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Love, Life, and the List(6)

By:Kasie West


His parents looked at each other and then back at me. One of them was about to ask a follow-up question to clarify what I meant. Or say something like, but it is a big deal, or but your work should be in the show. His dad even cleared his throat, getting ready for whatever was coming next. I knew if he said one more word about it I'd break down in tears before the sentence was through. The tears were already threatening, clinging to the backs of my eyes, causing them to sting.

That's when Cooper said, "You're right, it's not a big deal." He squeezed my knee once, under the table, then dropped his hand. "Tell me I wasn't awesome today out there on the dunes?"                       
       
           



       

His sister took the bait first, probably realizing as much as Cooper did that I needed a subject change. "You caught air on that back jump."

His parents were a little slower to let go, his mom meeting my eyes and holding them before turning her attention to Cooper. "Yes, we are here to celebrate your amazing race. Let's celebrate."

By the time the waiter came back with our food, everyone had moved way past my failure and was well into celebrating Cooper's success. I was grateful Cooper knew that was exactly what I needed.

"Abby's going to bring me home," Cooper said at the end of dinner, when the bill was paid and we'd all stood to leave.

"I am?" I asked. I really just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. I'd managed to push the thoughts of Mr. Wallace and the art show to the back of my mind (or at least the middle of it) for the last couple of days, but admitting the truth out loud had brought them flying back. What he'd said, and what, through all my anger and denial, I knew I believed.

"Yes, you are."

"Be back by curfew," his dad said, then took his wife by one hand and his daughter by the other and headed out of the restaurant.

"Cooper, I'm tired. Can we just talk tomorrow?" I asked when they were halfway to the door.

"Nope. You have to talk now. I can tell it's bothering you. Come on." He led the way toward the exit.

"Of course it's bothering me, but I'm fine. I'll get over it. Let's get cheesecake instead." I stopped at the lit glass case and surveyed all the beautifully displayed cake.

Cooper stopped beside me. "It looks like they don't have white chocolate raspberry."

"Maybe I want to try a new one."

"You never try something different. Once you find the best, that's all you ever want."

"So true, Cooper, so true."

He gave me a sideways glance, like he thought I was talking about something other than cheesecake. I was.

He shook his head with a breathy laugh, grabbed hold of my hand, and led me outside. His hand was warm and slightly callused, and I always thought it fit perfectly in mine. My car was parked in front of the restaurant, but he walked past it and toward the pier. He must've realized I was going to follow him without force, because he let go of my hand, much to my disappointment.

After a block and a half he said, "I got something for you."

"You did? What?" Without my permission, my heartbeat sped up.

He pulled a white napkin out of his pocket and handed it to me. There was a phone number written on it. I swallowed my disappointment.

"I already have your number," I said.

"Ha-ha. That is Elliot's number. You're welcome."

"You still think you're some sort of matchmaker?"

"I'm an excellent matchmaker."

"Elliot gave me his number six months ago, but thanks anyway." I knew Elliot had been interested back then. I'd kind of blown him off, exchanging a few texts but nothing more. I shoved the napkin back into Cooper's pocket, then walked ahead of him. The planks on the pier were warped and I had to slow down once I got there so I didn't trip.

Cooper caught up. "Did you ever call him?"

"We texted a little. I'm not interested, Cooper."

"Did you ever tell me about this?"

"I'm sure I did."

"Huh," he said.

When we reached the end of the pier, I leaned against the wood railing and looked out into the water. At first glance, the ocean appeared black at night, but between the skyline and the shoreline there were so many variations of color and movement that it always made me itch for a paintbrush.

"Talk to me, Abigail. I hate it when you get inside your head. What happened? You said Mr. Wallace was considering you. What did he really say?"

"That I have no heart."

"He said you were an android?"

I draped my arms on top of the railing and laid my forehead on them with a moan. The smell of salt and fish and seaweed overtook me.

Cooper rubbed my back. "He said you have no heart? What does that even mean?"

"He said I have no depth. That my paintings are basically one-dimensional. They don't make him feel anything."

"Oh. So he's an android. Got it."

I buried my head deeper in my arms.

"But seriously, he obviously doesn't know what he's talking about."

But doesn't he? I wanted to say. You feel the same way. You're missing that piece when you look at me too. The piece that makes you feel something.

I turned my head sideways and looked at Cooper. "I have an agoraphobic mom and a war-zone dad." And I couldn't forget the unrequited-love thing I had going on. "How much deeper can a person get?"                       
       
           



       

"Not much." Cooper chuckled, a sound that made my heart thump hard in my chest.

I groaned again and reburied my head. Several waves crashed against the supports below before he spoke.

"Your mom isn't agoraphobic."

"I know. But it seems as though she's studying really hard to become one. She's getting worse."

"Worse how?"

"She used to at least go out. Leave the house. I can't remember the last time she did that. She needs friends. That always seemed to help her before we moved here."

"I can probably get my mom to ask her out to lunch."

I didn't need to say anything, just stared at him until he realized that was a ridiculous suggestion.

"You're right," he said. "They aren't a good match."

"It's fine. She'll be fine when my dad gets home in August."

"Your dad gets home in August?"

I smiled at that thought. It was right around the corner. "Yes, I can't wait. But he'll miss the show. I mean, he would have missed the show. Now it doesn't matter."

"Maybe you misunderstood Mr. Wallace."

"Nope. He was straightforward. Very. He actually used all the words I told you. No emotion, no depth, no heart. All of them."

"That's harsh."

It was harsh. Being an artist defined me. It was the one thing I felt I was good at. The one thing I thought people, and Cooper, admired me for. And now I didn't even have that. The tears I'd managed to control at the restaurant threatened to spill down my face.

"It's just one person's opinion, Abby."

"He has a doctorate in art. He is a museum curator. And he is the only person close that can show my art. I needed this experience." The lump in my throat was growing by the second, and I kept having to swallow it down.

"What about another museum? Or gallery?"

"I've been looking. It's a long shot. Hundreds of people apply for shows. I thought I had an in with Mr. Wallace. But if he doesn't like my art, you really think some stranger is going to take a chance on me?"

"Don't let him get in your head."

"He's already there." With those words the tears escaped, much to my frustration. I swiped at them angrily.

Cooper pulled me into a hug. "Don't cry. I hate it when you cry. It makes me want to beat people up."

"I'll be fine."

"I know you will be. And you'll figure out a way to prove him wrong." Cooper's hand went up and down my back and I melted further against him.

As comforting as Cooper's words were, I wasn't sure I would figure out a way to prove Mr. Wallace wrong. I wasn't great at changing people's feelings.





SIX


I stared at the blank canvas. Experience. Depth. Cooper was right. I needed to prove Mr. Wallace wrong. I'd get in that art show, get accepted to the program, and prove to Mr. Wallace, to Cooper, to everyone that I was a real artist. I'd paint something new. Something different. He wasn't making final decisions on the applications until two weeks before the show. I'd show him that I was more than what he'd seen.

I had about four weeks to paint five paintings better than I'd ever painted before. The time wasn't what was causing a growing panic in my chest, though. I had time. Depending on the size, how detailed it was, how many continuous hours I could devote to the piece, I spent anywhere from a day to several days on a painting. Since it was summer, I had nothing but time. The tightness filling up my chest was due to the fact that I had no idea what I was going to paint. I had no idea what would be new or different or better.

I flipped through my scrapbook of inspirational photos and prints, which normally gave me ideas. But nothing was coming to me. And wasn't the point to do something different than I normally did?