The Girl in the Painting

But I’m not that guy anymore. I haven’t been that guy since the day I went blind.

Do I claim to be the world’s happiest, most-together guy? Fuck no. Like I said, on my best day, I’m still an asshole. But after living in the dark for what felt like an eternity, I’ve at least realized a few things.

For one, money, success—material shit—doesn’t mean a fucking thing.

You can’t buy happiness.

And, two? Friends are better to have than fans. Friends stick with you no matter what.

“Okay.” Nigel’s voice breaks our silence. “Fine. I won’t ask you again.”

I grin. “That sounds like a truly brilliant idea.”

“Why haven’t I seen this one?”

I follow his gaze to the far corner of my studio, and instantly, I know which painting he’s talking about. My chest tightens with unease. I can’t believe I left that one out in the open like this…

I run a hand through my hair and try to make myself sound at least somewhat disinterested. “Because it wasn’t a painting I wanted to put in the exhibition.”

My voice sounds slightly higher pitched, even to my own ears. Dammit.

About a year after my transplant, Dr. Smith cleared me to go back to my normal life—back to painting. I found myself inside this studio with a brush in my hand and a beautiful girl in my mind.

Crystal-blue eyes, dark, dimensional hair, and dimpled cheeks, every detail of her face and features vivid to the point of precision.

I couldn’t stop picturing her. The way her full lips appear when they’re curled into a smile. The way she looks mid-laugh. The way her eyes light up beneath the sun.

She was all I could see, this girl I’ve never met before, this girl I’ve never actually seen.

She was the first thing I painted after the transplant, and she’s been locked inside my mind ever since—for nearly three years, to be exact.

But who’s counting, right?

I nearly snort out loud. The truth is, my obsession is nearly pathetic and almost certainly unhealthy. But I can’t seem to stop myself.

“This is…stunning,” he says quietly as his eyes rake over the canvas. “She’s stunning.”

His words, while holding no harm or ill will, make me feel incredibly uncomfortable.

Like I need to shield her from his eyes. I feel too vulnerable. Too raw.

Nigel turns to meet my eyes. “Why didn’t you want to put this one in the exhibition?”

“I don’t know.” Because it’s too special to me.

He looks at the painting for a long moment before moving his eyes back to mine. “Should I know who she is?”

“No.”

A figment of my imagination?

Some kind of angel muse?

I don’t know, but I can’t stop painting her.

“Is this the only one of her?”

“Yes,” I flat out lie. Besides the one he’s looking at, there are another four finished canvases hidden away and at least seven in progress. But I’m already pissed enough at myself for leaving this one out for him to see.

Strange and most likely fucking insane, I know, but it’s the reality.

“You need to add this one to the exhibition.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Your other works are amazing, but this, it’s something else, Ans,” he says and glances back at the painting. “It belongs in the exhibition.”

Silence stretches between us, and I’m torn about what to say.

Fuck no seems inappropriately callous, but I’m having a hell of a time coming up with any other words.

The artist inside of me agrees with his assessment. That painting—and the other paintings of her—is special.

She draws the viewer in just as she’s done with me, like a mermaid luring sailors to their deaths.

But everything else inside me wants to keep her to myself.

“Ans, people need to see this painting,” Nye urges.

I let out a deep exhale. “I don’t know…”

“Ans, this one has to be in the show.” His gaze is steady, unwavering. “You and I both know it would be a fucking travesty if it weren’t in there.”

My back tenses, but for some reason, the word “Okay” slips from my lips.

My stomach churns and my mind races and I don’t know why I’m agreeing, but I am. I don’t know why I feel sick over the prospect of other people seeing this painting, but I do.

The way I’m feeling, the way my emotions intertwine with her paintings, is a complete mystery to me.

Just like her.

Indy

The hardest part about being a music teacher at Great Elm in the Bronx is making lesson plans.

Okay, that’s a lie, since the actual hardest part is keeping a room full of six-year-olds from burning down the classroom. Second-hardest is keeping eighth-graders from sticking their tongues down each other’s throats, and third-hardest is making lesson plans.

I’m thirty years old, have been teaching for nearly two years, and I still have days when I can feel my eggs drying up in self-defense.