by Dori Lavelle
“Past tense. I used to be afraid of heights. I don’t know if that’s true anymore.” I put Emile on speaker and pull my hair into a ponytail. “Well, I was afraid at first. But he was so nice, Emile. He made me feel safe, even though he admitted that he was also afraid of heights, which is not surprising given that he fell off a balcony.”
“So, you both let go of your fears and enjoyed the ride.” Emile sighs. “How romantic. I wish I had someone who would do things like that for me.”
“Hey, you have Jude. He does romantic things for you.”
“Yeah, but most of our dates are spent with other people. I’d love to go on a holiday where his friends aren’t present.” She groans. “So how was it to be up in the sky?”
“It’s an incredible feeling watching the world below. Since we were there early, we got to watch the sunrise. And Lance brought a breakfast picnic basket.”
“He sounds like a keeper, Alice. It’s so cool that he doesn’t punish you for what your sister did to him. How do you feel about him now? Do you sense some kind of connection?”
“I thought there was a connection, but then on the way back I told him I’d love to see his paintings. After that he shut me out.”
“You guys aren’t talking?”
“We are now, but hours after we got home, he stayed in his room. He only came down to talk to me about forty minutes ago.”
“Maybe he’s uncomfortable with people seeing his paintings. Some artists are weird like that.”
“That’s what I thought at first. But when he came down, he told me we’re going to see his paintings today at an art gallery.”
“I guess you were wrong, then.”
“I don’t know.” I reach for the glass of lemonade I’d brought upstairs with me and take a sip. “I was excited when he told me that, but I’m not sure I want to go anymore.”
“Alice, you’ve been crazy about that guy for years. He’s working through a lot of issues. I think you should give him a chance and see what happens. Follow his lead.” She pauses. “If it doesn’t work out, so what? Let your hair down for once and have a little fun for the first time in your life.
“At least I’ll be able to keep the memories, right?”
“Exactly.”
By the time I’m ready to leave the house, Lance is already waiting in the car. I greet the driver and get in next to Lance.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“Thank you.” My cheeks heat up.
“But allow me to do this.” He stretches out a hand and it disappears behind my neck. I feel a tug as he slides the elastic band from around my hair. My locks explode all over my shoulders in wild—still damp—curls.
“You have gorgeous hair, no need to tame it.”
“Thank you.” I turn to look out my window to hide my burning cheeks.
We don’t talk much during the ride, which I don’t mind because there doesn’t seem to be tension between us. I use the time to daydream about how a life with Lance would look like.
We finally arrive at the Azul Art Gallery. I’m surprised to find it empty, but for a handful of people who look like they work here. A man with thick eyebrows and a bright blue tie meets us at the door. He hugs Lance and shakes my hand.
As he ushers us into the cool interior of the gallery, he discusses something in Spanish with Lance, probably something to do with the business of art.
Someone appears from nowhere with a tray of drinks. At first, I reach for a glass of white wine then change my mind and take a water instead. Lance is a recovering alcoholic. It would be insensitive of me to drink alcohol in his presence so soon after he left rehab. Lance doesn’t take a drink.
As expected of an art gallery with the name blue, the white walls are decorated with abstract paintings in various shades of blue, ranging from moonstone and hyacinth to robin’s egg and electric blue. Worry snakes through me.
As much as I wanted to see Lance’s paintings, I’ve never been the kind of person who appreciates abstract art. I didn’t even know he did abstract paintings. What would I say if he wants to discuss them? Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea after all.
The man with the blue tie takes us to a large rectangular room with more abstract paintings on the walls. I spot Lance’s name written at the bottom left corner of several of the paintings. As I continue to study them, I see they all have his name. This room must be dedicated to his own work.
“Alice, I hope you’re hungry,” Lance says as I notice a round table standing at one end of the room. It’s covered in a white tablecloth that spills to the floor in folds. Silverware and glassware gleam from the surface.
I bend to whisper in Lance’s ear. “We’re eating here?”
“That’s the plan. I did mention that we’ll combine this visit with lunch.”
“You did. I just thought—”
“Stop thinking and let’s go eat.”
I follow him and the man in the blue tie to the table. The man pulls out a chair for me and I sink into it, feeling like a princess. He nods at both of us and steps away to exchange words with one of his colleagues.
I inch my chair closer to the table. “Why is no one here?”
“Because I reserved the gallery for us.” He shakes out his napkin. “They’ll open the doors again once we leave. For now, it’s just you, me, good food, and beautiful paintings.”
He does a quick wave and the food starts to arrive.
Here I was thinking the hot air balloon was romantic. Reserving an art gallery so we can have lunch inside it is just as romantic. It’s getting harder and harder not to think of spending time together as dates, but I’ll follow his advice. I’ll stop thinking and go with the flow, wherever that will take me.
During our meal of delicious Thai steamed mussels, grilled fish steaks with rice, and broiled lobster tails with salad, Lance glances at his paintings and then back at me.
“Do you have any thoughts or questions about the paintings?”
I take a long sip of water as I scramble for something to say. “I didn’t really get to see them properly.”
He nods. “I can explain them all to you later, if you like. But what’s your first impression?”
I place a hand on my chest. “Truth or lie?”
He smiles for the first time in several hours. “Truth.”
I wet my dry lips. “The truth is, I’ve never been into abstract art. It confuses me.” My gaze takes in the individual walls. “I do love the idea of different shades of blue. Other than that, I’m sorry, but I don’t think my imagination is advanced enough to allow me to create meaning from the abstract.”
“Is that a polite way to say you hate my paintings?”
I have no way of knowing if he’s joking because he has the best poker face. Better to play it safe.
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about abstract art in general. I know there are many die-hard fans out there. I’m not one of them. I applaud anyone who can be patient enough to create an image from a myriad of colors, lines, textures, and patterns. I’m not quite there yet.”
“I see.” He averts his gaze.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.” I chew a corner of my bottom lip. “You asked for the truth. And I suck at lying anyway.”
“I have to admit, I never expected you to be so passionate about hating my abstract paintings. I’m not sure there’s much of a future for us as friends.” He studies me for a moment, then a grin splits his face. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m joking.” He leans back. “That’s the thing about abstract art; it’s open to interpretation. It forces people to interact with a painting at a deeper level. I create abstract work when I can’t interpret the images inside my head. Of course, there are times when I create clear images that would be understood by any art lover. I have several of those in other galleries. But when words fail me, I allow my hands to do the talking in a language I, myself, might not even understand.”
My shoulders sink with relief. “Thanks for
understanding. Tell me, which of the paintings here is your favorite?”
“None.” He leans forward with a secret smirk. “I absolutely hate them all.”
“I’m confused.”
“The thing is, lately it doesn’t matter what I paint, people still buy my work. They see something I don’t see. They see beauty where I see darkness. All the paintings here were painted during difficult times in my life. They all came from a painful place in my soul.”
I dip a spoon into my dark and white chocolate mousse. “I’m sorry I asked you to come here.”
“You didn’t ask me to come. You wanted to see my paintings, and I decided to accompany you. And since all these paintings are so boring, I figured lunch might be more entertaining. But they do a great job of decorating the walls, don’t you think?” His low, throaty laughter turns my insides to liquid.
“They definitely do. And I really do like the different shades of blue. It’s refreshing to watch.”
“As long as they don’t make you feel blue, that’s fine.”
“Absolutely not.”
We finish our dessert while he goes deeper into the concept of abstract art, how his artwork has evolved over the years, and about how he taught himself to paint with no formal education.
I tell him a bit about my childhood and surprise myself by admitting it was a struggle to live in my sister’s shadow. That I’ve always felt second best to our parents, that my fears were confirmed when they distanced themselves from me after Audrey’s death.
He listens attentively without comment and then offers to give me a tour of the gallery, which includes stopping by each of his paintings, describing them in his own words.
Exactly one hour after we arrived at the Azul Gallery, we leave.
“Alice Dupuis,” he says once we’re in the car, “what do you normally like to do for fun?”
“I read a lot. And once a month my best friend Emile and I go bowling—at least once a month.”
“What else?”
“We go to the movies, dancing. Shop for vintage furniture.” I lift my shoulders in a half shrug. “We do normal things.”
“I see. In that case, I have an idea. How about we go bowling tonight? I’d love to see your skills. There’s an international bowling alley not too far from my place. I’ll give them a call.”
18
Lance
The main motivation for inviting Alice bowling is because I crave to see her in her own element. Taking her to the gallery had been less painful than I thought it would be. I had no reason to dread it at all. I’m really enjoying spending time with her, and even though I’ve never bowled from a wheelchair, I’m looking forward to watching her do one of the activities I used to enjoy as a child.
But the moment we enter the bowling alley, my excitement plummets. Instead of filling me with excitement, the sounds of balls hitting pins, people cheering, music blaring, and children shouting cause a panicked feeling to erupt within me. Suddenly, I’m transported back to how it used to be, to the days when my brothers and I, wearing ugly bowling shoes, took turns sending balls crashing into pins, while we cheered, joked, and laughed. That was all before fate got in the way.
Maybe it was a mistake coming here. Maybe I’ll never be ready to be in certain places again.
My skin prickles as I feel Alice’s eyes on me, as she waits for the woman behind the counter to finish spraying shoes with deodorant so she can attend to us.
When our eyes meet, she says something to me, but it’s too loud for me to hear the words. I read them from her lips instead.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, but she bends down to whisper in my ear. “Should we get out of here?”
“We’re not going anywhere.” I force a smile. “You’re not getting out of this easily, lady. I want to see those skills of yours.”
A few minutes later, Alice and Juan are carrying balls and shoes and we’re headed to our reserved bowling area. Although the bowling alley is adapted to wheelchair users, and I came here intending to participate, I changed my mind at the last minute. Watching will be a big step in itself.
I sit back and watch Alice and Juan playing, but it’s obvious she’s not enjoying herself. She’s trying, but failing miserably. Her eyes keep drifting back to my face every few minutes, her expression clouded.
The entire time, the fake smile doesn’t leave my face. It’s especially hard to keep up the act when everybody is staring and pointing at me, and I have no idea whether it’s because I’m a LaClaire or because I’m wheelchair-bound. Whatever it is, it makes me feel uncomfortable.
I would give anything to be out of here, but the last thing I want to do is let Alice down.
“Lance, are you sure we shouldn’t get out of here?” My mind must have been so far away that I didn’t notice Alice coming to stand before me.
I shake my head. “No way. I’m having fun. Go and have fun. Kick Juan’s ass.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she returns to Juan and they continue to play. Every time she looks at me, my smile stretches tighter on my face. After they play for fifteen minutes, I order us some drinks and they take a break. Alice is leading, and she looks like she’s starting to enjoy herself.
My pain is a small price to pay. Just as they’re about to return to the game, three guys in their mid-twenties walk by. One of the men says something to Alice in English with a British accent.
“Hey, lady, couldn’t you find a real man?” His friends shake with laughter, slapping each other’s backs.
“Can he even get it up?” The guy continues. “How about a real dick for your pussy?”
My stomach drops when I catch the horror on Alice’s face. Fire explodes in my belly and pushes itself up my throat. As the men walk away, it boils over.
“Hey, you,” I call after them and they turn to look. I point at the guy who’d made the remarks. I wave him over.
He points at his chest with a thumb and I nod.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
The guy looks at his friends, shrugs, and walks toward me, chest puffed out. I can feel everyone watching, the room expanding with tension.
The driver comes to my side and places a hand on my shoulder.
“Should I do something?” he asks.
I wave him away. “I’ve got this.”
“What’s up, vegetable?” The asshole stands an arm’s length away from me.
I gesture for him to bend so I can speak in his ear. When he does, I curl my right hand into a fist and drive it into his face, enjoying the crunching sound.
He can disrespect me. I’m used to it. But I could not let them get away with disrespecting Alice.
“Fuck.” Groaning, he grabs his nose and stumbles back as the entire place erupts with laughter and cheers. Even his friends are laughing.
“I’m a better man than you’ll ever be.” I ignore the fire in my knuckles. The pain is worth it.
The guy lunges forward, but Juan gets between us to restrain him. He shakes Juan off, jabs a finger in my direction, and slinks off.
Alice’s eyes are glinting with tears as she rushes to my side. “Lance, please, let’s go. I’ve had enough fun, seriously.”
“Fine, let’s get out of here.” I massage my knuckles. Anger still burns in my veins.
“Are you all right?” I ask Alice once we’re settled in the car and she’s staring out the window.
“I should ask you that question.” She turns to face me. A film of tears still clouds her eyes.
“I’ve been better,” I admit, “but this is one of those things I have to deal with sometimes.”
“Some people are so cruel. It’s disgusting.”
“I agree. But unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“You were really brave to stand up for me back there.” She places a hand on mine and I flinch but don’t move away.
“That was nothing. He needed to be taught a lesson.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry the eve
ning went to hell. I promise to make it up to you tomorrow.”
She removes her hand from mine and folds her arms across her chest. “You know what, Lance, you don’t have to put yourself through all this. I’m sorry I said you’re afraid of living. It’s not true. I take it back. You don’t need to prove yourself.”
“That means a lot.” This time I take her hand in mine but change my mind and pull away. I can’t afford to get close to her, not after what happened tonight. “Tomorrow is about you, not me.”
19
Alice
The first rays of sunshine warm the sheer curtains. I sit up in bed, hug my knees to my body and watch the warmth spreading through the room. My mind is occupied with replaying the dream I’d woken from.
I was walking on the beach with Lance by my side. His wheelchair was gone and his legs functioned perfectly. The dream was so vivid that when I close my eyes now, I can still see him chasing me on the edge of the water, encircling me with his strong arms. I can see him running into the ocean with me over his shoulder, me kicking and giggling. When the cool water engulfs us, he peels off my bikini and makes love to me while the waves crash over us.
Outside the dream, I can still feel his hard body over mine, the sensation of him pushing into me, his whispers in my ear, his laughter. He was so happy, so different. So was I.
After half an hour, the dream starts to drift from my mind, and sadness fills my soul. Before coming to Cabo, seeing Lance again, what I felt for him was an infatuation.
After getting to know him, I’ve well and truly fallen in love with the man. Even more so after he threw a punch for me last night. No man has ever stood up for me before.
Being in love with him is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. I know I want him in my life for longer than a few days, but the dream bothers me. What did it mean? Is my subconscious mind trying to tell me that I don’t really accept Lance’s condition? Why else would I dream of him walking? Why not dream of him just the way he is, in a wheelchair?
