Page 73 of All That We Are Together

“That’s it?” I replied, incredulous.

“This is just the first contact.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Ready?”

I nodded. Then I closed my eyes and tried to force every idea out of my head until all I saw in front of me was a clear sky. I opened them back up. I stretched my hand out toward the palette, got a little blue, and left a small blotch on the sky over that open field Douglas was painting. The uncertainty of that first trace dissipated as the white ceded to more and more blue, and that became the strange satisfaction of inventing something, representing, leaving behind, depositing, spilling out, vomiting up, scattering, expressing, shouting…

“I can see you want that sky to be clear.”

“I like that. I like a clear sky.”

“Me too,” he said. “And do you like this?”

“What? Painting?” I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah.”

“Well, you can do it as often as you like.”

That was silly, I thought. Oliver would probably laugh if he saw me painting like his father. I shrugged with feigned indifference.

“Maybe. Maybe one day,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

Years later, I realized that there are smiles that conceal truths. Lazy afternoons that turn into important memories. Decisive memories etched out when you least expect them. That life’s charm lies in that unpredictable something.

60

Leah

In the car, I looked at Axel as he clutched the wheel. Two days earlier, we had selected the pieces to send, and someone had come to box them up and ship them. Only artists with representation could participate in the fair, and Axel had decided to take me.

“Wasn’t there someone better?” I asked him.

“Don’t you want to go?”

“Yeah, but…I don’t know.”

“You think there’s an ulterior motive behind me choosing you, Leah? Well, you’re wrong. First of all, this was Sam’s decision. She’s the one in charge. Second, it’s time for you to admit it: you’re good. Of all the artists we represent, you’re the one who’s sold the most in her first exhibition. Does that convince you?”

“It does,” she agreed.

“Better.”

Axel turned up the music and said nothing else the rest of the trip. I didn’t feel like thinking too much, so I just looked out the window. In the weeks since the exhibition, I’d been thinking aboutmy future, my expectations, trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life. And I didn’t know. I wanted to paint, but beyond that, everything was blurry. It was as if I’d put myself in Axel’s hands, but without knowing for sure whether the road he was taking me down was the right one, or whether it was okay just to close my eyes and follow him without worrying.

The art fair took place in a giant building with many rooms. When we went inside, they gave us ID badges and told us our space was on the second floor to the right. My pieces were already hanging up when I got there. Even if there was only space for five, Axel had said, it was worth it, that this was a way I could get my name out there. The place smelled of disinfectant, and the smooth walls were a little impersonal, but at least it was open and airy.

Axel adjusted his collar. He had gotten dressed up. I wasn’t used to seeing him like that, freshly shaved, in long pants and a tailored shirt. He was so sexy that in a moment of weakness, I could think of nothing but him. As if he permeated everything, even me.

I tried to shrug that feeling off and asked him why he was being so quiet. I preferred the funny Axel to this hushed and pensive one. Something about him seemed to have changed since the exhibition.

“I didn’t get much sleep.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and the day crept by slowly.

If Axel had been the same unworried guy as always, the calm one, the unfiltered one, the one who made me laugh even when Iwas angry with him, the minutes might not have stretched on like hours. But he lingered to one side every time someone came over to ask about the pieces, almost as if he didn’t want to get involved. At least until we sold one of the pictures to a couple, and he had to take care of the details.