The Girl in the Painting

Money only gets you so far in life.

Sure, it can provide stability and allow you the comforts and luxuries that most could only dream of. But it can never replace the fact that a good life is one lived with meaning. A life lived with passion. A life lived with love and adoration and human connection.

I’ve had the success.

I’ve had the emotionless fucks and one-night stands that come from the popularity.

I currently have the money.

And none of those are the things that bring me true joy.

It’s important people. True connection. Beauty and agony and cherishing the health in my body.

Without thought, I pick up my phone and type out a message to Indy. It’s only been a few days since I last saw her, but after avoiding contacting her at all yesterday—Valentine’s Day—out of some pseudo-respect for her relationship, I’m jonesing for another fix.

Me: Something has been bothering me, and I want to fix it.

Indy: That’s cryptic…

Me: When are you done for the day?

Indy: 2:30ish, why?

I glance at the clock and see it’s already nearing one.

Perfect.

Me: I’ll meet you at your school at 2:30.

Indy: Um…do I even get a say in this?

Me: Do you want a say in this?

Indy: Bring fresh coffee, and you have a deal.

My responding smile could probably light up my whole fucking studio.

Me: I’ll see you at 2:30.

It doesn’t take long before I’m shutting off the lights of my studio and walking into Luce’s office to let her know I’m leaving for the day.

“It’s, like, one,” she says and raises an eyebrow in my direction. “I mean, I know it’s Friday, but you never leave this early…”

“Well, today, I am.”

“Are you feeling okay?” She searches my face. “You don’t look like yourself.”

“What do you mean? I feel fine.”

“You’re, like, smiling and shit. It’s weird.”

I furrow my brow. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You never smile.”

“I smile.”

“Uh, no, you don’t,” she retorts on a laugh. “Not even on your birthday.”

“No one smiles on their fucking birthday once they reach thirty.”

“Yeah,” she chimes in with a cheeky smile. “And you’re thirty-four, so…”

“Are you done?”

She shrugs one bony shoulder and rests her chin on her hands. “Are you going to tell me what has you all smiley and shit?”

“No.”

“Then, yeah, I’m done.”

“I’ll see you Monday,” I say through yet another smile. “If Nigel calls, let him know I don’t want to talk to him.”

Now Lucy’s mouth curls up at the corners. “Will do.”

With the essentials in my pockets, I shrug my leather jacket over my shoulders and head out the door.

First stop, coffee.

Second stop, Indy.

I arrive at Indy’s school early. Thirty minutes early, to be exact.

Instead of waiting outside in the blistering cold, I decide to hit the buzzer on the front door and let them know I’m a visitor for Ms. Davis.

They let me inside, and I walk in the direction of the front office to get my visitor’s pass.

Drawings and artwork line the walls, and I smile at the idea of budding new artists. A few tiny people roam about outside of their classrooms, but mostly, the hallway is silent.

I grin when I see a little boy with curly red hair attempt to get a sip of water from the fountain and miss his mouth entirely.

He swipes one hand down his shirt, soaking the liquid into the cotton material, before giving it another try and managing to hit his mouth bull’s-eye on his second attempt.

I walk inside the door marked Office and am greeted by a pleasant woman in a turtleneck and sweater vest. The nameplate on her desk says Mrs. Shirley Williams, and it suits her. She looks exactly how I’d picture a Shirley to look.

“I’m a friend of Ms. Davis.”

“Does she know you’re coming?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, then,” Shirley says. “I need to see your ID, and if you could just sign there for me…” She nods at the clipboard on the edge of the desk. “I’ll get you a visitor’s pass.” I do as she asks, and she smiles as she hands me the pass. “Her classroom is located on the second floor, down toward the end of the hall.”

“Thanks.”

I press the name tag to my leather jacket and follow Shirley’s directions with ease.

The door to Indy’s classroom is open, so I stand at the threshold and watch her for a quiet moment while she instructs a class of little boys and girls on how to keep the beat by clapping their hands.

They stare up at her like she’s a wonder of the world, and I can one hundred percent relate.

She notices movement out of the corner of her eye as I cross my arms over my chest and lean into the doorjamb. Her eyes widen with surprise, and I offer a little wave in the form of a fresh cup of coffee.

“You’re early,” she mouths, and I shrug.

“Who are you talking to, Ms. Davis?” a little girl in the front row asks. Her gaze follows Indy’s and latches on to me. “Who is he?”