My car had just settled into the mall parking lot when my phone rang. Jeffrey sounded surprised when I answered, his voice folding my name into a short, pleased syllable: "Jess!"
It was his sixth call of the week, and I'd sent the other five straight to voicemail. Talking to him made me feel like I was swallowing my tongue. I answered, trying to match the cheer in his tone: "Jeffrey!" I couldn't quite manage it. It came out bitter, irritated. It was obvious that I wanted to say, What do you want?
"I just wanted to check in. See how you're doing."
"I'm fine."
"Have you been painting?"
"Yes." I needed my voice to sound light, happy, like I was making a new masterpiece every day. Then Jeffrey could say, "You know, I mentioned your work to the gallery manager at my last show, and she might be interested in seeing it."
Instead, the word came out all hard and cold, and Jeffrey replied with concerned disappointment, "You're not still doing those creepy self-portraits, are you?"
I didn't answer. Jeffrey sighed. "I know the muse can be a fickle thing, but that series isn't going to take you anywhere. You might be able to pawn them off on horror enthusiasts, but--"
"Thank you for checking in," I said, ending the call. I drummed my hands on the steering wheel, trying to get my anger under control. Some desperate part of me wanted to cry, but I expelled it in a shaky breath. No time for that. My car was heating up quickly in the mid-afternoon sun, and I was starting to sweat. In another minute or two, my clothes would be soaked.
I was here to see my friends. I wouldn't let Jeffrey ruin it.
#
It wasn't so long ago that I considered Jeffrey my best friend. He was thirty years my senior and technically my boss, but he cared about me as much as anyone could. When I was in college, he was my most steadfast mentor. He listened to all my problems, giving me more mature advice than my peers could ever offer. He helped me power through the stress of my senior exercises. He invited me over to his apartment for dinner and conversation whenever I was feeling lonely.
He encouraged me to come out to my parents, promising to be there for me if it went poorly. When it went as poorly as it possibly could, he paid my final semester's tuition.
#
Anna, Rofyda, and Katherine wore the sort of bold, effortlessly trendy clothes that immediately identified them as sorority sisters. Anna: flared jeans over wing-tipped boots, a colorful crop top under a quilted navy blue coat, a red bucket hat. Rofyda: a thick striped turtleneck beneath a forest green romper, colorful chunky sneakers. Katherine: a denim skirt and leggings, red Nikes, a bright green sweater.
And me: wide-legged chartreuse pants, a magenta sweater, a floral-patterned coat, and white sneakers. (When I bought them, the sneakers were blindingly, spotlessly white, but they'd picked up little stains near the soles from dust in the parking lot. The girls didn't notice, but I made a note to myself to scrub them when I got home.)
We were all members of Zeta Tau Zeta, but I'd graduated a few years ago, making me the elderly mother hen of the group. I forced Katherine to take my coat when her sweater proved unsuitable for the mid-November chill, waving off her complaints that it clashed with her outfit. Rofyda bitched about how hard it was to keep up with her pre-med classes, and I offered advice for maximizing her study time.
She rolled her eyes. "Okay, Studio Art."
Anna told a long story about her latest romantic getaway with Dean, who was twenty-six with a six-figure salary. They'd been dating for eight months, and Anna wanted to marry him. The thought put a stone in my stomach. I wanted to tell her to run, to leave him behind and not look back, to save herself, but I knew I would only sound unhinged. I couldn't think of a more subtle way to start the conversation.
I put the problem aside. The wind was blowing lightly, picking up leaves in bright oranges and yellows and swirling them around us, lovely flashes of color beneath the gray sky. We were going apple picking, our favorite fall tradition.
It was going to be a good day.
***
After I said my goodbyes to the girls, I headed to work.
When I was still in school, I worked as a nude model for the life drawing classes. I loved it. It was meditative, a moment of silence and stillness, the scratch of charcoal and whispered voices. While everyone else focused on their work, contour and shading and style, I just had to clear my mind and sit very still.
Easy.
I majored in studio art because I wanted to break into the professional art world. I wanted to see my paintings displayed in galleries and museums, to see them valued as highly as I valued them.
By the time I graduated, I'd turned my focus to becoming a professional model. I had next to no chance of making it as an artist, after all, but I already had years of experience modeling. It seemed like a nice compromise, a way to leave a record of myself, even if my work was destined for obscurity. If the artists I worked with knew me and loved me, their audiences would understand me, too.
I believed in that for a stupidly long time, and then I quit.
I got a new job stocking shelves at Costco.
#
I visited the girls again the next morning. Katherine's red Nikes were gone, replaced by white shoes, spotless versions of my own. It didn't bother me, but since we couldn't match, I had to buy myself a new pair. I was in a hurry, so the boots I chose didn't quite go with the rest of my outfit, but the girls were kind enough not to mention it.
Instead, as we walked to the orchard, we talked about the usual matters. Classes and relationships and this weekend's parties. When Rofyda and Katherine got into a winding discussion about plans for a costume party, I grabbed Anna's hand, bringing us both to a stop. "Would you listen to me if I gave you some advice?"
Anna smiled, a little confused. "Of course I would."
I fiddled with the zipper of my coat, not wanting to look at her. The words stuck in my throat, but I didn't know why. I'd known girls who would be furious at the suggestion that their beloved partner might not be good for them, but Anna was too kind-hearted for that.
Still, I could only bring myself to say, "I'm worried about you."
Anna tilted her head, waiting.
I wished she could read my mind, that she could see the words on my face. I couldn't be the first person to talk to her about this. If no one else, then surely her parents...
But I didn't know anything about her parents. Maybe she was in the same boat I was, unable to count on her parents for anything.
"You remind me of myself," I said, and immediately wished I could take the words back. Anna wasn't like me. She was beautiful and kind-hearted, and she would never make the mistakes I did. She wouldn't walk out over a precipice with only a single fragile bridge beneath her. She would see the danger. She would keep herself safe.
(I kept myself safe, too. I had other bridges. I had these three.)
(It was hard to remember, sometimes.)
Anna's smile broadened into something genuine. She was a studio art major too, and she wanted to be just like me.
"I think you should break up with Dean," I said, finally spitting it out.
Anna's face shuttered, her eyebrows coming together to make a perfect little fold above her nose. She was so young. "Why?"
"You're too valuable to pin all your hopes on someone else."
"I'm not," Anna said. "I know who I am, and Dean is supportive of it. He wants me to follow my dreams."
The most vitriolic part of me wanted to snap, "No, he doesn't!" I restrained myself. "You're nineteen. You don't know who you are, and you'll have a hell of a time figuring it out if he's calling all the shots."
"Jess--"
"Don't tell me he doesn't call the shots. He's the one with all the money. You think he won't use that against you if you have a real argument?"
"No!" Anna protested. "We love each other."
She sounded so much like me at nineteen. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, shout, "Please believe me!" As if that would do anything other than frighten her.
Anna glanced at Rofyda and Katherine. "We're being left behind." She met my eyes again, chewing on her lip. "Can we talk about this later? Maybe when we get home?"
No. It had to be now. We couldn't talk about it at home. There wouldn't be a later time.
(Why not?)
Anna squeezed my hand. "Let's just have fun today, okay?"
I didn't respond, and the silence stretched out in all directions, a blank canvas. Katherine and Rofyda's voices had faded into the distance, and Anna was simply staring, waiting for me to speak.
(Why did I feel so afraid?)
Finally, I nodded. "Okay."
Anna smiled gratefully and skipped ahead to fall in step beside Katherine and Rofyda. I hung back for a moment, watching them, my three dear friends. They looked so perfect together, so deliberate, so false--
(No.)
I shook myself and hurried to catch up.
#
Jeffrey knocked on my door, and I once again kicked myself for not breaking my lease and moving out, going somewhere he wouldn't know to find me. If there was anyone to help me move, I would have done it already.
He had no way of knowing if I was home, but he was patient and knew he could outlast me. He stood outside for ten minutes, knocking intermittently, before I got fed up and opened the door. I tried to block his view of my studio, but he was a full head taller than me. Immediately, he was snooping with his eyes, glancing and glaring into every corner.
"Can I help you?" I said.
He held a cardboard box. "I received a few samples that I thought you might like to try," he said, dipping his chin down, but his attention was still focused on my paintings. "God, how do you sleep here?"
I took the box and set it beside the door, atop a stack of similar boxes, all unopened. I had a vague hope that he would look down, realize I'd never once made use of his samples, and leave me alone forever after, but he was busily entranced by the quiet monstrosity of my failures.
"Well, thanks for stopping by," I said, beginning to nudge the door closed.
Unfortunately, Jeffrey had more to say. "I'm worried about you."
"I'm fine."
Jeffrey raised his eyebrows, a pointed gesture to the state of my studio.
I rolled my eyes. "They're paintings."
"They're terrible," Jeffrey said, more blunt than his usual criticisms. "Just you and your creepy companions, over and over and--"
"I wouldn't expect you to understand." It came out more sullen than I meant it to be, more childish.
Jeffrey frowned, his mouth forming a thin line. "Jess, how many times do I have to apologize?"
"I don't know," I snapped. I couldn't look at him. "Will you please just leave? Please? I can't talk to you right now, I really--I can't."
Jeffrey sighed and threw up his hands like I was out of my mind, but he went.
I locked the door behind him and turned back to my studio of unsettling paintings. They were stacked against every wall, against my bed, against the counter in my little kitchenette. I knew they were drowning me, and I wished that I could let myself move on.
But none of them had been successful yet, and I didn't know what to do except to keep trying.
#
A few months before I graduated, Jeffrey told me he was relocating to Austin. His hometown. He invited me to come with him and work as his model. He didn't think he could find anyone half as skilled as me, and working for him would be a huge boon in jump-starting my career.
I couldn't have asked for a more perfect opportunity.
#
An hour later, I pulled into the mall parking lot, still shaken from my encounter with Jeffrey. I needed my friends. Their smiles, their laughter, their effortlessly styled clothes.
The walk was long, rows and rows of shops advertising the beginning of their holiday sales. Some ancient speaker piped in tinny pop music that echoed through the blue-and-red tiled corridors. It was less desolate than usual, but I still only spotted a few shoppers here and there.
I'd decided to tell the girls about Jeffrey. I didn't want their opinions, but I wanted their reactions. I wanted to hear them call him a bastard. I wanted to shout with them about the anger I hadn't managed to uproot in the past year. I wanted them to tell me that it wasn't just my pride keeping me from calling him and begging him to help me figure out what to do.
It was a familiar gauntlet. Hot Topic, Chico's, Men's Wearhouse, and then--
I turned the corner toward the H&M, and my steps faltered. I could see the window where the girls stood, perfectly poised, perfectly styled.
Where they were supposed to stand.
I came to stop, a whining ache in my throat.
The window was empty.
The backdrop was still there, a photograph of a perfect fall day, orange and red trees that line the streets in Michigan every fall. Everything else was gone, struck clean in preparation for the Christmas display.
The loss took me by surprise. I thought I'd get another day or two with them, at least.
The mall was desolate, but not so desolate that I could easily let the tears in my eyes fall. Instead, I went into the H&M and found every piece that made up their outfits. Jeans, sweaters, coats, hats, shoes. I shoved them all into my backpack.
I left.
Out into the 80-degree weather that passes for November in Austin. Half the trees were still stubbornly green, deluding themselves that they were safe in the long bright days of summer. The other half were bare and surrounded by shriveled brown leaves, frightened into submission by the first cold turn of the year. Denial and hysteria, and no grace to be found, like even these natives found this place unbearably alien.
I got into my car, and now that I had the privacy to cry, I no longer felt the urge. I wondered what the girls would have told me about Jeffrey. Maybe they would have told me to cut my losses and go back to him. God knew he owed me. Or maybe they would have told me to cut my losses, sell my paintings for a pittance or toss them in the trash, and move back to Michigan. Try to find anyone from the old days still willing to talk to me.
At home, I laid out my girls' outfits on my bed. I set up my easel and my paints. I got to work.
I started with the background, those bright oranges and reds that reminded me so strongly of home. Then I painted myself, which was always the easiest part. I'd painted myself a hundred times, seen myself painted a hundred times. I knew who I was.
Then I painted my dear friends who I would never see again. Their faces were so clear in my mind, and their clothes were right there, laid out on my bed. I gritted my teeth, determined to preserve them, but my hand didn't paint Rofyda's long curls or Anna's freckles or the sharp angles of Katherine's cheekbones.
Instead, they were only mannequins, pale and featureless.
I stepped back. I set down my palette. While I waited for the paint to dry, I gathered up their clothes and shoved them into a trash bag, which I set by the door, crowning my pile of Jeffrey's samples.
I added the painting to the endless stacks that filled my studio, all of my failed attempts to hold on to my friends and family. Marissa and John. Lexi and Sami. August and Junior. Frank, Harry, Jonathan, and Vanessa. Dozens of others whose names I'd forgotten.
I went to bed early, knowing that this loneliness was permanent.
#
One month after the big move, Jeffrey kissed me.
#
It took a week for the new display to go up. It was a Christmas display, all sweaters and tinsel. A family scene. My family. My sister, Misty, and her husband, Peter. Tyler and Janice, my niece and nephew.
I went into H&M and bought myself some soft jeans and a fuzzy sweater. Then I found the nearest bathroom and changed my clothes. I cleared my mind. I sat very still.
Then I took my seat beside Misty, watching the kids decorate the tree. There was a fire burning on the stove and cookies baking in the oven, and I was loved.
Sutton
February 2023