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Chapter 1
The walls were too white, too simple to tolerate. At first it was just the bedroom, the wall opposite the bed. It glared in the dark as I lay awake, unable to sleep. It mocked me with its lack of pictures and history. It said, “You have nothing. And you are alone.” A few days, a trip to the art shop, eighteen middle-of-the-night hours and twenty brushes destroyed and discarded fixed that. The glaring white was replaced by powerful, beautiful friends and allies who could watch over me while I slept through dreamless nights. Symbols of hope and balance, of protection and ancient magicks. Two days later, it was the bathroom. Then the living room wall by the fireplace. That one took a week. Bright acrylics splashed across doorframes, ivy vines winding down the hallway into the kitchen, hours upon hours of therapy painting. I had nothing but my colors and my brushes, my rags and my dad’s tattered Vietnam-era Army shirt to comfort me at night. My phone rang frequently—friends worried about me. I rarely answered. E-mails flooded my inbox. I opened them only if they were work-related. It wasn’t that I didn’t care or appreciate their concern;, it was that I was tired of the words of advice that sounded like regurgitated bullshit they got from a movie or self-help book. The same words I had spoken so many times before and never realized how hollow they sounded until it was my turn to be on the receiving end. The hardwood floors were covered with yellowed newspapers, splattered with paint, tape barely holding the pages down while I paced barefoot and smoked my cigarettes indoors despite my vow not to do so. Like so many other things, my willpower had gone to shit. I’d told my friends I could handle this. I’d be fine. It won’t kill me. Don’t worry about me. I’m a strong and independent woman. I’d get through it. I knew damned straight that most people can only tolerate a grieving person for so long, and I’d reached the limit with many of the people close to me. “Jordan,” they’d say, “It’s time to move on and let it go. You said you two ended things on good terms. And anyway, weren’t you the one who did the breaking up?” Or, “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to deal with it. And soon.” Even worse: “Make some plans. Get out more. You’ll meet someone and it’ll get better.” Hi, my name is Jordan Coones, and I don’t give a shit what you think I should do. It’s my life. And everybody is on her own timeframe. And there’s no time- limit for getting over a woman you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. So screw anybody who says otherwise. Sixty-eight days and counting. Sixty-seven dreamless nights. Two months, a week, and a few days to get my head straight about the whole mess. No, I hadn’t bought new furniture. No, I hadn’t put up pictures, unpacked all my boxes, or tried to see anyone new. And yes, I ran over that night in my head. Every word. Every look. Over and over and over again. It had been the right thing to do. No doubt about it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to hurt or make me feel guilty for being the destroyer of hopes and dreams. That’s how I felt—wrong or not. And that’s what tortured me at night. My life was an unstructured mess of talking myself out of bed, snagging what gigs I could and painting murals in rich families’ homes for their spoiled children. Little sailboats for boys, rainbows and fairytale castles for girls. An occasional mural on the side of a grungy bar to class it up a bit. Every once in a while, a gig would let me be more artistic. I treasured those and charged less than my regular rate to ensure I got them. I was always covered and smelling of paint when I came home, scrubbed it off in the rickety tub of the old duplex, then got the stuff all over myself again at night. I am completely in love with the smell of paint. It was the most productive I’d been in years. It was good work—adventurous, honest, and passionate art. No more holding back. I was painting for myself. And yet… Days blurred together, no matter my attempts to keep them all separate. The dust hadn’t settled yet in the recent upheaval, and I was already itching for something big to happen. Anything to shake things up and get me out of my self-pity routine. Sometimes, when it was too quiet in the duplex, I’d pick up the phone and call my ex—we’d promised not to sacrifice the friendship—and we’d talk for hours. We weren’t doing nearly as bad as we could have been. We were functioning, sort of, which was good enough. We could usually hold a conversation without too much bitterness or blame surfacing. That night, it was mid-May, wonderfully mild for Texas, sixty-eight days after the night I chose to end it for our mutual happiness, when she called me to tell me the news. “Jordan, we need to talk. It’s important. Can I come over?” I looked at the disaster zone that was my living room. I thought about what a neat-freak she was and how she’d always been on my case about paints and newspapers littering the second bedroom. It made me snicker. “Yeah, of course.” A few seconds ticked by as I finished my cigarette and put it out in the overflowing ashtray next to the fresh canvas I’d picked up that morning, intending to paint the night away since all the walls were covered. I looked at the mountain of butts and tried to picture her reaction. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. I could see her disapproving look, could imagine her nose scrunched as she stood and surveyed the empty wine bottles littering the floors, could hear the lecture in my head as clearly as though she were standing there already. “Oh, hell.” I opened a few windows to get some of the smoke out, sprayed some air freshener, and marched into the kitchen to find a trash bag. Twenty minutes later, sweating and breathing a little too fast from scrambling to make the place presentable, I opened the door to her familiar knocking. Too late, I felt the light breeze on my bare legs and realized I was still in my dad’s Army shirt and little else. I grinned at her, embarrassed, and told her to make herself comfortable while I went to put some pants on. I watched her look around the room, searching for a place to sit. “I’m gonna make us some tea,” I announced when I returned, properly clothed. She just nodded, her fingers knitted together in her lap, her eyes not meeting mine. She’d found a paint-free spot on the floor and sat cross-legged against the wall. I had to force myself not to let the ice flood my chest and numb my mind. If she wouldn’t even look at me, the news had to be something I wouldn’t like. No matter what had happened between us, and even though we’d decided to limit our contact for a while, we could always talk reasonably comfortable and honest when face-to-face. What-ifs raced through my mind as I boiled the water and prepared the mugs. For a split -second, I wondered if she’d found someone new. It wasn’t even that surprising that not a single spark of jealousy surfaced. I wanted my Alex to be happy, and I couldn’t give her that. Maybe somebody else could. We needed something calming, I thought, and chose chamomile for this particular night. She took the steaming mug and set it down on the newspapers. She looked up and down the walls, a small smile curling her lips. I had forgotten that she hadn’t seen what I’d done to the place. Neither had my landlord, which was fortunate. “I think you’re getting better,” she said simply. “Love the Ganesh in the corner.” “Thanks.” Awkward silence filled the room. To be honest, I’d expected more of a reaction out of her. The urge to light another cigarette was overwhelming. I started tearing at the newspaper on the floor, needing something to do with my hands. “So, what’s going on?” I finally broke the silence. She cleared her throat and laughed nervously. “I have something to tell you,” she began and faltered. “I got that when you called. So spit it out.” “You’re not going to like it …” “Try me.” She sighed and took a sip from her mug, her eyes finally meeting mine. She’d never been good at this kind of thing—making announcements of importance. The hesitancy always made it worse for me. I began to grind my teeth, choked the demanding words back, knowing it would only take her longer to spill the beans if I pushed too much. Finally, “It’s unexpected, and… uh… a good opportunity for me.” She paused and smiled softly, almost tenderly apologetic. “I got a promotion, and I’m moving to Phoenix.” For a few seconds, all the air left the room and was replaced by something too heavy to breathe. Words refused to move past my throat, though plenty wanted to break free. Angry words. Happy words. Confused words. I coughed and cleared my throat. “Okay,” was all I could say. She sighed again and shifted as though she was going to move closer. “Don’t,” I told her, as anger finally broke through. I tried my best to squelch it but wasn’t strong enough to play the friend that night. “Good for you,” I nearly spat, took a deep breath, and tried to shift gears. “Really. Hope you’ll be happy there. I just thought we were going to stay close and salvage our friendship. That’s all. Guess I was wrong to hope I could keep you in my life.” Anger flashed in her eyes now. “And exactly what makes you think we can’t still be friends?” “Don’t pretend you thought I’d take this well. You said I wouldn’t like it. I don’t.” “It’s not for you to decide. I’m going. It’s done. I leave in a week.” Our eyes locked. I could feel the heat in my cheeks and the burning behind my eyes that meant the tears were on their way. There’d been too many tears lately. “I didn’t mean …” My voice cracked. “Damn it, Alex, I just wasn’t prepared for this, okay? I’m sorry if I’m not reacting the way you wanted me to. It’ll be okay. It has to be.” “Damned straight it has to be.” But it wasn’t going to be okay. Not for a long time. That moment, that announcement, made me feel like I’d taken ten steps back on my path to recovery. It made me want to toss her out of my sanctuary and curl up and cry. It felt like losing her all over again, like she wouldn’t be leaving if only I could have found it in myself to re-learn how to love her. And as those thoughts crossed my mind, the anger came back. What had made me hesitate most in ending our relationship was not indecisiveness or a reluctance to face reality and admit it was over. No, I got that. It was the friendship that I’d been so scared to lose. And now she’d be gone, just like that. I sat frozen, listening to her babble nervously about the new job, nodding when appropriate, asking simple questions about the move and where she’d be living. The ice kept starting to tingle in my toes and my fingertips, but I shoved it back angrily. I would not numb this out. It was a losing battle. By the time she left, I was shivering. I sat in front of the canvas and painted the worst painting I’d created in years. Four days, she told me. Four days to get decent enough to attend her going-away party, then help her move the next day. Four days to clean up enough to interact socially with our mutual friends, whom I’d been avoiding and ignoring for months. Two bottles of wine weren’t nearly enough to thaw me out. I’d been waiting for something to shake me up. Been dreading and longing for it, to be honest. And it had hit hard. That night, furiously slapping paint on the canvas with thick brushstrokes, I had no idea how overwhelming it was about to get. Help support lesbian literature. Let It Shine comes out in October 2008. Please let your local Borders Bookstore know that you'd like to see it on the shelf. Feedback? E-mail me at kimberlylafontaine@yahoo.com. |