One Good Thing (23 page)

I knew there would be arguments. I knew it wouldn’t always be perfect. But I wanted the imperfection, too.

We drove through a housing addition, pulling up to a small one-story house with red shutters and a tidy square yard.

“How much time do we have?”

“My dad picked one of the longer movies,” Evan said, glancing at his phone to check the time. “About three hours, maybe.”

Evan carried in the box, while I did the lightweight task of holding open the front door. I followed him through and glanced around the living room. It was a cozy house—a fireplace took up one of the side walls of the living room; two plush armchairs faced the fireplace and a sofa was pointed toward the TV on an adjacent wall.

I moved closer to the fireplace when I saw pictures lining the brick mantel. “Is this your senior picture?” I asked, holding up a professional photo of a young Evan wearing a pair of black rectangular glasses. His teeth were smooth and straight—he’d gotten his braces off by that point.

“Yeah.”

“You look good in glasses,” I exclaimed.

“No, I don’t.”

“You look studious.”

“I look like a dork.”

Did he look like a dork? I peered at the photo more closely. I didn’t think so. But maybe it was because I was so close to him. Like he’d once told me, I liked all his guises.

After the tree was assembled—and just barely missed brushing the ceiling—we opened up old boxes of ornaments. There were a bunch of different ones, all piled together, sort of like a collection of memories. The first one I pulled out was a Santa Claus figurine that looked like it might be winking at me.

“Do you ever think that Santa is kind of disturbing?” I asked.

Evan knelt down on the floor next to me and looked at the ornament. “No, why?”

“Like what is that twinkle in his eye all about?”

Evan looked like he was struggling not to laugh. “His eyes twinkle because he’s full of Christmas spirit.”

“If that’s a euphemism for hard liquor,” I said, eyeing Santa’s rosy cheeks, “I think he’s had way too much Christmas spirit.” I went to the tree to hang the ornament but decided to put it toward the back, where it wouldn’t frighten small children and animals.

“Thanks for ruining Santa for me,” Evan said.

“You still believed in him, huh?”

He threw a handful of tinsel at me in response (which fluttered to the ground, missing by about three feet), and then continued rummaging through the box. A few seconds later, he came forward with a spherical Chicago Bears ornament.

“I got this for my mom about ten years ago. I didn’t know she still had it,” he said.

“You should put that at the front,” I said, feeling a little ache in my chest as I watched him smooth his thumb over the surface and then hang it carefully on a branch at the center.

By the time we were finished, the tree was laden with about fifty ornaments that didn’t match at all but that somehow provided a glimpse into the lives of his family.

Evan and I both agreed it looked perfect.

We spent the next hour decorating the rest of the living space. We put strings of lights across the entrances between rooms, and placed red and gold candles on the end tables and dining room table. Then we lined the mantel and other surfaces with tinsel.

Evan was searching through one remaining box when he pulled out a sprig of dark plastic leaves with red berries. He held it above his head, trying to look innocent.

I laughed. “You know that’s holly, right? Mistletoe has white berries.”

“Shit,” he said. “I was hoping you were color-blind.”

That made me laugh harder. But my pulse felt a little erratic. I was pretty sure he was only messing around, and I really didn’t want to complicate things, but I leaned forward and pressed a light kiss against his cheek, because I really, really wanted to kiss him.

I mean, there was nothing sexual or confusing about a cheek kiss, right? Grandmas gave their grandkids cheek kisses all the time. Although, I definitely didn’t feel grandmotherly toward Evan.

“That’s for trying,” I said lightly.

He looked at me for a long moment, just long enough for me to wonder if I’d totally misjudged, when he smiled. “That’s a pretty good consolation prize.”

“Thanks,” I said, tucking a tendril of hair behind my ear self-consciously.

When we were done, we turned off the main lights, turned on the decorations, and looked at our work.

The living room glowed and shimmered. I could imagine it with the fireplace on, walking in from a cold night to be greeted with warmth and light.

“It’s great,” Evan said.

“We’re not a bad team, are we?”

He turned to face me, his eyes glittering in the half-light. “Did you want to stay?”

I hesitated. “No, I don’t think I should.” It wasn’t because I didn’t want to though. “Your mom isn’t expecting any company. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Evan called a taxi for me and walked me out. He paused with his hand on the side of the car as I slid down to the seat. “Thanks for helping me.”

“It was no problem,” I said softly.

And then he shut the door and stepped back. I looked out the back window as the taxi driver pulled away, wondering if this was the last memory I would have of Evan, of us together. An afternoon of putting up Christmas decorations, of laughter and playfulness, of him standing on the sidewalk of his parents’ house, growing smaller as I moved farther away.

He called me later that night, and I answered on the first ring.

“Did she like it?”

“She started crying.”

My hand tightened around the phone until I thought it might break. “Oh my God. I’m sorry—”

He laughed, cutting me off. “No, she started crying, and then she told me it looked beautiful. I think she was happy.”

I drew in a deep breath. “That’s good.” I heard someone say his name on the other end of the phone. “Are you still with your parents?”

“Yeah, my dad’s trying to cook. I should probably help him or he’ll start a fire.”

“That would be a bad end to the day.”

And when we said good-bye, I stood by the kitchen counter with my phone in my hand, staring down at it for a long time. Whatever the future held, I would always remember that good-bye.

*

The holidays came and went, and I didn’t see Evan again. We texted occasionally, but he was spending most of his time with his parents, and I didn’t want to distract him.

On the morning before I left my mom’s house, after my grandparents and aunt and uncle had gone, I sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee with my mom while Sienna slept in. We browsed through the after-Christmas ads and pointed out things we wanted, even if we never bought them.

I leaned back after a few minutes, looked around the house I’d grown up in—the oak cabinets and the bookshelves in the living room that still contained most of my poetry collection because it wouldn’t fit at Alyssa’s apartment, the Picassoesque painting I’d done for my mom that she’d kept in the same spot for years—it felt as if I hadn’t lived there in ages, when really it had been less than twelve months. There were a lot of memories of my father associated with this house that I’d managed to push to the back of my mind.

“There was a picture of Dad when he was little,” I began. My mom paused instantly, looking up from the ad. “With a dog. Do you still have that?”

“It’s in the box with all of the photo albums,” she said. She said it quietly, like one abrupt movement or noise might scare me away.

“Do you know what the dog’s name was?”

“Friday,” she said with the slightest smile. “He told me he’d just watched
Robinson Crusoe
when his parents bought the dog, so he was stuck with the name.”

“Do you …” I cleared my throat. “Could I have the picture?”

“Sure. You can have any picture you’d like,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll look through them today.”

She peered at me over her coffee cup, probably thinking I was in the middle of some sort of crisis.

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?” I asked, breaking up the silence that had descended on us.

She tilted her head as she observed me. And then, after a moment, she said, “I’m not opposed to the idea, but I think it would be hard. I don’t know.” She lifted her hands up with a laugh. “I guess I’ll just have to see what happens.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “So you mean there actually
are
things you don’t plan for?”

She leaned her elbows on the armrests. “Be nice.” But then she said, more seriously, “There are some things you
can’t
plan for.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I know what you mean.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Sienna croaked, stumbling into the room with tousled hair and her pajamas askew.

“Geeze, Sienna, did you steal Grandma’s brandy last night?”

She glared at me and I laughed.

When Christmas was over, and I was ensconced in my apartment again, I laid out my paintbrushes and mixed my colors. Evan’s words were with me when I painted the first strokes on the canvas:
There are worse things than failure. Lots of people fail. All the time.
Relief flooded me as a picture began to take shape. It was the same feeling as stepping past the threshold of my mom’s house after a long absence, like I’d come back to a place that was part of my soul.

I didn’t know if what I painted would be as good as what I’d done for the exhibit. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe when I’d worried that I would never do anything better, I was right. But for once it didn’t matter. I painted for myself again, not for anyone else, not for some art critic from the
Tribune
who didn’t know a thing about me.

And that one difference changed everything, allowed me to let go of the fear that had tied my hands.

First, I painted my dad and Friday from the photo I’d found in my mom’s storage boxes, and when I was finished I laid it in my closet, knowing it was one I wouldn’t try to sell. Then, nearly as soon as the first project was done, I started on something new.

*

I spent New Year’s alone in the apartment with Princess as my only company, working on my painting. I’d already thrown out two versions of it because I hadn’t captured exactly what I’d wanted.

Evan texted me just before midnight:
At my parents’ house on New Year’s Eve, waiting for the ball to drop. Am I a loser?

I’m with Princess. That must make me a bigger loser.

You didn’t tell me you were going to be alone.

I glanced in the mirror—my hair was in a haphazard ponytail and there was blue paint smeared across my forehead and my ratty white T-shirt. All in all, I didn’t look fit for human companionship. Princess had even run off to hide at some point in the evening.

I’m working on a project.

He didn’t respond to that text as quickly.
Are you painting?

I smiled as I responded, looking at the canvas in front of me, the shapes that were starting to form.
Yes.

Do I get to see it?

When it’s finished, not before.

You’re cruel.

But sexy?
I typed.

But sexy.

I realized my cell phone clock had just changed to midnight.

Happy New Year.

*

Less than a week later, I finished the painting. I stepped back from it, looked at it from different angles, but I couldn’t be objective. I couldn’t look at it analytically; I’d poured my soul onto this canvas.

I’d used watercolors instead of the bolder oils I usually preferred. It was soft and airy, dreamlike pinks and blues and beiges. I’d painted a scene from memory—the night Evan and I had spent at the apartment on the pull-out couch. The view was above us, looking down, as we faced each other and he traced my smiling lips with his fingers because he couldn’t see without contacts.

His expression was serious, seeking, and mine was one of pure, unprecedented happiness.

Now that it was done and finished drying, now that the canvas conveyed exactly what it was meant to, I knew I had to show it to him. I didn’t know if it was the right time or not. I didn’t know what his reaction would be. But I couldn’t wait forever, no matter how scared I was.

Are you at home?

He texted back a few minutes later:
Yes, why?

Stay there.

And then I started banging around in the closet, searching for my coat and hat and gloves. Alyssa came out from the kitchen when she heard me.

“You know there’s an ice storm coming.”

Actually, I didn’t. I’d been too caught up finishing the watercolor. “I haven’t heard any rain yet. Can I borrow your car?”

“You actually want to go out now?”

“It’s really important,” I said. I wasn’t beyond begging if it was necessary.

“I guess,” she capitulated. “Just be careful.”

A few minutes later I was driving on nearly deserted city streets with the painting resting next to me on the passenger seat. The clouds hung low in the sky, a deep, angry gray, and a sleeting rain began to ping off the windshield.

I’d predicted it would take about twenty minutes to get to Evan’s house, but that twenty minutes turned into an hour as I inched along ice-covered roads, my foot barely touching the gas pedal.

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel, my knuckles white. I noticed a car had spun off the road and gotten stuck on the sidewalk. The driver was long gone. I should have been regretting not staying safely at the apartment.

But I’d gone too far to turn back. And I didn’t really want to turn back anyway.

Evan’s house was dark when I pulled up; I slid as I turned into the driveway, coming perilously close to the ditch. I pried my fingers off the wheel with a gust of breath; I didn’t think I’d ever been so relieved to reach a destination.

I held the painting in one hand as I walked in baby steps over the ice, my arms out for balance.

My throat was tight with anticipation as I hit the doorbell.

Just when I thought he wouldn’t answer, when despair and cold were seeping into my bones in equal amounts, the door swung open.