by Danika Stone
“Shit,” Cole murmured. He didn’t know what to say.
Oliver took several slow breaths. He shook his head, staring out over the snowy cityscape, lips quivering.
“It, um… it left Ava with a lot of anger. More than just,” he turned back to Cole, gesturing to his cheek, “what a couple of fights would suggest.”
“God,” Cole muttered, “that must had been terrible for you... for you both.”
Oliver nodded, putting the cigarette to his lips, breathing it in, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, it was... but I made a choice to change it, and when I saw how deep the scars went inside her, I made a choice to help her get past them. Ava and me… we worked at it for a long time. Both of us.” Oliver cleared his throat, his eyes moving to Cole, pinning him down. “You been to counselling about your family issues yet?”
“N- not yet,” Cole admitted, suddenly embarrassed. He’d mentioned it to Ava at his parents’ place, but he hadn’t even said anything to his father about it.
“You should,” Oliver said with a wry smile. “You’d be surprised how helpful it can be. Really shows you how everyone is human. And that’s what this whole crazy experience,” he swung his hand, “is all about.”
Cole stared out into the early morning lavender bars of the city above the skeletal trees, the golden light rising up into the sky, the variegated blues of the shadowy snow. He was overwhelmed by the admissions which they had traded here on the metal-grated step.
“After New Year’s,” Cole said quietly, “Ava and I are going to start visiting my family more often. My stepmom wants me and my dad to work out some of our issues.” He winced, the thought looming. “Ava suggested that my dad and I go get some help dealing with… things.”
Cole glanced up to see Oliver grinning, the cigarette angled jauntily in the corner of his mouth.
“Then do it,” he said. “Do it for yourself... not for your father, not for Ava.”
Cole nodded.
“Just work on myself. My issues,” he repeated, his eyebrows knitting together. Things were making more sense today than they had in a long time. No obligations... just opportunities.
“You can’t force people to do what you want,” Oliver added, “and I can’t promise she’ll never leave you... but you need to make your own choices, Cole, so that Ava can make hers.” He sighed, crushing the cigarette butt out against the bottom of his shoe, then adding it to the growing pile in the coffee can. “Nothing’s predestined. Absolutely nothing. Believe me when I say I know that from experience.” He ran his hands through his messy hair, linking his fingers behind his neck and stretching his back with a loud pop. “Now,” he said happily, “let’s go pick up Ava, shall we?”
Cole glanced around in concern.
“You think she’ll be okay if I show up?”
Oliver grinned, brushing ashes and snow from his clothes as he stood up from the step.
“If there’s one thing I know about my daughter, it’s that she’s got a hell of a temper, but if you can leave her alone long enough to deal with it... deal with it in her own way... then she’s usually pretty reasonable. Besides which,” he added with a wink. “You’re coming as my guest.”
Chapter 42: The Morning After
Ava stood at the canvas, paintbrush in hand, absorbing the impact of the image she’d just created. Hatred and shame and the blue-white heat of fury howled in the brushstrokes. Blood and pain in every smear of pigment. Ava lowered the brush, shaking, to her side, drawing it in…
Her rage made manifest.
She’d stormed into the studio minutes after the fight with Cole, messily power-stapling a rectangle of fabric to the wall. No framed canvas and no time to make one. The painting wasn’t primed, leaking in places like Frankenthaler’s work which Ava abhorred. But it was fitting in this case... like tears or blood... seeping into oblivion. The torn edges of the fabric hung raggedly, like tattered sails, paint smearing the edges and marring the wall beyond. The image itself was formed out of layered colours and scribbled text. Most words were nearly illegible; some of them were still half visible: Kip Chambers... Cole Thomas… Choices... Need to get away from them both... Price of freedom... Always running... Away… away… away…
In the centre of the painting loomed Ava herself. She wore a grey cloak that billowed out on both sides, hooding her face in the deep cowl. Bright sunlight cast her features into deep purple shadows. Behind her was a swirl of text and colour. She dominated the foreground, running toward the viewer, one hand at her throat, the other pressed against her mouth. She didn’t know how, but she was certain that some kind of decision had been made. That she’d chosen. Ava knew (though she hadn’t painted it in) that Cole was the one she was leaving behind.
‘The fight just made it easier…’
Ava dropped the brush into the tin can with a clatter. She did a slow turn, taking in the hard angles and messy canvases that formed her studio space. The room was drenched in the mid-morning sunlight, and Ava belatedly realized that she’d painted the entire night away. Her father would be here soon. For the first time in hours, the corners of her lips turned up instead of down and she let out a relieved sigh.
She wasn’t happy… but she was settled. The darkness of her soul was expunged.
Ava wasn’t sure how Oliver did it, but her father always seemed to know when she needed him the most. Exhausted now that her anger was obliterated, she headed to the backroom to clean up in the sink. A few minutes later, she was back in the studio, trying ineffectively to lift paint smears out of her good jeans and shirt with a turpentine-soaked rag. She’d destroyed the outfit in her haste to paint out her anger.
“Goddamnit!”
The cell phone rang from its perch on the couch’s arm, and Ava’s eyes flicked over suspiciously. Ava grabbed it, checked the caller-I.D. Though she’d dealt with her own demons, she wasn’t sure she was ready to deal with Cole’s yet.
It was her father. Dropping the rag, she flicked her phone on and put it to her ear, careful not to tangle it with her earring.
“Hey Dad...” Ava said tiredly, “I was wondering if you’d forgotten about me.”
There was a chuckle on the other end.
“Nah... just needed to make sure you had a chance to do your work.”
Ava eyed the wet canvas. Paint dripped down the woman’s face – ‘my face…’ – making it tear-ravaged as well as furious. Ava’s father called it ‘work,’ but it really amounted to her emotions, uncontrolled and unbridled. These paintings were the explosive moments that took her to unwanted places. The ones where she didn’t fucking CARE what the consequences were.
The ones where she was most like Shay Brooks.
“You all finished?” her father prompted.
Ava shivered, walking away from the paint-smeared wall to the snowy window. From this height she could see rooftops wearing a heavy white hat of newly fallen snow. In the distance, the frost-shrouded trees marked the horizon like sentinels. Everything bright and new.
“Maybe,” she muttered. “I suppose it’s as done as it’s gonna get.”
She turned back, facing the wall. From this angle, the blobs of hue and bright pigment became something else. Up close, the background appeared indistinct and hazy, but from this perspective, she could make out a larger scene in the layered words and splashes of colour.
Ava blinked in surprise. She didn’t remember painting that.
Light and dark bands hinted at buildings and trees. It was an exterior space, she realized, but stranger than that was that things were happening behind the woman in cloak: two figures tangled together. People staring. Inquisitive eyes. Hateful glares. A shiver of fear ran up her spine. Much as she’d intended the woman to be the central point, there were other things going on in this painting. It wasn’t entirely clear, but there was definitely a narrative underneath. She took a step closer and froze.
There were two men caught mid-fight in the background, blood smearing their faces, knuckles torn to s
hreds.
‘That’s Cole and Kip!’
“So um… Dad,” she said warily, “d’you want to come up and see the painting? I want to talk to you about something in it.”
She wanted him to see this, needed his advice. There was a pause before he answered.
“Not right now...” he said lightly. “Let’s eat first – I bet you’re pretty hungry by now.”
Ava groaned.
“You do realize I was out partying for New Year’s right? Has it been that long since you were young?”
“Yeah, well, I never overindulged back in my day,” her father answered, laughing. “But you can always have coffee.” His voice changed, humour blending into parental concern. “Your stomach doing okay, Kiddo?”
Ava ran her free hand over her abdomen. She was queasy, but it was nothing that a few cups of coffee couldn’t manage.
“It’s fine actually. I grabbed a couple of water bottles from Chim’s fridge last night and drank as I painted. I’m not feeling great, but I’m okay.”
“Smart girl,” he said fondly and Ava smiled at the absent praise. “So you coming on down or do I have to come drag you out here?”
She took one last glance at the makeshift canvas on the wall. ‘Don’t like this one.’ But her reaction paintings were never about ‘pretty,’ they were about the expression of anger... and this one was no different. Shrugging on her leather coat, Ava padded downstairs to unlock the door, stepping into the snow-reflected sunshine. Her father was there next to the brick wall. He dropped a cigarette, crushing it out under his heel as he moved in to hug her. She stumbled to a stop in his arms.
Cole stood beside him, hands in pockets, eyes downcast.
: : : : : : : : : :
They were at the coffee shop where Ava and her father went once or twice a week during the months he was back at home. It had been their tradition as far back as she could remember... starting around the time that her parents had divorced. Ava and Ollie were regulars here, and Pete, the owner, immediately sat them in a sun-drenched booth overlooking the street. He chattered to Oliver about his son who was in an audio technician program at the local college, getting opinions on which audio software and digital mixer to buy.
Ava noticed that, except for the Christmas decorations, pretty much everything was the same as the summer before, when her father had left on tour. That was the last time she’d been in. It was an old 1950’s diner: red vinyl benches and melamine tabletops with chrome edges. Bright and happy. Comforting. Pete wandered away, scribbling notes on the backside of an order pad, just as Oliver took his side of the booth. He reached out for Cole and Ava’s coats.
“I’ll take those,” he said with a grin, “lots of room here on my side.”
He nodded toward the bench seat across from him, leaving Ava scowling. She didn’t want to play his game.
“I’m fine,” she snarled, “I’ll just keep mine.”
Beside her, Cole tugged off his wool jacket and passed it over. His knuckles were red and swollen, though not torn up like the other time he’d fought. He wore the same clothes as last night. Coat off, he stepped back, waiting for her to take her place inside the booth, close but not touching her. Ava sighed and slid across the plastic seat, sitting in sullen silence, letting her eyes close under the warm sunshine
The bench dipped slightly as Cole shifted, and she peeked at him beneath narrowed lids. He was sitting as far away from her as he possibly could. (‘One butt-cheek’s got to be off that seat…’ her mind announced in dark humour.) Ava looked up and caught her father’s eyes, an amused smile on his lips. She frowned, turning back to the window.
‘Not fucking funny!’ her mind hissed. ‘If you’re so damned good at reading people, read THAT.’
“Here, Cole,” Oliver said in a falsely bright voice, handing out the menus, “the omelets are really good, if you like eggs. Pancakes are the way to go otherwise.”
“Thanks,” Cole said quietly, his gaze dropping to the menu.
“Ava?” her father asked, pushing the menu toward her.
She glared at him as she took it from his hands. Oliver didn’t let go for a half-second and she held his eyes. Her father wasn’t upset, but the light good-humour was gone. He was trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t tell what it was. She was too angry to figure it out. She tugged the menu away, slouching lower, her foul mood rising once more.
This wasn’t the first time her father had dragged someone along to breakfast against Ava’s will. She and Chim had been best friends in high school, and they’d had their fair share of fights. Ava hadn't had a good reign on her own anger yet and they’d clashed on a regular basis. At the time, she’d assumed it was because it was Chim... not because her father just did that sort of thing.
Turned out she’d been wrong.
She wondered how much her father knew about last night's events, because Ava wasn’t completely innocent. With a sigh, she scanned the menu and then closed it up, dropping it on the table. She crossed her arms, waiting.
“You know I think they’ve changed the breakfast special...” her father murmured. “Used to just have two eggs and two strips of bacon. Now they’ve added a choice of ham or sausage.”
Ava huffed in annoyance.
“It’s always been like that.”
Her father looked up, beaming.
“You sure, Ava? You looked?”
She gritted her teeth.
“Yes.”
“Really,” he said with a chuckle, “ ‘cause I thought that it’d changed since the summer...”
She shook her head in exasperation. She flipped her menu open and spun it around to him.
“Look,” she demanded. “I’m pretty sure this menu’s the exact same one they had when we first came here, like, fifteen years ago.”
Her father leaned in, as if just now noticing the faded colours of the menu and the whited-out numbers, reflecting the passage of time.
“Ah... so it is, so it is...” he said, nodding sagely.
In this fashion, breakfast continued.
Oliver made random small talk, forcing Cole and Ava to participate, however minimally they seemed capable or willing. By everyone's fourth cup of coffee, the tension started to dissolve under his persistence. Ava glanced at Cole and caught him looking at her... longing in his eyes. She dropped his gaze, turning back to the window. Her father started in about the weather, seeming content to discuss the snow for hours. But Ava was distracted... that spark with Cole was there, and now the slight distance between them felt like more than it should. His thigh was just inches from her own, the space impossibly far.
She was torn, unsure how to breach the gap. She felt guilty for her part in the fight. (Guilt was always the second course to Ava’s anger.) Problem was, she wasn’t sure how to say sorry. Before she could do anything, the waitress came by with the receipt, and Oliver took it before anyone else could offer. He grinned as he stood up, pulling on his jacket, bill in hand. Beside Ava, Cole scrambled for his wallet.
“Please, Oliver, let me pay half...” he insisted.
“Nah,” he answered with a wink, “keep it so you two can grab a cab. I want to talk to Pete here about some tech work that I need done for the new album. His son might be able to help me out.”
Ava sighed, fighting the annoyance that she got whenever her father spun a situation the way he wanted to... and the small jump of excitement she got when there was a chance of spending time with Cole. She looked up to discover her father watching her, face unreadable.
“You okay, Kiddo?”
His voice was quiet, but he wasn’t joking any longer. He’d stay if she wanted him to. And with that, she was. Ava gave him a wan smile.
“Better and better.”
Her father’s good humour returned like a beam of sunlight. He buttoned his jacket up to his throat, nodding toward Cole.
“You might want to take Cole over to your studio. Show him what you were working on last night.” Oliver peered at him.
“Show him how you get those emotions out when they get too strong to handle.”
Ava swallowed hard, not sure she wanted to share this painting with anyone else... least of all, Cole.
“I’d love to see it,” he said, turning to look at her. His face, bruised and bleary-eyed, was earnest, and the last bit of Ava’s indignation buckled under his gaze. She took a shaky breath.
“It’s messed-up… dark. You’re not gonna like it, Cole.”
He shrugged.
“I don’t have much use for pretty artwork.” He winked. “Donatello’s David and all that.”
Ava giggled despite herself. For a moment she remembered the day in the hallway, the first time he’d touched her hand and all of this had begun. So much had passed since.
“Yeah... me too,” she muttered, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Pretty’s overrated, if you ask me.”
Cole nodded.
“Exactly. Real is better.” His face was sincere, the words warming her.
Ava smiled. She reached out and lay her hand next to his on the bench, the edge of her fingers brushing his jeans. It was a small gesture but a step halfway to him.
After the briefest hesitation, his hand settled overtop of hers.
“I’d like to see it, Ava, no matter how dark... how angry.” The groove between his eyebrows deepened and he measured his words, the pain visible. “I get that, you know?”
“I know you do,” she whispered, throat thick.
She turned, wanting to say goodbye to her father, but she discovered he’d already gone. Sometime in the last few minutes, Ollie had wandered to the till. He was chatting happily with the owner, leaving the two of them alone.
Chapter 43: Bright Light of Morning
