I see all this in Christine when I look at her. Maybe she has a crazy father at home, too. Maybe that’s why she can’t do her homework. Maybe that’s why she never has a lunch, or a coat even when it’s cold. My sympathy for her bubbles over.
Poor Christine. I won’t push her. I’ll be the easiest friend she’s ever had. I’ll bring extra in my lunches and bake her cookies and give her my homework and never, never ask questions. I’ve been in her place. I know what it’s like to feel like a quivering rabbit, constantly afraid.
I’m no longer that girl, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t feel sympathy for her. I think back on my life with my father—would I have gotten away sooner, changed who I was, if I’d had just one friend on the outside that would have stayed by my side?
“There are too many shadows behind your eyes, love,” Nick says as he shrugs his coat back on. He pulls me against him, and the movement allows him to reach into my pocket, to take back the gun he always carries.
We’ve discussed it before—I worry that he carries a gun on campus. When we watch the news, it seems there are always reports of shootings, and I fear for the day that it happens at our college and Nick’s gun is discovered.
Nick tells me that these shootings make him all the more convinced that we need protection.
And I . . . well, I can’t disagree with that. So I let it ride. But I still worry that one day it’ll be found, and then I don’t know what we’ll do. Our happy life here feels so very fragile. One wrong move could destroy it.
Boy, Nick is right. There are shadows behind my eyes today. I give him a sunny smile. “Just thinking too hard, I guess.” I slide my hands under his jacket and tickle his sides, even though I know it’s useless. My Ukrainian is not ticklish in the slightest, but I still love trying.
“About your friend?” He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose, and it doesn’t matter that we’re standing on a winter street and the wind is bitter. I’m warm from the inside out at that small gesture.
“About everything,” I confess. “So, tell me more about this fine arts program. Your teacher likes your work?” I’m so proud of him.
We begin walking, and his hand reaches into my pocket and he laces his fingers with mine. It’d be better to wear gloves, but then we wouldn’t be able to touch each other nearly as much. And Nick and I are compulsive with our need to touch.
“Da. He thinks I have promise,” Nick admits, his accent thicker now that we are alone and there’s no need to pretend. “That I have artist’s eye. He wishes for me to apply for fine arts program.”
I beam with pride. “That’s so wonderful.” I squeeze his fingers in my pocket. “I’m so proud of you!”
He flashes me a grin, and then unlaces his hand from mine to hold the door open to the Village Bean. I duck under his arm and then wait in the doorway for him to join me. We order our food and wait at the counter, snuggling together. It’s not until we sit down that Nick continues our conversation. “I will not join program, Daisy. It is useless, the fine arts degree. There is no point to it.”
My jaw drops. “How can you say that?”
“What shall I do with my art, Daisy?” Nick takes our coffees and pastries from the counter. I follow behind him as we grab a table in the corner—always in the corner. He sets the tray down and pulls my chair out for me, leaning in to murmur in my ear. “Shall I draw them something to pay for our meal?”
“That’s not fair,” I protest. “Lots of people make a living with their art.”
“Name one.”
I blink and cup my hands around the cardboard of my coffee cup. My mind is blank. “Picasso . . . ?”
The look he gives me is wry. “You flatter me, Daisy. I am no Picasso.”
My cheeks heat and I wish I had more examples of artists to give him to encourage him. I love his art. I want him to continue it. I love to see him create, to see the images come to life on the page. His works are always dark and grim, but so finely detailed that it awes me to think of all that going on behind Nick’s beautiful eyes. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing to express yourself and to create things of beauty for the world to appreciate.”
“Then I will just draw you a flower the next time something in the apartment breaks down and we shall see how useful my talent is.”
I frown at him. This is the closest we’ve come to an argument. He’s being bitter about his art, and I think it’s magical. I wish I had a fraction of the same poetic soul he does. Why can’t he see that it’s special? That he is special? “I’m not going to fight with you about this.”