If (13 page)

“You mean the one with the face?”

“Yeah. I feel so sorry for her. I wonder what happened?”

“Probably a car accident or something. Unless Freddy Krueger paid her a visit.”

A few of them burst into laughter.

“That’s mean,” another said.

“Oh come on. She put herself up there to be judged.”

“For her dancing.”

“No, her whole image. They wouldn’t pick a three hundred pound dancer no matter how good she is. They aren’t going to pick someone with a face like that. This is LA, the most superficial place on earth.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” said the one who called them mean before.

“Listen, I am sure she’s a wonderful person. And she’s actually really pretty on her good side. But unrealistic expectations aren’t doing anyone any favors.”

“I guess,” the girl replied.

At that point, I was sobbing into the sleeve of my arm warmer so that I wouldn’t make a sound. With just a few words, I was immediately transported to freshman year of high school when some cheerleaders told me not to bother auditioning because I wasn’t up to their “physical standards.” I was small. I was defeated. There was a heavy pit the size of a bowling ball inside of me full of despair. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional.

I always had visions of something like this happening, and me triumphantly strutting out, saying something like “My face may be covered in scars, but I will never be as ugly a human being as you are.”

But I just wanted to shrink into the size of an atom and drift away. I felt the ugliest I had felt in a long time. I felt insignificant. I didn’t feel triumphant or defiant.

I wanted to forget this entire experience and never talk about it again.

So I waited for them to leave.

I slipped out of the stall, washed my hands and dotted my face with tissue, but my eyes were swollen. I exited the bathroom as discretely as I could. The girls were in a cluster down the hall, but one of them spotted me and her eyes widened. I ducked my head down and passed them. They started murmuring, but I got out of earshot as quickly as I could. I just wanted to make the last few hours of my life disappear.

ASH

I felt like shit about how I walked out of Bird’s place in a panic. I would understand if she didn’t want to see me again, but I wanted—needed—to see her.

Muse.
I always mocked that word.
Cliche. Weak. Sentimental.
I was independently brilliant. Eccentric. Productive. I didn’t need a muse. But apparently you don’t get to choose. A muse didn’t just inspire, I learned. She rips the art out of you like a predator rips out guts. It’s messy, it’s brutal, but the artist has no choice in the matter. The muse decides.

Slowly, Bird was drawing out the artist I had buried away, the artist I was afraid of becoming again. The artist that died when my sister died.

Falling for Bird would be the final thrust to rip me out of my self-imposed exile. If just watching her made me pick up a paintbrush again, what would being with her do?

When we kissed, I was terrified that that rush of sexual energy might be enough to flick the switch. But I didn’t let myself get excited. Instead, I got agitated and then I worried my agitation might actually trigger something, too. I took extra doses of my meds, and I think it worked because I felt like shit, but I didn’t feel out of control.

But Bird had already reached inside of me so deeply, that I couldn’t stay away. Now that we had kissed, she was the embodiment of sexuality and art—my two favorite things rolled into one majestic, glowing human being.

So I found myself at her door. Staring at it for a good ten minutes before I knocked. I was prepared to be told to leave, or not find the cheerful Bird who was always game to create.

I knocked.

Nothing.

I waited.

I knocked again.

I waited.

I turned to leave, even though I knew she was in there. I could hear movement through the door. As I turned, I saw the sound of her deadbolt unlatching, the door being flung open. No greeting. Cautiously, I turned and walked back to the doorway. The door was wide open, a signal that I was permitted to come in, but I would not be greeted.

I deserved the cold shoulder.

I walked in tentatively, and dropped my bag in its usual spot. I wished my footsteps wouldn’t make any noise, but my boots hitting her wood floor brought more attention to the awkward silence.

She was cleaning her tiny kitchen ferociously, and it was clear she was making it a point not to look at me. The easel was where it always was, and the green leaves of our unfinished tree were still there.

“Hey,” I said, closing the door behind me.

She turned her face further away from me. “Hey.”

I definitely was not going to ask if she wanted to dance.

“Feel free to paint or whatever,” she said, dismissively.

Her lavender aura was dull and almost white, but that had more to do with what I was feeling than what she was.

Though no matter how much she tried to duck away, she couldn’t hide from me. I could see her voice. What was usually fluid, bright and fanciful like her dancing, was wobbly and thin. She wouldn’t look at me. She was crying.

I wondered if I should be there at all, but she let me in. She wanted me there. I should be there for her, the way she welcomed me into her house despite, I imagined, every rational thought telling her she shouldn’t. I made my way over to the easel, which was just beside the kitchen space, trying to get a better view of her, but she only dug in harder, scrubbing down on the already clean oven door.

I began to feel tense, and my mouth filled with the taste of licorice. I hate licorice.

“Bird.”

She kept scrubbing. “Bird,” this time I put a hand on her shoulder.

She stopped cleaning, and then she dropped the sponge, ripped off her pink rubber gloves, slammed them down, and started crying.

Watching her hurt like that felt like someone had attacked me. It felt like that day I heard her screams in the alleyway. Needles on my fingertips. Angular shapes like shards of glass in my vision. My stomach grew tense with a sick feeling.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, kneeling down.

She stood up, circling away from me, like she didn’t want me to see her face.

“What do you want, Ash?” she asked, looking out the window with her arms crossed.

“I came to see you.” It was the first time I had been honest about why I came to visit.

“If you came to paint, your shit is right there.” She tilted her head towards the easel but, she wouldn’t show me her face.

“I said I came to see you.”

“Why, because I’m such a good friend? Because I give you a place to hang out?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I get it, okay? I know what everyone sees and they all pretend like it’s not there. Like it’s just too fucking awful to say out loud.”

I stood there, unsure how to respond to the hurt that was pouring out of her. She was always so effervescent, I never thought I would see her cry like this, ever.

She ran her fingers through her thick red curls and pushed her hair back and turned to face me. “I know what I look like. I know I’ll never dance in this city professionally or anywhere because this is all that matters,” she said through tears. “And I know no guy will ever want me, because there will always be someone out there who doesn’t have this on her face.” She jabbed a finger at the side of her face with the damage.

I felt like the biggest piece of scum on earth at that moment. I thought she was beautiful, so the thought never occurred to me that she might think I left because of her scars. I wasn’t blind, I saw them all along, but they were just as much a part of her as her hazel eyes, her cute nose, her freckles, her elegant gait, her smile. While I saw the scars like everyone else, I could see things other people couldn’t see. I could see the secret beauty Bird possessed, only visible to someone like me, who lived beyond the mere five senses most others possessed.

She was a literal star, beaming with light, walking on the earth, gracing it with her presence. She was the thing we stared up at in the night sky, making us wonder about endless possibilities. She was the light we reached out to grasp, but were never able to touch. That’s what Bird was: A fallen star. A dancing star.

I thought she knew that. I thought that’s why she radiated. I never thought she might for a second think she was anything less than perfection. In that moment, I only wanted to make her feel better. I didn’t care about keeping my feelings under lockdown, I didn’t care about losing control.

I walked up to her and placed my hand on her arm, gripping it. “You think that’s why I left?”

“I don’t need you to lie to me. I’ve heard everything you could possibly think of. And I don’t want your pity.”

“Good, because you’re not going to get it,” I said.

She started a bit, not expecting for me to be harsh.

“Because what I am about to tell you is the truth. I want you to understand that.” And now I found myself a little angry, at the world for making her feel this way, at her for believing them, and at myself for never telling her how I saw her. I dug my fingers even deeper into her thin arm. “I watched you for months thinking any guy would be the luckiest guy in the world to have you. I watched you glow and laugh. I watched your smile and your bright hair that burns red like a wildfire. You are rare, you are beautiful, you are exquisite. You walk around with aura all day and you don’t even fucking know it.” My other hand grabbed her other arm. I was pulling her in and I didn’t even realize it. “You transcend. You are the brightest thing in my world. There isn’t a light show on earth that is as bright and colorful as you when you laugh. On a cool night, when I am alone out there, I can think of you and feel like I have a warm blanket enveloping me. Scars don’t destroy that type of beauty, they amplify it. And even if I wasn’t blessed to see the physical embodiment of your soul, you are still gorgeous. Your long hair, the round tip of your button nose, your freckles, your eyes, your lips . . .” My thoughts drifted back to our kiss. I had never felt lips like hers. I had no idea what I was missing until I kissed those lips. “Your legs, your arms, your ass, your breasts, the way you move. You’re sexy as hell and you’re cute as hell too, dammit.”

I was ranting, and I didn’t give a fuck.

“And that’s the truth, Bird. No pity. Not an ounce.”

I looked down and realized I was squeezing her in my hands, not threateningly, but passionately. We were close, and I was feeling the heat. Neon dashes of green, yellow, and indigo shot across my vision like lasers. I slid my hands down her arms to let her go, but she caught my hands in hers.

“Then why did you leave?” she demanded.

“It had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me.”

“That answer is not good enough. You don’t just kiss a girl the way you kissed me and just walk out like that. You didn’t even call.”

“I came back.”

“It still hurts. It’s still messed up.”

“Can’t you see my life is fucked up? I’m broken. Faulty. I am not the guy a girl like you should even consider.” I couldn’t tell her that I was afraid she might make me climb to the highest peak and then collapse into a black hole. Because, though I didn’t want her to have to deal with me, I did want her. If I told her too much too soon, I was sure she would be scared away. I wanted to feel that high again, I knew feeling it with her would be unlike anything I had ever known.

“You don’t want me Bird. You want the idea of me. The quiet artist. The guy who saved you . . . painted you. But I am a mystery you don’t want to solve. I am a question you don’t want to answer. It was simpler when it was just you dancing and me painting.”

“Nothing was ever simple between us.”

Her tears had dried, but her eyes were pink from devastation. I was right on the edge, fighting the urge to jump into the warm, bright, colorful pool that is kissing Bird.

“You know how you see me? How you say the scars don’t matter, that you see me differently than other people do? It’s the same for me, Ash. I don’t see where you live. I don’t see how much you make. I see someone who is in pain, who is afraid to be cared for, or maybe he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. But I also see someone who is honest, and tender, and funny, and sensitive. I feel you. I felt you so many times I walked past you before I ever knew you.” She squeezed my hands. “You’re different. You know when you just know?”

“I do.”

“I knew. It’s why I couldn’t let you disappear on me. It’s why I practically begged you to come for Thanksgiving. I just knew. I wanted to know you.”

She took my hands and wrapped them around her waist. Her hands slid up my chest, my neck, and she ran her fingers under my hat and through my hair so that it fell to the floor. The sensation of static electricity trailed the path of her touch.

“Let me make the choice,” she said.