never fought. Not like this. We bicker, we tease, we poke, but this—whatever this is—is so uncomfortable. Even with his eyes on my back, knowing that he’s following me into a space where it will be only us, feels irksome.
I sit at the desk, taking Kash’s seat, without waiting for an invitation or instruction. I know his password to unlock his screen and exactly where to go to locate the files. Once they’re pulled up, my quick need for act
ions and results stops.
The very first image is a close-up of Kash. Snow is ricocheting off his jacket, revealing King or Parker was likely standing where he’s looking with a fond smile that too many know and love, and one that has always made me feel slightly possessive over. His umber eyes are shining with the reflection of the snow, curtained with thick lashes that aren’t overly long or curled but perfectly accentuate the wide eyes they line, as though created by a well-practiced artist. The lens has picked up everything—from the small scar above his eyebrow that he got from running into a door as a kid to the small lines of time that have gathered around his upturned lips and eyes. I hope they keep them; they make Kash look even sexier. I’m sure every woman and girl over the age of fifteen would stare at those very same creases and imagine how each and every one was created. What knowledge he possesses—both inside the bedroom and classroom—the secrets he carries, how many truths he knows, what burdens he buries. I wonder about each of them as I scan slowly over his face for a third time.
“This is a good shot,” I say quietly, my attention remaining on the screen.
“I look like a doofus.”
I chuckle. “Because you are a doofus.”
I click to the next photo and have to sit back in the chair because it’s so bright on Kash’s large screen. The azure sky against the pristine snow is difficult to look at for more than a moment, and makes me blink back the moisture forming as I try to focus on the small black object level with the clouds from this angle.
“They need to mess with the coloring, or they’ll blind readers.” I make the image smaller to try and stop the stars from forming every time I blink. “I see what you mean though. I have no idea who that is.”
I click to the next one as Kash admits he doesn’t know who it is, either.
The next picture is clearly of Kash, the angle low. The camera must have been on the ground. It’s an awesome shot, showing off not only Kash’s control, but also his bike.
“Guy fans will dig this, but the girls probably won’t. It’s really hard to tell that it’s you.”
