Kaleidoscope Hearts (7 page)

I nearly squeal in delight. “The rooms will be vacant?”

Jen searches my face and smiles. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” I start, wringing my hands together. I’m starting to feel like I’m taking advantage of this opportunity, even though I would be the one paying for all of it and spending my time here. “I would fund this one hundred percent. I don’t want you to think I want to be compensated, but if I can get some of my friends in here, I think we could do something really nice.”

She’s quiet for a beat, pulling her sandy blonde hair into a ponytail. “So you would pay for the paint and compensate whoever helps you?”

“Yes, of course,” I respond quickly.

Jen is quiet again, searching my face for a little longer than I’m comfortable with, but I stare back, holding my hands on my lap as I wait for her answer.

“You really want to do this,” she says finally. “Why?”

A rushed breath tumbles out of my lips and my shoulders sag a little. “Do I need a reason?”

“I suppose not,” she says with a shrug. “But not many people would do something like this pro bono.”

“I’m not many people,” I respond with a smile. “I can speak to your boss myself if you’d like.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll call him right now. I doubt he’ll have a problem with this. He’s been saying for years that wing needs a facelift. I’ll text you as soon as I have an answer.”

“Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing from you.” I stand and head to the door.

“Estelle,” she calls out, her words bringing me back into her office. I turn, and she gives me a small smile. “The world needs more people like you.”

Her words make me smile proudly. My life may be chaotic and sticky, but most days I go to bed feeling comforted by the thought that maybe I made a difference in one person’s life. It’s nice to have somebody else recognize it. I thank her and head to the pediatrics wing before I make a fool of myself and start crying or something. When I get there, the first person I spot is Oliver. He’s got his back turned to me, leaning his hip on the counter of the nurses’ station.

I can’t hear what he’s saying, but judging from the giggles of the two nurses he’s talking to, you would think it’s a Jim Carey-worthy joke. I’m sure it’s not. Oliver isn’t a funny joke teller—though he tries—but the female species never seems to mind. Myself included, once upon a time. I cover the urge to roll my eyes with a huge smile and move along, passing the station with a small wave and a smile as I say good afternoon. I don’t stay long enough to look at Oliver’s face, but I catch his movement as he straightens and pushes himself away from the counter.

I scan the room I was assigned to, my eyes bouncing from easel to easel and to the containers beside them. Taking a large stack of white paper, I clip one to each board on the easels and look up when I hear the door open. Gemma, a plump, red-haired nurse, walks in pushing a wheelchair. I met the kids the other day when I was here, so I recognize the young boy as Johnny, a thirteen-year-old with cerebral palsy. I greet him and then Danny, Mae, and Mike—all in their early teens—all cancer patients.

“You guys ready?” I ask with a smile.

They each bob their heads, but none say anything. Of course, all but Johnny are on their phones. I sigh, knowing what’s to come. This is something I deal with every time a new set of teenagers comes in for the after school program at the studio. Through this, I’ve come to realize that teenagers are a lot like new shoes—uncomfortable and a bitch to break in—but once you do, you don’t regret a single blister they caused.

“Do you want to do the boring, sappy introductions or do you just want to start painting the shit out of these canvases?” I ask, gaining the attention of all of them at once. Their eyes widen as if they can’t believe I just said that.

Mike tucks his phone into his pocket and finally, for the first time, looks at me. He’s not shy about it either, he lets his gray eyes wander my body as if I’m some girl he’s about to hit on.

“Do I get to paint you?” he asks. I shake my head and laugh. He’s definitely ballsy. Mae does not seem impressed by his comment and rolls her eyes, putting her phone in her back pocket and crossing her hands over her chest.

“Okay,” I start. “First of all, we’re not painting people. Secondly, I can see you’re going to be trouble,” I say, pointing at Mike with a raised brow. “And I’m going to let it slide because I kind of like trouble . . . as long as you do not start hitting on me.” My back is turned toward the door, so I don’t know what other kids come in once I start talking, but I soldier on with my little speech even though I know I’ll probably have to repeat myself various times.

“That’s actually one of my rules. Yes, I have rules,” I say when Mike groans. “Rule number one: No hitting on your teacher. Rule number two: Keep your hands to yourself,” I look between Mike and Mae and am glad I said it when I catch her blush. “Rule number three: Respect everybody’s creativity. We all draw differently, and let’s be honest—not all of us draw well, me included. Please don’t bash each other’s paintings, or sculptures, or whatever else we do in here. And lastly, the art room is Vegas. In this room, we talk about anything and everything you want. We scream and throw paint at our canvas and nobody gets to judge us. Got it?”

All of them nod their heads slowly.

“I have a question,” Mae says, sitting in one of the stools set up in front of an easel. She adjusts the machine she’s carting around so that it’s out of the way and then looks at my expectant face. “You said you’re not a good drawer, but you’re a painter. Is there a difference?”

I smile at her question. “Huge difference. I’m best at making things with my hands. I usually use broken glass to make small sculptures.”

“Broken glass?” Mike asks, wide-eyed.

“Yup.”

“What do you make?” Danny asks.

“Hearts.”

“You make hearts out of broken glass?” Mae asks in a gasp.

I nod and turn around, my hands flying to my chest when I see Oliver leaning on the wall beside the door with his arms crossed over his chest. His green eyes light up in amusement as his mouth turns into a full-blown grin at the look on my face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, still holding my thumping heart.

“All of my patients are in here right now.” He drops his arms and shrugs as he slips his hands into the pockets of his white coat.

“Oh,” I respond, blinking away from him and turning back to the kids. “Anyway, let me show you what I’m talking about.” I walk over to the box I brought over the other day, which is on the table beside Oliver. My arm brushes the front of his body as I reach across him, and I hear him intake a breath, which makes me do the same. I need to get a fucking grip around this guy. I grab the small box and walk to the other side of the room so I’m facing the group and can see who walks in. Gemma comes in and tells Oliver something quietly. I watch him nod before she walks out.

“Bathroom break,” he mouths in explanation when he catches me looking. I nod and open the box, carefully taking out the glass heart and the stand it’s on before placing it on the table.

“Oh my God,” Mae says, her blue eyes widening as they take it in. “You made that?”

“I did,” I say, smiling proudly. My eyes flicker to Oliver, who has a smile on his face. It makes my heart skip a beat, because it’s not the gorgeous one he uses to impress women. Instead, it’s a warm, comforting one. This one, he only offers when he agrees with something you said, or is proud of something you did. I turn my attention back to the heart and pick it up. It’s what we call a 3-D heart, since it’s not flat and has a circumference.

“That’s legit,” Mike says.

“It is really nice,” Danny agrees.

“Thank you. This is my specialty. Most artists have one thing that they’re known for. Warhol used blotted ink to create his signature Campbell’s soup and Marilyn Monroe images. Romero Britto uses eccentric colors, so when you look at one of his sculptures or paintings there’s no question as to who made it. Even if they were to make something different, you would have a hint letting you know that it’s theirs. My thing is hearts. I paint them . . . sculpt them . . . but this right here is my kaleidoscope heart. It’s my specialty.”

“Ohhh,” Mae says, as if what she’s been looking at just dawned on her. She reaches for it, but thinks better of it and drops her hands.

“Take it,” I say.

“No, I don’t want to break it. It’s too pretty.”

“Take it. You’re keeping it anyway. You might as well get used to holding it.”

Mae’s eyes widen. “I can keep this?”

“Of course.”

“But what if it breaks?” she asks, hesitantly lifting the heart from its stand. She turns it over and over, creating little rainbows of color throughout the room as the light bounces off of the glass.

“Well,” I say, raising my eyes to Oliver, who’s watching me intently. “It’s a heart. They always break at some point. Sooner or later someone will come along and shatter it anyway—might as well be you.” I pause, my heart beating wildly in my chest as Oliver’s gaze turns serious, and I find myself mesmerized by it, and trying to back my way out of its intensity. “Besides,” I continue, looking at Mae again. “I know the girl who made it. If it breaks, I can get you a new one.” I wink and clap my hands together. “Now let’s talk about paint!”

Oliver’s eyes burn holes into me for the next hour, but I refuse to look at him again. The kids paint different things: Mae a heart, Mike the LA Lakers logo, Danny a fish. They all get comfortable with the brush and the canvas in front of them. I make my way around the room, helping them perfect their strokes and learn how to control the weight of their hands. When the time comes for them to go back to their rooms, they thank me, and each says they are looking forward to their next session. I feel relieved and warm inside, which lasts all of three minutes before Oliver pushes himself away from the wall and walks to where I am busying myself cleaning up the room.

“Shattering hearts,” he comments, his teeth grinding. “It’s fitting.”

“They’re not shattering hearts, they’re kaleidoscope hearts,” I correct him.

“What’s the difference? You make them with broken pieces.”

I inch forward, standing close enough to feel his warm breath on my face, when I tilt my head to glare at him, my hands making tight balls at my sides.

“The difference is that it’s already broken, but I use the pieces to rebuild it. The difference is that the heart has a second chance, and maybe it’ll get broken again, but it’s already shattered, so maybe the fall won’t be as bad.”

His eyes search my face as if he’s looking for another answer. We stare at each other for a long time—long enough for my breath to quicken and my heart to begin to burn. Long enough for him to cup the back of my neck with his nimble fingers and pull my face to his abruptly, smashing his lips to mine. My resolve leaves me quickly, as my hands thread through his hair. I pull, begging him to come closer, as our tongues dance around each other in a passionate tango. He groans deeply into my mouth, and I feel it travel down my body to my pelvis, where it simmers. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed like this. I feel like I’m floating and drowning at the same time, taking a breath and being submerged with the next.

When we pull away, we’re both breathing heavily, and my face feels flushed. For a beat longer, I look at him—at his disheveled dark hair and the five o’clock shadow he rocks like nobody’s business. My gaze wanders over his plump lips and slightly crooked nose, to the shallow dimple on his chin and the intense green eyes that cast me under a spell so long ago. When the reality of our shared kiss catches up to me, it hits me quickly, like a foul ball out of nowhere, and I back away from him.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” I say, rushing past him before he can react. He doesn’t come after me, and that’s just as well, because even if a part of me wished he did, I didn’t expect him to. He never does.

Past

THERE’S A LOT to be said about evolution and the way beauty sometimes blossoms from the most unlikely ducklings. That’s how I felt about Estelle when I went home for summer break that year. I had just finished dropping off Jenson and Junior’s drunken asses and had parked in front of Vic’s house. He wasn’t in much better shape than they were. I’d given up drinking that year after learning what it did to your liver. The guys had given me shit about it all night, taking bets as to how long my drinking hiatus would last, as I nursed the same beer I’d gotten hours before. While they were busy getting wasted and hitting on a few questionable girls that would, for sure, make them cringe tomorrow morning, I’d been making mental plans with Trish as her face bobbed between my legs. She was not a questionable hook up. She was a model, and practically every man’s Playboy fantasy come to life.