Livvy (10 page)

“Model for me then. In private.”

“No,” I laugh.

“Then indulge me, please.” I keep walking, looking for something that inspires me. “And yeah, it’s kind of my thing, to see beauty and capture it. I see the world a little differently.”

“I think I do, too,” I tell him.

“I think you interpret the world differently. That’s not the same. I think you see things at face value, but then your mind processes the ordinary and makes it something extraordinary. That’s why your artwork is so successful. You can take everyday emotions and spin that into a visual representation that you challenge others to interpret. Your work is very smart. But you don’t just make people think, you make them feel something.”

“Thanks. That’s quite a compliment.” I pull an old book off of a shelf, noticing its discolored spine.
Dostoevsky
. The pages are stiff and brittle. “Didn’t Dostoevsky write
The
Brothers Karamazov
?”

Emmanuel takes the book from me and sets it back on the shelf. “Were you speaking English just now?”

“Yes,” I laugh, reaching for the book again. He puts his hand on mine.

“When Professor Murphy said to find something ordinary, she didn’t mean ugly.”

“This is not ugly,” I correct him, gripping the novel once more. “It’s just old.” I turn to the title page to see the date it was published.
First edition. 1922. And it’s signed.
“Really old.”

“Well, we could do something interesting with the lighting and the pages. Maybe curl them–”

“Are you kidding? No. We’re not doing anything with these pages. In fact, we’re not photographing it at all, but I might buy this.”

“We have thirty minutes left,” he says.

“Hold this. I’m going to find something in here.” I hand him the book and start wandering toward the back where they have writing instruments and stationary supplies. An old, rusty pencil sharpener catches my eye. I pick it up and start walking toward a small reading area that has an antique side table with a Tiffany lamp. The light produces a soft, cool glow. “Do you think I should use a macro lens?” I ask him.

“Frame it,” he says, walking toward me as he carefully thumbs through the book. “Look through your viewfinder. If that’s not the picture you want, you can try another lens.”

“Is this everyday enough?”

“I like it,” he says. “It’s gritty and vintage. Are you going to shoot in color or black and white?”

“I think black and white would be too obvious. Oh, you know what might be cool?” I ask him.

“What?”

“Can you hold the lamp up? What if I lit it through the colored glass? That might give it a little more personality.”

“Now you’re thinking,” he says as he sets the book down on a nearby bench. He picks up the lamp, standing in between it and the only salesperson in the store. She may not like us handling her antique this way. After trying it with my standard lens, I switch to my macro.

“This is cool,” I tell him, noticing how the warm reds pop off the worn metal.

“Balance the camera on the chair arm,” he suggests. “With the lighting in here, you won’t be able to hold it steady on your own.”

“I have a pretty steady hand,” I tell him. As a painter, I have to. I tuck my arms as he’d taught me and snap a few pictures. The third one is perfect. I zoom in to make sure it’s in focus, reading the etched brand name and noting all the scratches around it. “I’m done.”

“You don’t want to let me be the judge?”

“I can see beauty, too.”

“I’m sure you can,” he concedes as he picks up the book again. “Hey, you sure you want to buy this? It’s three-hundred dollars.”

“It’s priceless,” I correct him. Jon would cherish it. Jon would see its beauty, even if he can no longer see mine. The fact that I can’t deny myself this purchase reminds me of the hope I have... through the anger and frustration I have for Jon, hope underlies it all. “And yes.”

After I pay, I put my camera away and follow Emmanuel out of the store. My phone starts to vibrate in my backpack, and I struggle to get it out in time. “Dad?”

“What did you buy?” he asks.

“Huh?” I stop walking, touching Emmanuel on the arm to stop him, too.

“Three-hundred-eighteen dollars, Livvy. What did you buy?”

“How do you know that?”

“I get alerts.”

“You never cared before,” I tell him.

“You never owed me money before, either,” he explains. “You can’t go around spending money like that when you have bills to pay for the loft.”

“Daddy, it’s a first edition book. It’s special.”

“What book?”

“Some Dostoevsky thing,” I tell him.

“How special can it be when you just called it a
thing
?” He sounds annoyed.

“Dad, it’s a gift for someone.” I won’t tell him who, not here, and not now.

“Tessa, if it’s for Jon–”

“No, it’s not,” I lie. “I don’t want to get into the details, I just had to have it, okay?”

“If you can afford it,” he says.

“I can, Dad. I have savings, remember?”

“And you can’t blow through it in a year, remember?” he counters.

“I know this.” I sigh into the phone. “Are you really going to monitor all of my spending now?” I whisper, a little embarrassed.

“I sure am,” he says. “Someone’s got to teach you how to maintain a budget. That’s one thing I know we didn’t do well when you were living at home.”

“Fine, Daddy. I have to go, I’m kind of in class–”

“You’re shopping,” he corrects me.

“Yes, but I’m on a photo assignment. I swear. Emmanuel’s right here–”

“Hi, Mr. Holland!” Emmanuel says as he comes closer to the phone.

“Tell him hello.”

“I will. Can I call you later?”

“Sure thing, Contessa. Have a good afternoon. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“You have a billionaire father and he’s nagging you for three-hundred dollars?”

“He is,” I tell him as I put my phone away again. We cross the street together, and he takes my hand in his.

“What if someone in our class sees us?” I ask him.

“Girls will be jealous of you. Guys will be jealous of me. It all equals out.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, but I also don’t care. You sure as hell shouldn’t. You won’t get in trouble.”

“Will you?”

“We’re just holding hands,” he says. “If I convince you to make out with me in class, then we might have a problem.”

“Oh, okay.” We walk back into the art building and head down the hall toward the class. As we get closer, he lets go of my hand. He’s not as brazen as I thought he was.

He opens the door for me and asks me a question as I walk inside the auditorium. “Who’s the book for?” When I look at him, I can tell he suspects it’s for a guy.

“Just an old friend,” I lie.

“Must be a good friend,” he says softly as he follows me to my seat.

“She is.”

I simply have to check in with our professor before she dismisses me for the day, reminding me of the editing restrictions before I leave the room. I tell Emmanuel goodbye on the way out.

“You’re forgetting something,” he says. “Where is this party on Saturday?”

“Oh, right.” Before I can even reach for a pen, he pushes a piece of notebook paper and a pencil toward me. I don’t even know the exact address, so I just write down the cross streets, letting him know it’s the second building on the southeast corner. “Francisco’s the door man. Just tell him you’re there to see me.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

I smile nervously. “Me, too.”

I’m surprised to find my dorm room empty that afternoon. Katrina had a journalism class, and I thought Rachelle would beat me back after photography. She’s left a note on my desk, reminding me that she was going out to dinner with her parents for her mother’s birthday.

Packing up my brushes and changing clothes, I decide to spend the evening painting. I stop by the dining hall first to have some dinner, choosing a small table and sitting with my back to the rest of the room. I pull out the book I’d bought for Jon and inspect it closely. It’s in remarkably good condition, and although it was an amazing find, I wonder again why I bought it. He doesn’t deserve it... not as a gift from me, anyway. I shouldn’t have bought it.

This can’t be over. It simply can’t be.
I get choked up quickly, losing the desire to eat as I read over a few passages. He loves Dostoevsky. He would love this book, but I can’t buy back his love.
Why do I want it, anyway?

Could I just give this to him, as a friend? I have to. He should have it. I have to tell myself over and over again to stop wanting anything in return. I shouldn’t give him this book until I know that I won’t.

At the empty studio, I leave the overhead fluorescents off, opting for my desk lamp to provide the lighting for work tonight. I remove the yellow smock from its hanger and put it on carefully, ceremoniously. I never thought an article of clothing would mean more to me than the smock-dress I used to paint in, but I cherish this gift from Jon. I’d gotten a ton of compliments on it, too, with many of my new friends asking where I’d gotten it.
From a friend. Just a friend.

I blend the colors carefully, but quickly, anxious to put my brush on the canvas. The strokes today are haphazard and uncontrolled, mimicking my emotions. What am I doing with Emmanuel? Why does he make me feel that way? Is he just different, and exciting to me because of that? Or is there something there? If ever I thought of myself with a “type,” he certainly doesn’t fit the mold. But what’s my type? Jon? Can one man embody everything that I want in a boyfriend? Or rather, can
only
one man embody everything that I want? Is it fair to look for Jon’s traits in Emmanuel? Is it fair to be disappointed that they’re not there?

I know I’m loading the brush with too much paint. I know this, but I want to coat the canvas, leaving no evidence of the cloth beneath the pigment. That means I’ll have to let it dry a little before adding another layer. I finish the base, a gradual blend of light blue, light green and deep brown. I turn on the fan I’d set up to keep me cool and point it on the canvas, hoping it will dry sooner.

Taking a seat on my stool, I pick up a pencil with the intention of sketching so I can focus on something other than Jon, other than Emmanuel, other than these conflicted feelings that have me more confused than I’ve been in a long time.

I love Jon. I hate him for what he’s done to us, but I still love him, and I still think I always will. What I feel for Emmanuel is different. It’s not
love
. It’s curiosity. It’s instability. It’s unfamiliar. It’s want, and it’s the desire to be wanted. It’s vengeful. It’s
lust
.

Lust
. Do I really want a relationship like that with Emmanuel? Could I see myself with him that way? Could I trust him enough to try that? He seems unpredictable and fickle. Maybe even a little shallow. I don’t doubt that he likes me. I’m just not sure I’d be the
only
one he liked. Nor am I sure what he likes
about
me.

I was always certain with Jon. I knew I never had to be afraid of him liking someone else more than me. When we were together, I never saw anyone else, either. And yet my actions made it look like I
did
like someone else more. But it wasn’t like that with Finn. It would never be like that with Finn.

Jon and I are meant to be together.
I don’t know how we can ever get back to that point–how I can ever let him back into my life–but I feel it in my gut that we are meant to be together.

I want a future of certainty. When I see myself in five or ten years, Jon is there. Jon is steadfast. Jon is true. But how can I think that when he walked away like he did? There’s nothing steadfast or true about that.
If he loves me like I love him, how can he stay away from me?

Under the spotlight of my lamp, I break down and cry. Grateful no one else is in the studio, I don’t hold back. Easing down onto the floor, my knees pulled into my body, I wrap my arms around myself tightly, trying in vain to hold myself together. I’m shattered, though. I may look like a whole person, but I don’t feel like it today. I’m shorn, fragments of who I used to be.

Pull yourself together, Livvy!
I
am
complete and whole. Rationally, I know this, but this solitude allows the sadness to seep in and makes me doubt everything I’ve worked so hard to become... a woman who doesn’t need a man to feel whole, to feel special, to feel cherished, to feel desired, to feel loved.

I am all those things, alone. Without anyone. And I want someone who lets me be that, too. I know Jon wanted me to be more self-sufficient. And here I am, having accomplished that, and he’s nowhere around to even see me.