Page 9 of Calculated Risk
Lilah blinks. "I scare you. Me. The five-foot-four art student who cries at sad commercials." Her comment makes me smile.
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because you make me feel things I can't control. Think about things I can't plan. I want things I can't calculate the outcome for." I stay near the door, maintaining distance. "I've spent my entire life creating order. Solving problems. Maintaining control. And you, you're the opposite of all of that. You're chaotic, emotional and spontaneous. You terrify me."
"So you avoided me."
"So I avoided you. Because it was easier than admitting that I don't know how to be around you without losing the control I've worked so hard to maintain."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying me with those dark beautiful eyes.
"That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me in years."
"Yeah, well. Honesty is uncomfortable. I hate it," I tell her, because I don’t like things like this, this isn’t me, and she’s already making me feel uncomfortable outside of my safety box.
"But you did it anyway," she says.
"Seemed like the only option that might get you to let me help you."
She laughs, actually laughs and the sound does something dangerous to my carefully controlled heart. What is happening?
"Okay. You can help. But ground rules."
I thought maybe she would mention something about what I’ve just said, but she probably doesn’t want to stress me out more than I already am.
"I'm listening."
"One: Don't try to organize my chaos. I know it looks messy, but I know where everything is."
"Noted." Even though it's taking everything in me to clean up, or at least make a system for her.
"Two: Don't treat this like a business project. Art isn't about optimization and efficiency. Sometimes the messy path is the right path."
"That goes against everything I believe, but okay."
"Three: If you're going to be here, be here. No half-assing it because you're scared. Either commit to helping me or leave now."
"I'm committed."
"Even if it's messy? Even if it's emotional? Even if it makes you uncomfortable?" The questions keep coming, and I quickly answer so she can take a breath.
"Especially then. Because uncomfortable usually means growth. Or so my therapist tells me."
"You have a therapist?" She looks at me in surprise.
"Everyone should have a therapist. Mine specializes in control issues and perfectionism." I pull out my phone. "Should we start with an inventory of salvageable materials?"
"No. We start with coffee. Real coffee, not whatever cafeteria sludge you probably drink." She grabs her jacket. "Come on. There's a place off campus. We'll talk about strategy there."
"I thought you hated plans," I joke with her .
"I hate boring plans. Your plans are annoyingly effective. There's a difference."
We leave the studio and head off campus. She talks the entire walk, about art, about her vision for the show, about how violated she feels that someone destroyed her work.
I listen. Actually listen. Not planning my response or calculating solutions. Just hearing her.
