Page 3 of The Time It Takes
Present
Ifit’struethatsouls do not break, I’m still convinced that somewhere deep inside of mine, there is a hole.
A dwelling void.
The disturbing truth is that I have a hard time feeling anything. I’m dust on the shelf that hasn’t seen the sun in years. My skin is pale now and I’ve secretly hated it all these years.
Perhaps I’m being impractical, but my body aches. It wants to scream in a way that I don’t know how.
The distant hum of conversation surrounds me and drowns out my thoughts welcomingly. I wrap my trench coat tighter around myself despite feeling warm. I have been staring at the same painting for almost an hour now. It’s dark and a little disturbing—not that I’m disturbed. I tilt my head to the side, my eyes roaming every inch of the canvas.
The paint is chunky, and I have the urge to reach out my hand and trace my fingertips across its surface.
There are so many colors that exist and yet the artist chose black and gray. Though, they did use a hint of golden yellow for the eyes—at least I think those are eyes. Either way, they remind me of the sun when it shimmers along the surface of the sea at golden hour. The longer I study it, the more it leaves a trace of recognition on my tongue. It’s incredibly complicated to analyze. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t wish to be understood at all. Isn’t that what art is?
It’s chaotic and disastrous and yet somehow both solitude and harmony.
It’s an utter mess of misunderstandings and that makes it … irresistibly delightful, I decide.
Once I get myself together and pack away my mind—forcing it to ease, I pull my eyes away from the painting and notice that there are more people at the gallery than when I first arrived. I feel the cool air sweep across my neck every time someone enters through the glass doors. I find myself sinking into it, all while wishing I was standing on a beach instead of standing inside four concrete walls.
The more crowded it becomes, the more I have to remind myself that I’m here for Julian. I mean, technically I’m here for me too since I’m performing, but this is his art show. It’s one that he’s been working toward non-stop since I met him three years ago. I’ve helped him with gigs in between, but nothing like this.
He’s a genius, truly. After moving to New York ten years ago to attend Juilliard, I felt lost. Lost in a way that I felt content where I was, but somewhere deep inside of me there was a reminder that it’s not where I belong. It has a lot to do with the way the tattoo on my pinky still exists, the ink never fading like I sometimes wish it would.
When Julian and I first met, he tried to take me on a date. When I made it clear that I wasn’t interested, he settled just fine with being friends. Of course, a girl gets lonely, and well, one thing led to the next, and it just so happens we enjoy each other’s sensual company from time to time.
I’ve tried one-night stands, but they always backfired. I always woke with a feeling of panic and self-loathing. My body always locked up and I felt like a fish out of water. A dead fish to be precise. Turns out a lot of guys don’t care if you participate as long as they still get off—the wrong ones that is.
I’m comfortable with my body now and I suppose I have Julian to thank for that. While there aren’t any strings, it’s still a long-term connection and I need that. It feels good. Sometimes I find myself wishing I’d discover some underlying feelings for him, but I never can. Julian is safe and I love that about him.
There are rules to this sort of thing though. It’s been a learning process, to say the least. We’ve somehow created boundaries along the way. Besides, my heart is kept safe this way. I’ve learned to keep certain things at a distance because distance is safe. Distance is where I can remember how to breathe again.
He accepts me like this. He doesn’t ask personal questions about my past. We’ve become a routine for each other. I don’t know if I’m the only girl he’s hooking up with and I can honestly say I don’t care. He’s the only person I’m comfortable with after what happened all those years ago. It took me a long time to let another person into my body comfortably. He helped heal me in ways I thought I’d never be whole again.
He’s the first person I had told freely about what happened to me that night. He doesn’t know Ben. He doesn’t know Oliver or Phoebe or Dean or Taylor, so I never have to worry about him bringing them up.
“You’re a mysterious little bird, aren’t you?” he’d say whenever I refrained from speaking about my past.
“We all have things we don’t talk about,” I’d remind him. Then he’d always change the subject. He was good at doing that since I was terrible at it.
Julian had it rough growing up and I only know pieces of his story. He grew up in the foster system since he was eight years old, and he’s channeled most of his anger and hurt through his art. I think that’s why I found myself so enthralled by his work. It’s raw and it’s real—it’s so fucking real.
We both carry a mutual respect for the other that even outsiders find refreshing. His friends question our relationship, but again, he’s a master at changing the topic of conversation.
Light chatter still echoes around me, and I smile to myself at all the people who showed up. He deserves this. I look around at the lights that are dimmed and how each painting has a spotlight aimed at it. Some are even hung from the ceiling. Leave it to Julian to do something entirely insane.
As I walk through the gallery, I spot a tall dark-haired man in a divine-looking black suit about fifty feet away from me. My chest fills with pride as I make my way toward him, smiling at anyone I accidentally make eye contact with. I see he’s talking to an elderly woman about one of his pieces, so I stand off to the side for a moment.
Once the woman departs from him, he crosses his arms and taps two fingers on his chin in thought. I stride over to him and once I’m behind him I push up onto my tiptoes so I can put my chin on his shoulder.
“Do you think if I asked for the artist's number, he’d give it to me?” I ask playfully in his ear.
I see the corner of his mouth curve upward. “No,” he responds flatly.
I step back with a light gasp and frown at him as he turns to face me. His gray eyes fall down my body and I know he sees the skin-tight black dress underneath my trench coat.
“Well, I don’t usually connect with my fans so personally, but I think I might have to make an exception.”
