Heartache

by Danielle Allen

A woman brushed up against the back of me as she squeezed between me and the next table to get through the crowd. My eyes swept the building and the place was packed. Several people had to settle for standing because every table and bar stool was taken.

  “Just a few of us at one of our places. Nothing like this.” Malik gestured around smoothly.

  “Fine,” I conceded to get them off of my back. “Nothing like this. A small celebration after the event. That’s it. But between now and then, I don’t want either of you to give me shit about not going to bars or clubs with you. For the next two months, don’t even mention it.”

  “Done,” Malik agreed, lifting his drink in a salute.

  “Fine,” Brad mumbled begrudgingly. “But this small celebration will be epic. Epic. And we don’t want to hear shit about you changing your mind.”

  With a definitive nod, we pounded fists and then said our goodbyes.

  Zipping my jacket, I strolled out of the bar. With the heavy door slamming behind me, I could still hear the roar of the patrons. Shaking my head, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and tried not to let what Brad had said infiltrate my thoughts. But it was too late. Gritting my teeth, I jogged across the street to my car.

  Between the nightmare and then Brad being a dick, I felt my gut twisting. Beating my hand against the steering wheel repeatedly, I let out a growl. Breathing harshly, I stared down the almost empty street. That deep burn in my chest always flared up when thoughts of the past crept up and tried to consume me.

  I need to let this shit go, I thought definitively, knowing I needed to get it together as I stuck the key in the ignition. I need to just let it go.

  Instead of driving home like I’d intended, I made my way to Art House. When I pulled up, I noticed a few cars in the parking deck, but none belonged to Monroe. Still, I walked toward the building tentatively and when I saw the empty first floor, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thank God,” I muttered under my breath. I just wanted to go upstairs and paint. I didn’t feel like having small talk with Monroe. I knew she meant well, but she was nosey as hell. I needed to calm my nerves and paint. I was going to explode if I didn’t get to my canvas.

  Walking through the door of the studio, I flipped a switch and the room flooded with light. I pulled off my jacket, tossed it on the desk chair and pushed up my sleeves. Trying to distract myself, I powered on my iPod that sat in the docking station and the room filled with noise.

  I grabbed a flat tipped brush, my favorite art knife, and heavy body acrylic paint. Standing in front of the canvas, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My muscles flexed and with each breath I took, my body stirred. Something about standing on the brink between creative control and creative chaos aroused me. And I just let it all go.

  As soon as my mind shut down, I moved skillfully and automatically. The ache that always consumed me when I thought of my family, my life, and my past, poured out of me in controlled streaks across the canvas. Directing every emotion that swirled inside of me onto the blank canvas with smooth, fluid strokes, the jet black paint slid from right to left. Each line of the brush held the lies, the family I thought I knew, and the family I never got a chance to know.

  Knifing blood red lines and edges in a pattern that I could feel better than I could see, I got lost in the design. In each razor sharp edge, I could still see Tia Vasquez. I saw her beautiful face with short jet black hair and big hazel eyes. I saw her legs. I saw her long shapely legs in each crimson line that highlighted the canvas. I could hear her laugh in every swipe against the canvas. Her distinct laugh was haunting me in every bristled fiber that scraped against the canvas. I felt her. I felt her in each stroke and it was a mixture of love and hate, regret and anger—but mostly anger. Flashes of her and moments with her ended up on the canvas. Like a compulsion, every emotion that I’d kept buried spilled out of me.

  Song after song played as I perfected the abstract piece. Allowing drying time before adding additional details, I began working on a second canvas because I couldn’t stop my train of thought. Once I opened that door, it stayed open. And I let it.

  Whatever was happening was different. Maybe it was the nightmare. Maybe it was the mention of my trust fund. Maybe it was Allie’s declaration of love. Maybe it was the big break I was being given. Maybe it was a combination of all of those things. Whatever the catalyst, it brought up emotions I never wanted to feel again, thoughts I never wanted to think again. It also inspired something that was exploding onto the canvases.

  I wiped the sweat off of my brow with the back of my hand and dove back in. I worked tirelessly for hours. Experimenting with textures, I didn’t just spread colors around; I layered colors, giving it depth. I didn’t need coffee. Paint, sweat, and the burn in my chest kept me going until finally, I took a step back.

  Breathing heavily, the fog I’d been in lifted slightly and I took a good look at my work. I backed away from the canvases slowly. When I felt the couch hit the back of my legs, I sat down. Unable to take my eyes off of what I’d just created, I reclined back, eyes wide. It was probably the best thing I’d ever painted.

  Another chill ran through me as I saw my life story in each brush stroke. It was so raw that it was almost hard to look at. I’d done everything in my power to not think about that part of my life. I spent so much time focusing on the future that I never wanted to give my mind enough time to think about the past. Even though it had been years, it was still something I couldn’t bring myself to think about, let alone talk about. But for the first time, I just put it all out there. I took a risk creatively and it paid off.

  As I came down from the creative high I was riding, I realized two things: The only risks worth taking were creative risks and it was seven o’clock in the morning.

  _____

  The Next Two Months

  Eat.

  Paint.

  Workout.

  A couple hours of sleep.

  Eat.

  Paint.

  Workout.

  Even less sleep.

  Repeat.

  Everyday.

  For sixty-seven days.

  Chapter Three

  Before I start my project on faces, I need to paint this. Simple. Uncomplicated. Straightforward, I decided contemplatively with my hands clasped on the top of my head as I focused on the sunrise straight ahead of me.

  The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon as I made my way home from my run. The hazy mix of blues and yellows peeked over the trees in the distance. I memorized the colors and the lines as I pushed my tired body to walk up the steps. I hadn’t run in the park near my house in the two months since I’d gotten the letter from Charlotte Spence. It felt good to be running outside again.

  “Roman!” I faintly heard her screaming my name. I shut my eyes briefly and sighed.

  Looking over my shoulder as I continued to unlock and open my front door, I saw Hannah waving her arms over her head trying to flag me down. Not wanting to be rude, I left my door ajar and I turned, waiting until she made her way to the bottom step.

  “Roman,” she breathed, slightly winded. “How are you? It’s been months. Are you doing okay?”

  The barrage of questions took me by surprise and I gave her a questioning look. Running my hand over my beard, I felt myself soften. Standing at the bottom of the steps, she seemed so small, so unsure of herself. Wearing weather appropriate running gear and shifting from one foot to the other, she looked almost demure. She still wasn’t my type, but she was so much more attractive when she wasn’t trying so hard to be sexy.

  And now she’s unzipping her jacket, I groaned silently and restrained myself from rolling my eyes.

  “I’m fine. Thanks, Hannah. How have you been?”

  She gave me a pouty look before answering, “I’ve been worried about you.”

  I gave her a small smile. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  “You’re always by yourself. You’re such a loner. You need a friend.�
�

  “I have friends.” I looked past her to the older couple walking their dog in the direction of the park.

  Why am I entertaining this conversation? I wondered as I pushed my door open a little further and took a step backward, just inside the door frame. As I opened my mouth to end the conversation, her giggle rippled through the still morning air and my mouth snapped shut. A chill ran down my spine. That’s why.

  Although they looked nothing alike, Hannah’s laugh was the exact same pitch and the exact same light, airy tone as the laugh that I had fallen in love with in high school. It was the same laugh that I’d stopped hearing eight years ago. It was the same laugh that sometimes kept me awake at night.

  My heart pounded in my chest as I was reminded of why I entertained conversations with her. I closed my eyes momentarily. Hannah’s laugh was some sort of cruel and unusual punishment that reminded me of my past. My eyes returned to hers as she started talking again.

  “I haven’t been seeing you around and you haven’t been running lately. I thought you had moved. I came by a few times, but no one answered. I thought I saw a girl leave your place a few weeks ago, but she didn’t look like your type so maybe it was a delivery of some sort.” She paused as if she were waiting for an explanation.

  Without really seeing her, I stared at her blankly, my mouth slightly agape. All I could hear was her laugh ringing in my ears. Shaking the sound from my head, I focused my eyes on Hannah.

  She’s not getting the hint so I need to just tell her I’m not interested once and for all. I don’t owe her anything. She’s not Tia. And honestly, I don’t owe Tia anything either. God, I need to get her out of my head, I grumbled silently and I felt my brows furrowing.

  Scratching my beard, I could feel my annoyance bubbling up to the surface as my patience was wearing thin. Ignoring the tail end of her statement, I opened my door even wider and prepared to step in. “I worked out at a gym near my studio. I have things to do today so I’m going inside now. You take care.”

  She ran her hands through her hair. “Where’s your studio?” She cleared her throat. “You know, just in case I need to find you.”

  “You won’t need to find me,” I snapped irritably, turning around and stalking through the entrance of my house. Before slamming the door shut behind me, I realized what I was doing. Reeling in my emotions and taking a deep breath, I turned around and looked down the front steps.

  Hannah stood at the bottom of the steps, smirking. Her eyes narrowed momentarily before returning to their original doe-eyed state. The sneakiness in her eyes couldn’t be masked.

  Running my hand over my beard again, I sighed roughly. “Look Hannah, this isn’t—”

  “It’s getting late,” she interrupted, slowly backing away. “I should get my run in. But I will see you later, Roman.” She winked and slipped earphones into her ears. “I will definitely see you later.”

  Turning on her sneakered heel, she jogged away. My eyes followed her to the end of the street. Faintly, I could still hear her laugh ringing in my ears. Between that look in her eyes and her laugh, it was as if Hannah was channeling Tia. Either that or my subconscious was feeling guilty.

  Guilt had a firm grip on my heart, making it clench tightly.

  Hannah stopped moving toward the park and whipped around quickly. I darted backward into my house, closing and locking the door behind me.

  Why does this keep happening to me? I wondered as I headed into the kitchen for breakfast. If she pops up again, I will have to just sit her down and tell her I’m not interested.

  After making myself a bacon and egg sandwich and taking a long hot shower, I stretched across my bed in just a pair of basketball shorts. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in almost a year, but the last couple of months had been especially brutal. The more I focused on the past, the better the art became and the less sleep I seemed to get.

  Feeling the exhaustion start to settle on me, I shut my eyes. Less than five minutes later, a pounding on the front door jarred me awake. I contemplated not getting it, but the pounding was insistent and seemed to get louder.

  Grabbing my cell phone, I jogged down the staircase. When I was two steps from the door, I looked at my phone and confirmed what I had thought. No missed calls.

  Swinging the door open forcefully, I glared, preparing to blow up at the person responsible for me not getting sleep before the biggest night of my career.

  “Shave that shit off of your face, Ro. It’s a beautiful Friday morning and we have a big day today,” Bianca greeted me cheerfully as she slipped by me and entered my house uninvited.

  Feeling all of my anger dissipate, I laughed at her comment, closing the door behind her.

  “Do you have any other demands?” I asked as I followed her throaty laugh, finding that she had already made herself comfortable in the living room. Leaning against the doorjamb, I crossed my arms over my bare chest and watched her rifle through a large bag.

  “I do actually,” she responded in a matter-of-fact tone. “Put on a damn shirt! I don’t need to see your perfectly sculpted body minutes after I just ate an unlimited stack of pancakes.” She looked up briefly as she paused her hunt for whatever was in her bag. “I enjoyed every single one of those fluffy, buttery pancakes soaked in maple syrup and I will not let you or your condescending abs make me feel otherwise.”

  I chuckled. “Condescending?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, her smile warming her features. The way the sunlight hit her face was beautiful.

  I should paint all the faces in natural light, I thought suddenly. My eyes roamed over the soft angles of her face and the fullness of her lips as she pursed them.

  Bianca should be one of the twelve that I paint. I wonder if she would be interested. I mean, she’s beautiful.

  I watched her mouth moving quickly as she talked, but I didn’t really hear what she was saying.

  She’s my friend and there’s nothing romantic between us, but I can admit that she’s attractive. And her face is the perfect combination of beauty and expressiveness.

  “. . . absolutely condescending,” she continued, interrupting me from my inspired thoughts. “And completely judgmental. They’re all like ‘oh, look at me, I have ripples and definition’ and you know what, I don’t have time for that bullshit.”

  “I’m not putting on a shirt. I think you like what you see.”

  Closing her eyes, she laughed heartily, covering her mouth with her hand. I always teased her about wanting me because she was one of the few women I’d met in my life that didn’t come on to me in some way, shape, or form. In my entire adult life, she was the only woman that didn’t throw herself at me. She didn’t dress or act differently around me. She didn’t try to be anything other than herself, and she didn’t expect me to be anything other than myself. So naturally, I felt comfortable flirting with her from time to time just for the fun of it.

  My eyes quickly grazed from her jean-clad legs and her fitted white t-shirt to her dark, tightly coiled hair that hung loosely past her shoulders. When her eyes opened, they sparkled. With a shake of her head, she giggled as she went back to digging into her bag. I probably should’ve been offended by how long she laughed, but I wasn’t. It amused me and made me appreciate her that much more.

  “Why are you at my house at nine o’clock in the morning, B?” I asked her pointedly.

  She looked up, amused. “Is it a problem that I’m here?” she challenged, her eyebrow raised. She reclined back on the couch, dropping her bag at her feet. Folding her arms just under her breasts, she glared at me.

  My eyes remained trained on her, but I felt myself smirking. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Would you have answered?”

  I laughed. “Why do we have to do this every time we see each other?”

  She shrugged and smiled. “Why not?”

  I pushed off of the doorjamb and started to walk out of the room. “Goodbye, Bianca.”

  “Okay, okay, okay!” Bi
anca called out, stopping me in my tracks. “I came bearing gifts.”

  Turning around smoothly, I smiled. “Gifts you say?”

  Reaching into her bag, she pulled out three boxes. “Happy Art Showcase Day!” she exclaimed. “And to wish you well, I’ll just say in bocca al lupo!”

  “What?” I asked, walking over and planting myself on the couch beside her. The three boxes sat between us.

  Handing me the first box, she explained, “It means ‘into the mouth of the wolf’. Your response has to be ‘crepi’.”

  “Crepi,” I repeated slowly, skeptically. I felt my eyebrows come together. “What does that mean?”

  She smiled, looking pleased with herself. “It means may the wolf die. I know, I know. When I first heard it, my initial reaction was ‘what the fuck?’ but then I really thought about it and it’s badass. It’s kind of like I’m telling you that you’re about to go into the belly of the beast and you’re responding by saying that you’re going to kill it. You know?”

  I nodded in understanding. “Crepi!” Looking down at the medium sized box, I flipped it in my hands. “What is this?”

  “Open it.”

  I tore the brown wrapping paper open carefully until I saw the entirety of a black leather bound journal with words engraved on the front. “Thank you. This is nice.” I ran my fingertips along the words on the front. “What does it say?”

  “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “I’m presuming it’s Italian.”

  “Yes, it is. It means ‘whoever finds a friend, finds a treasure.’”

  I started to make a joke about our friendship, but when I turned my head and looked at her, I paused.

  Bianca’s face held an animated look of contentment. I could see in her chocolate brown eyes that she was genuinely happy. I hadn’t seen her that happy since she’d gotten the email offering her a chance to go to Italy for eight months. I hadn’t heard her that happy since she’d broken things off with her asshole ex-boyfriend a couple of months ago.