by Lily Summers
“My job is destroying my life,” she says, hand draped across her forehead.
I watch the popcorn bag start to puff up as it spins. “Why not quit? You could always do that yoga teacher training that you were talking about last week,” I say.
“Never.” She sits bolt upright to look at me over the back of the couch. “My job is my life.”
“You just said it was destroying your life.”
The sound of kernels popping slows as the microwave beeps to let me know it’s done cooking. I leave it for a moment, waiting for the last stragglers to explode.
“Destroying my social life, more accurately.” Audrey comes to the kitchen as I dump the popcorn into a bowl and set it between us to share. Moodily, she crunches down on a fistful. “How’s your social life lately, Mia?” she asks with a full mouth.
“Lively as a graveyard.” I pick at a few pieces of my own.
She snorts. “That’s cute. You’re cute. And funny. Which is why I worry about you.”
I don’t like the turn this conversation is taking. I leave the popcorn in Audrey’s very capable hands and turn to the sink for some space. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I say, reaching for a dirty mug to clean. Usually she leaves me alone if I’m cleaning something.
But no such luck. Audrey hops up to sit on the counter beside me and gives me a stern look. Not so easily deterred tonight, I guess.
“You never go out,” she says. “Not anywhere fun, anyway. I watch you go straight to work and come straight home to lock yourself in your room. We’re barely into our twenties, Mia. This is the point in our lives when we’re supposed to be out howling at the moon. It depresses me to watch you fade away, little flower.”
She pinches my cheek as she calls me “little flower” and I swat her hand away with a soapy sponge.
“I go out,” I find myself arguing. “I went to the old-timey cinema down the street last month to see Casablanca.” I rinse the mug out and set it on the drying rack.
“By yourself,” she points out. “You didn’t even ask me to come.”
“You were working.”
“You could still ask. Come on.” She takes the sponge from me and throws it back in the sink. “Ultimatum: we’re going out tonight. Anywhere you want, but you can’t stay here.”
I sigh and drop my head to my chest. There’s nothing I’d rather do than go draw in my room until three in the morning and then pass out in bed like I usually do. But Audrey has that determined look in her eye and I know she’s not going to back down. She chooses these manic-energy projects carefully, but once she’s latched onto something, she stands her ground until the other person relents. The last time she had this look, we ended up reorganizing the entire apartment according to a Feng Shui manual she found online.
I guess I’m going out tonight.
I throw out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I actually did get invited to a party today.”
Her face lights up and I immediately regret mentioning it. I could have played this off much better. I could have suggested a quiet bar, maybe going to a movie, but now I’m about to get dragged to a party. What’s the opposite of a party animal? A houseplant? I’m a houseplant.
It’s not as pathetic as it sounds, I swear.
“You holdout! Who invited you? Where is it?” Audrey asks.
I dig through my bag for the bookmark and hand it to her. “This guy that came into the shop today looking for slam poetry. He’s a… he knows something about art. We got to talking and he gave me that address.”
Audrey looks like she just found out unicorns are real. She’s practically vibrating as she bounces from toe to toe waving the bookmark at me. “It’s this week’s address for The Catacombs!” she squeals.
I give her a blank stare. Last I checked, the Catacombs were in France.
“The Catacombs, Mia!”
“Ohhh.” I smile with fake understanding. “Those Catacombs. Of course.”
She flails her hands and jumps up and down. “It’s a warehouse party, you poor darling nerd. It’s in a different place every week. Always underground, never advertised. Word of mouth only, and you got this week’s address! It’s one of the coolest parties in town. In anywhere. We’re going.”
Oh great. It’s not just a party, but a super exclusive, cool party. I slump against the nearest wall, already exhausted at the thought. I was looking forward to falling asleep on the couch with a random anime on in the background. Living the dream, right?
“I don’t know, Audrey,” I say. “I’m really tired.”
Her face falls and she clasps her hands together. “Oh please, oh please, oh please? I’ve never gotten an invite before, and I know everyone. This may be my only chance to go.”
“Why don’t you go, then? You don’t need me there.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “Because I didn’t get the address. You did. I’m your plus one.”
I lean my head back until it bonks against the wall and let out a breath, listening to Audrey’s constant chorus of “pleasepleasepleaseplease.”
“Fine,” I hear myself say.
I’m enveloped in a very tight hug before she hands the bookmark back to me and dashes off to raid her closet for something colorful and likely inappropriate for tonight’s weather.
I should probably follow suit and change into something a little less bookstore clerk-ish. I can’t believe I’m going to a party where I don’t know anyone.
As I grab my bag to put the bookmark away, I really look at it for the first time. The word CATACOMBS is scrawled across it with an address underneath. Below that, it says EZRA WAS HERE. Then there’s a phone number with a tiny note that says “call if there’s trouble.”
I run my thumb over the E in Ezra.
There could be worse ways to spend the evening, I guess.
4
I can feel the music vibrating in my chest a block before I hear it. Audrey dove deep into her closet to deck me out in something suitable for the party, and I’m wobbling so much in these boots that I might as well be a newborn calf. I tug at my sweater, trying to pull it down over my leggings-clad ass and hoping no one’s walking behind us. I’m so out of my element that I don’t think you could find my atoms on the Periodic Table.
A lanky guy with curly hair and gauges in his ears sips at a bottle of beer as we approach. Audrey gives him her best megawatt smile, but he appears unimpressed as he looks us up and down. I struggle not to roll my eyes.
He scratches his nose. “Fifteen dollar cover,” he says.
Fifteen dollars for entry? Does this dude think we’re made of money? I’m about to ask if there’s a retail worker discount when Audrey digs a few bills out of her clutch and hands them over.
“On me,” she says. The guy takes the money and nods us through.
“You don’t have to —” I start to say.
“It was my idea to come,” she answers, drawing me inside with her. “You can get me a drink.”
The party is on the sublevel of an old cannery, and we descend to the lower level on stairs laced with string lights. I feel like I’m stepping into a modern-day Gatsby party. Everyone here is loaded in cool. They sport body art and eye makeup and ensembles that you’d find on a fashion blogger’s Instagram.
I am way too much of an awkward penguin to go past the foot of the stairs. What am I doing here?
Audrey’s grip on my arm becomes iron as she guides me toward a bar where a girl with six different colors in her ombre hair is shaking a drink so hard I think it must’ve insulted her smartwatch.
While Audrey tries to get the bartender’s attention, I take a look around the space so I’m not uncomfortably twitching next to her. There are lights everywhere, bulbs hanging from wires wound artfully around beams and exposed ductwork. The dance floor looks like it’s made of reclaimed wood, and someone managed to score some wine barrels from a local winery to repurpose as tables scattered throughout the place. In another corner, a girl wri
nkles her nose in concentration as she applies body paint in intricate patterns to a guy’s bicep. The menu above the bar lists cocktails called things like “Mezcal Me Maybe” and “Catch Her In The Rye (Whiskey).”
I’m so overwhelmed that I yelp when Audrey shakes my shoulder to get my attention.
“Easy, slugger. What do you want to drink?” she yells over the music.
I tell her to order me an IPA. She looks slightly disappointed that I’m not getting a cocktail, but I don’t think I could handle eighty percent of the menu. Craft beer is definitely more my speed.
I’m digging through my bag for my wallet when Ezra slips beside me at the bar. He’s beaming, and as his arm brushes mine, I have to suppress a pleasant shiver.
“Told you I’d get you a drink,” he says, then nods to the bartender. “These two on my tab, Liza?”
She nods back and gives him a smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen her crack one since we arrived.
“Thanks so much!” Audrey says, her voice bubbling with cheer. She takes a sip of her drink and adds, “Gonna introduce me to your friend, Mia?”
“Uh.” I look between the two of them and feel like an instant third wheel to their obvious extrovert-fest. “Audrey, this is Ezra. We…just met. Ezra, Audrey. She’s my roommate.”
Ezra takes Audrey’s hand and I focus on the bead-and-hemp bracelet around his wrist so I don’t stare at his smile.
“Nice to meet you,” Ezra says.
Then he lets go of her hand and turns his attention back to me. I’m a little stunned, given the fact that Audrey usually attracts the average guy’s attention for more than a few seconds.
Guess Ezra isn’t the average guy.
“I’m really glad you came,” he says, leaning in closer so he doesn’t have to yell. “There are so many people trying to claw their way up the social ladder here. It’s a breath of fresh air to talk to someone authentic.” I tighten my grip on my bottle, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. He’s just a breath away and the space between us buzzes. God, he even smells incredible, like rain and peppermint and warm leather. “Mind if I steal you for a minute or ten? I need a buffer.”
“A buffer…?” I ask, but he’s already guiding me away from the bar. I turn to send a panicked look at Audrey. She gives me a thumbs-up before turning to chat with the guy next to her.
It becomes immediately clear why Ezra needs a human buffer. Nearly every person we pass wants to say hi, to pull him into a conversation, to ask him a question. I watch as he shares his I’ve-known-you-forever smile with a dozen people, and all of them light up like the sun.
We’re walking through a hipster minefield and he’s dodging people left and right with “I’ll catch up with you later” and “Can’t this time, but save a dance for me” and “Drinks next week, yeah?”
Finally we make it to a far wall where a huge piece of particleboard has been propped up. The window above it is open, letting air in. My eyes fall to a sheet on the floor where spray paint has been set out, and I realize where this is going.
Ezra releases my hand and I’m sad to see it fall.
“I thought you might enjoy watching this,” he says. Then he’s off, stooping to pick up a can and shaking it.
The first hiss and streak of paint appears on the board. Right away an image takes shape. A couple of people gather to watch, and before I know it I’m part of a crowd. Ezra moves smoothly, trading one color for another and often painting with both hands at once. The acrid smell of paint surrounds us, but the open window keeps it from getting too toxic.
It’s incredible, watching Ezra work. He’s painting a crowd that twists and moves beneath an open sky, stars and a silver moon shining down on them. They’re dancing to unseen music, their arms in the air and their hair swirling around their heads. No one in the painting is immediately recognizable, but it’s pretty obvious they are straight from this party. There are tattoos, dyed hair, designer clothes made to look like thrift store finds, and anything else you’d find in the dictionary under “hipster.” If not for the open sky above them, the painting could be a mirror.
But there’s something incomplete about it that I can’t put my finger on. It’s stunning work, and Ezra creates it with a skilled hand, but it’s not like the woman on the wall by the bookshop. She had a soul breathed into her. She lived and loved and had sorrow in her eyes. These people only exist.
I swallow around the lump that’s rising in my throat, glancing sideways at Ezra to gage his reaction. I know what it’s like to have a piece fall flat in your hands. A crease appears in his forehead, his jaw tensing as he draws all his focus into the piece’s final details.
He’s trying to make it come alive. He adds a few shadows and tweaks the expression on one of the subject’s faces. The adjustments add depth, definitely, but not that true magic.
Ezra finishes his painting with a flourish and turns back to the crowd. Applause breaks out around me, and that glimpse of frustration I spotted in his eyes melts away. Ezra hooks a finger in his pocket, inclining his head in a casual, cocky bow. The crowd surges forward, clapping him on the back and flooding him with compliments.
Did I just imagine his dissatisfaction? I look at the painting again, at the movement of the subjects’ feet and the night sky stretching above them. There’s no doubt about Ezra’s talent. Maybe I’m just biased. I fell in love with the woman outside the bookstore and can’t open my heart to anything else.
I feel myself being pushed farther back, as others elbow their way closer to him to offer their praise. Ezra takes flight under the attention. His eyes light up as he juggles three conversations at once, joking with a couple to his left while simultaneously listening to a fan analyze the painting’s color scheme. A stunning girl with zig-zag patterns braided into her hair runs her fingers down Ezra’s arm and whispers something in his ear.
My feet are shuffling me backward through the thick of the crowd and I let them. The last party I was at ended badly, and already I can feel myself going numb. I drain my beer and try to find Audrey. I’m not sure why I thought this would be okay.
I don’t belong here.
Before I make it far, I feel a hand on my arm. I know what I’ll find when I turn, and sure enough, Ezra’s warm brown eyes meet mine. His skin is glistening with sweat and he is absolutely alight with life, like all these people put him at ease. His shoulders are relaxed, his smile confident. So unlike me.
“Thought I’d lost you,” he says. “What do you think?” His fans behind him look put out, and I wonder if he brushed them off to come after me. They probably think I’m a charity project.
I tear my gaze away from him to glance back at the painting again. “It’s good,” I say, pulling on a smile.
“But…”
“But what?” I ask a little too quickly.
Ezra laughs. “I’m asking you, Mia. You said it’s good, and you implied a but. Believe me, I know a but when I see one.”
The party around us shifts, the crowd surging as the base drops on a deafening EDM remix. We stumble closer together so that I can feel his body heat warming me. Well, I stumble. Ezra looks cool as a cucumber, like usual.
“I am asking you because I want to know,” Ezra says softly. “You’re an artist and I care what you think. Lay it on me.”
“Well.” I try to clear a frog that’s suddenly decided to take up residence in my throat. “In terms of technique, it’s all there. The balance of the piece is beautiful, and the colors weave together in a way that’s really fascinating.”
“But…” Ezra leads for me, cocking a brow playfully.
“But it doesn’t have that magic,” I say. “That spark, that… I don’t even know what to call it. That thing that makes the portrait of the woman outside the bookstore so special. She’s alive. She’s in pain, but there’s this glint there. Of hope. Of wonder with the world. It’s alive in her eyes. I feel like I know her.”
Ezra is quiet for a second and I worry that I’ve offended him. His eye
s flick downwards to his hands, his fingers colored with the dyes of his paints. The stains match mine. From a dance floor in another room, a cheer erupts. The noise is distant, but enough to snap him out of his reverie. “You’re right,” Ezra finally says. He looks back up and I search his gaze for anger or embarrassment about what I said. I see none. “I couldn’t bring it out in the end. I was trying to add more to discover a thread that would pull it all together. But the crowd was cheering and ready for it to be done. I don’t know if I even could have found that thread if I wanted to. The piece may have been doomed from the start.”
A pair of hipsters holding a dozen tequila shots brush by me, knocking my shoulder. I inch closer to Ezra to give them more space to pass. At least that’s why I tell myself I’m inching closer. “I’m not saying it’s bad,” I insist. “I think it’s really good.”
“Of course it is,” he agrees with an infuriatingly cute wink. “But you’re right. It’s a spectacle. It’s a crowd pleaser. The pieces I make for these warehouse gigs usually are.”
That piques my curiosity. “You do this often?”
“Pretty often, yeah. I guess that’s why I can’t find that spark here. It’s different from a piece you do in private to express yourself.”
I think of the woman on the wall and imagine the beauty and sadness and iron hope of the soul that created her. “I can only guess,” I say.
“You don’t have to guess.” Ezra brushes the side of my cheek with a finger. I shiver, the lightness of his touch awaking a hunger in me. “You know first hand. You can only show your soul to so many people.”
We stand, suspended together. I’m breathless in his gaze, at being seen so completely. After a beat, Ezra gestures down to my empty beer bottle. “Can I get you another drink? There are some people I wanted to introduce you to.”
Then he’s leading me by the hand again and we’re winding through clusters of people to the bar. We spot Audrey chatting up a new guy, who must be mega boring, because she all too easily ditches him to meet us.
“Where’d you two go off to?” She waggles her eyebrows at me and I narrow my eyes at her.
