Page 90 of Holiday Star
“Hey,” she drawls with a half wave from where she sits on my tiny couch, scrolling through her phone.
“Okay.” Caleb draws the syllables out, his forehead puckered with questions.
I laugh again, liking how it sounds coming out of my mouth. “They’re going to do our make-up.”
“Our make-up? For what?”
“For our date. These two will transform us, Caleb, make us into someone else. Someone unrecognizable.”
Understanding dawns on his face. “Ah, you mean like a disguise?”
“Exactly. Like a disguise. Like the scarves you wore when we went caroling, but even better. So, tell me. Who do you want to be today?”
Caleb grins at me, happy with this plan. His smile fades into an expression of wonder when he sees the dozen or so paintings that lean stacked against the wall behind my kitchen table.
“Gwen,” he breathes out, going over and crouching down to view them better. “You painted these?”
I nod and look at the pictures, trying to see them through his eyes. There’s no rhyme or reason to what I’ve painted. I’ve let inspiration lead whenever I have reached for the set of watercolors he gave me at Christmas.
I’ve painted landscapes of Central Park, a colorful picture of Pip, the faces of my patients. There’s even one abstract painting, a splash of random colors and shapes.
He looks the paintings over so thoroughly and for so long that it makes me nervous. It’s like exposing a piece of my soul every time I paint. I might not be ready to have Caleb see me that way, open and raw. The pain of our breakup is still sharp, making me want to protect myself.
My doubts fade when he says over his shoulder, “They’re amazing. I didn’t know you’re so talented.”
I hadn’t realized how much I craved his praise until that moment. His words bring a rush of confidence to me, a sense of possibility. It’s that same feeling, the one I had when my dad beamed at me after I won the science fair back in seventh grade.
“Thanks,” I murmur and glance away, overcome by emotion.
“Have you shown your mom or Uncle Seth these?”
“No. You’re the first person who’s seen them.”
“Well, I’m honored. Do you mind if I take a picture of this one?” He points to the painting I did of my patient, the elderly lady with hair like snow. “I want to have it, to look at sometimes. Would that be all right?”
I nod, as a swell of pride rises from my belly to fill my chest. To think that Caleb likes my work so much that he wants to carry it with him.
That’s a good feeling.
He goes back to the paintings, again flipping through the canvases slowly. A smaller one was hidden behind the others the first time he looked, but now it peeks out from the stack. I had forgotten it was there. Caleb draws it out and sinks onto his knees, running his fingers lightly over the words that I glued onto it months ago.
It’s the original art therapy project I did. The collage where I wrote down all the words that spoke to me.
Death, anxiety, fear, depression, abandoned, unworthy.
Caleb looks up at me, his features a blend of bafflement and compassion all mixed together. “This?This is how you feel?”
I nod, my eyes dropping to the floor. It’s too much to see that tortured twist of his mouth. I stare at the picture instead, where his finger strokes the word unworthy over and over.
My hands twitch by my sides as embarrassment washes over me, burning up my neck and splashing across my face. I want to rip that collage out of his hands and light it on fire. I want to crawl out of my skin, but I don’t. I’m trying to be real. To let him, and everyone important to me, see the person I am with all her flaws.
Just damn.It’s too painful to be vulnerable.
“I don’t really want to talk about it. I…it’s too hard to be this open with you right now,” I tell him honestly.
He looks away, his throat working, but he nods with understanding.
“Makeover time. Let’s go,” I say with false brightness, relieved to change the subject.
