"That's depressing," I find myself saying irritably. I've never in my life looked at a piece of art and analyzed it, but that's actually the first word that comes to mind. I see men with their backs breaking from toil, and that just sucks.
"I find it invigorating … hopeful," Jillian counters in her sweet, rose-colored voice. "See the way the light touches so many aspects in the painting? Look here at this man … it's along his forehead to illustrate the sheen of sweat from working in the fields. The way the back of this person's neck is red from a sunburn. Or even here, how some of the petals on the flowers are almost spotlighted from the sun. It reminds us that nothing can hide from it."
Her words make me feel weird. They're classic Jillian, wanting to see the best in everything. I've fallen prey to that lately, but it's not my inherent being. It annoys me that I'm fascinated by this woman who only looks at things through a cheery filter. It annoys me because it makes me feel bad for feeling bad about myself. This in turn makes me defensive … a bit combative.
With an exaggerated sigh, I tell her, "They're indentured servants, stuck in a field working for peanuts. Do you think they recognize all that beauty? No, they're concentrating on the hollow hunger in their bellies and the pains in their lower back from bending all day to harvest. You romanticize things, sunshine. Time to face reality."
Yes, please face reality and stop making me hope. Face it so I know the straws you're making me want to grasp at are really nothing but pipe dreams.
Jillian doesn't react to me calling her sunshine, but she makes those muscles around her eyes tighten into a narrowed gaze as she continues. "Sure, if you concentrate on the story you seem to think is being told-that's your prerogative, of course. But if you look past that to the setting … to the vibrancy of color, the expressions on their faces, then maybe you'll think they're not servants at all. Maybe this is their land and they take great pride in a successful harvest that will bring sustenance to their family."
My eyes drop to the book again. I study the painting for a moment, tilting my head as I try to see it from her perspective.
And I can't.
I can't because I don't want to.
I want to be able to see things true to my nature, not how others want me to see.
I don't want the dangers that Jillian presents to me, because my carefully ordered world will be thrown into chaos if I give into unfettered belief that the world is full of happiness and joy, just waiting for me to tap into it and suck it out like juice from a ripe piece of fruit.
"Sorry, blondie," I finally drawl out, and her spine automatically stiffens from my tone. She knows I'm not going to be kind, and she braces. "But it's not just your eyes that are fucked up. I don't for one minute buy into this rainbows and sunshine you have seemingly shooting out your ass. I think it's a wasted attempt for you to feel a little better about your own fucked-up situation, but trust me when I say … you're not doing yourself any favors by ignoring reality. And honestly … your continual sunny disposition is fucking grating on my nerves."
The minute the words are out, I feel bad about freeing them. But I can't take them back, because I don't even know how to apologize for being an asshole really. So I just stare at her, mentally preparing for her comeback.
Jillian's face is expressionless for a moment, but then she leans toward me so she can look me directly in the eye. Up close and magnified through those glasses, the color of her eyes reminds me of tropical waters. She swings her leg under the table and taps her foot against my prosthetic leg.
"So typical, Ahab," she says softly, and I honestly can't tell if she's teasing me, mocking me, or just showing me she doesn't care that I'm missing a leg. "I really can't imagine what you've been through, and that's mainly your fault since you won't talk about it, but I bet it was horrific. I'm even betting you didn't have a good support system when you were injured and had to cope on your own. It's why you don't trust us, and that's understandable. I even get the need you have to make others feel bad … totally understandable."
She pauses, takes a deep breath, and then gives me an encouraging smile that pisses me off and makes me feel gleeful all at the same time.
"But," she tells me with a gentle voice, "I'm here to tell you that you really can't say anything to me that will cause me to quit trying to get you to open up. The others might get tired of your shit and give up, but I won't. I kind of like the challenge you present to me, actually."
Doesn't she know when to quit? Why won't she give up on me?
"God … you're fucking weird," I tell her with a grimace. Or is that a grin? "No one can possibly be that fucking right with the world."
Jillian just laughs at me and turns back to her book. Even though she's not looking at me, her words are pointed and direct. "Stick with me, and I'll make you right with it too."
Fuck, it itches.
That annoying prickle of both guilt and intrigue that Jillian Martel has instituted under my skin.
I'm pissed there's guilt, which came immediately on the heels of mocking her impending blindness. My first goddamn bout of guilt, and I have no clue why I'm feeling it. I've been insulated in a bubble of complete disrespect of all of humanity for so long that I didn't realize how powerfully horrid shame would feel for potentially hurting her feelings.
My guilt, however, is eased a bit by the fact that I seemingly can't hurt her feelings. I mocked her and her interpretation of a stupid painting-yet, she tells me she understands my pain. Hell, in that moment, she forgave my rudeness.
I want to pull my hair out and scream at her to just leave me the fuck alone. Not to make promises that she can make me right with the world. I can't dare to want that. Even though from the moment I laid eyes on her, Jillian Martel has definitely made me want … want …
For the first time, she just makes me want.
Her.
Sex.
Laughter.
Happiness.
Brighter days.
Shaking my head, I rub my hand over my face. It makes no sense. Of all the things that just ran through my head-all my wants and desires-how in the ever-loving fuck was my leg not listed at the top? It's the one thing I've bemoaned the loss of ever since I gave the go ahead to cut it off. It's been the fuel for my bitterness and the main source of my rage. Losing my leg, which caused me to lose my girl and my career … it's been the very heart and soul of why I'm so miserable. I don't need any goddamn shrinks to tell me that.
So how, in just the past ten minutes, has Jillian gone from intriguing me, to irritating the shit out of me, to making me feel terrible about myself, to making me want things I didn't ever consider as important.
Her.
Sex.
Laughter.
Happiness.
For fuck's sake … a new leg will make me happy, right?
Right?
Fucking wrong, my brain screams at me. It's gone. Let it go. Get the fuck over it.
That's all easy enough to think to myself, but living that as a truth rather than a farce is practically impossible. Especially since I've been conditioning myself for months to hate everything about the way my life has turned out.
But what if …
I mean, Jillian seems to …
She clearly has found some peace.
No, I can't. I can't even consider that there are other possibilities out there, because that would mean opening myself up to hope, and that in turn would mean opening myself up to failure and hurt.
Not even going there.
Chapter 18
After mapping it out, it was going to be an almost ten-hour drive from Denver to the south entrance of Yellowstone. I didn't open it up for discussion with the group. I just made the decision to go to Jackson, Wyoming, which sits on the edge of the Bridger Teton National Forest. The national park abuts up against Yellowstone to the south, and we'll have an easier time getting a campsite there.
I'd given in to the fact that this was adding on an extra day. Truth be told, I'd always wanted to see Yellowstone. My family was so poor that our family vacations were nothing more than a few days at a local campground to do some fishing. And I use the term "vacation" loosely. We didn't do things together as a group when we did go, and my pa pretty much stayed drunk the entire time and would rant and bellow at my ma. The only good thing I got from it was a love of camping and fishing, and I'm eager to do some of that in Yellowstone. Because Connor has started to grow on me and I've become invested in his bucket list, I'm eager to teach him how to fly fish.
We're on the road no more than an hour when I get a phone call. When I glance at the phone in the center console, I see Mags' name. I had promised I'd keep her updated on our travels, and I had done so each day with a text. I have no clue why she's calling, but I ignore it. I'm not much of a phone talker.
It's unusually quiet inside the Suburban this morning. Normally, Jillian and Connor are chattering, making comments about the wide and varied scenery we pass or just talking about stupid shit-gossip about a pop star or pictures of a famous actor kissing someone who was not his wife. But this morning, Connor is in the back playing on his phone, while Jillian is bent over her art book that's resting on her lap, turning the pages slowly as she peruses the various paintings and sculptures. As usual, Barb is listening to music through her earbuds and staring out the passenger window as the world rolls by.