Confess: A Novel (5 page)

“Good for you,” she says, genuinely impressed. I’ve never really tried to be impressive before, but she makes me a little bit proud of myself.

“Do you always have a set number of paintings available?”

I love that she’s so interested.

“No. One time, about three months ago, I opened with only one painting.”

She turns and faces me. “Why only one?”

I shrug, playing it off. “I wasn’t very inspired to paint that month.”

This isn’t entirely the truth. It was when I first began seeing Palindrome Hannah, and most of my time was spent inside of her that month, attempting to focus on her body and ignore the fact that I didn’t connect as much with her mind. Auburn doesn’t need to know any of that though.

“What was the confession?”

I look at her questioningly, because I’m not sure what she’s talking about.

“The one painting you did that month,” she clarifies. “What was the confession that inspired it?”

I think back to that month and back to the only confession I seemed to want to paint. Even though it wasn’t my confession, it somehow feels like it was now that she’s asking me to tell her what my only inspiration was for that entire month.

“The painting was called
When I’m with You, I Think of All the Great Things I Could Be If I Were Without You
.”

She keeps her focus on me and her eyebrows are furrowed as if she’s trying to get to know my story through this confession.

Her expression relaxes and keeps falling until she looks disturbed. “That’s really sad,” she says.

She glances away, either to hide that this confession bothered her or to hide that she’s still trying to decipher me through the confession. She glances at some of the paintings closest to us so that she’s not looking directly at me anymore. We’re playing a game of hide-and-seek and the paintings are home base, apparently.

“You must have been extremely inspired this month, because twenty-two is a big number. That’s almost a painting a day.”

I want to say, “Just wait until next month,” but I don’t.

“Some of these are old paintings. They weren’t all made this month.” I reach around her again, for the tape this time, but it’s different. It’s different because I accidentally touch her arm with my hand, and I haven’t actually touched her until now. But we definitely just made contact, and she’s absolutely real, and I hold on extra tight to the tape because I want more of whatever that was she just unintentionally delivered.

I want to say, “Did you feel that, too?” but I don’t have to because I can see the chills run up her arm. I want to put down the tape and touch one of those tiny bumps I just created on her skin.

She clears her throat and takes a quick step back into the expansiveness of the room and away from the closeness of us.

I breathe, relieved by the space she just put between us. She seems uncomfortable, and honestly, I was becoming uncomfortable, because I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that she’s actually here.

If I had to guess, I would say that she’s an introvert. Someone who isn’t used to being around other people, much less people who are complete strangers to her. She seems a lot like me. A loner, a thinker, an artist with her life.

And it appears as though she’s afraid I’ll alter her canvas if she allows me too close.

She doesn’t need to worry. The feeling is mutual.

We spend the next fifteen minutes hanging the numbers below each painting. I watch as she writes down the name of each confession on a piece of paper and correlates it with its number. She acts like she’s done this a million times. I think she might be one of those people who are good at everything they do. She has a talent for life.

“Do people always show up to these things?” she asks as we walk back to the counter. I love the fact that she has no idea about my studio or my art.

“Come here.” I walk toward the front door, smiling at her innocence and curiosity. It gives me a nostalgic feeling reminiscent of the first night I opened over three years ago. She brings back a little of that excitement, and I wish it could always be like this.

When we reach the front door, I pull away one of the confessions so she can take a peek outside. I watch her eyes grow wide as she takes in the line of people that I know are standing at the door. It didn’t always used to be like this. Since the front-page feature last year, word of mouth has increased the amount of traffic I get, and I’ve been very lucky.

“Exclusivity,” she whispers, taking a step back.

I attach the confession back to the window. “What do you mean?”

“That’s why you do so well. Because you restrict the amount of days you’re open and you can only make so many paintings in a month. It makes your art worth more to people.”

“Are you saying I don’t do well because of my talent?” I smile when I say this so she knows I’m only teasing.

She shoves my shoulder playfully. “You know what I mean.”

I want her to shove my shoulder again, because I loved the way she smiled when she did it, but instead she turns and faces the open floor of the studio. She draws in a slow breath. It makes me wonder if seeing all the people outside has made her nervous.

“You ready?”

She nods and forces a smile. “Ready.”

I open the doors and the people begin pouring in. There’s a big crowd tonight and for the first several minutes, I worry that this will intimidate her. But regardless of how quiet and a little bit shy she seemed when she first showed up here, she’s the exact opposite now. She’s flourishing, as if she’s somehow in her element, when this probably isn’t a situation she’s ever been in before.

I wouldn’t know that from watching her, though.

For the first half hour, she mingles with the guests and discusses the art and some of the confessions. I recognize a few faces, but most of them are people I don’t know. She acts like she knows all of them. She eventually walks back to the counter when she sees someone pull the number five down. Number five correlates to the painting titled
I went to China for two weeks without telling anyone. When I returned, no one noticed I’d been gone.

She smiles at me from across the room as she’s ringing up her first transaction. I continue to work the crowd, mingling, all the while watching her out of the corner of my eye. Tonight, everyone’s focus is on my art, but my focus is on her. She’s the most interesting piece in this entire room.

“Will your father be here tonight, Owen?”

I look away from her long enough to answer Judge Corley’s question with a shake of my head. “He couldn’t make it tonight,” I lie.

If I were a priority in his life, he would have made it.

“That’s a shame,” Judge Corley says. “I’m having my office redecorated, and he suggested I stop by to check out your work.”

Judge Corley is a man with a height of five feet six but an ego twice as tall. My father is a lawyer and spends a lot of time in the courthouse downtown, where Judge Corley’s office is. I know this because my father isn’t a fan of Judge Corley’s, and despite Judge Corley’s show of interest, I’m pretty sure he’s not a fan of my father’s.

“Surface friends” is what I call it. When your friendship is merely a façade and you’re enemies on the inside. My father has a lot of surface friends. I think it’s a side effect of being a lawyer.

I don’t have any. I don’t want any.

“You have exceptional talent, although I’m not sure it’s quite my taste,” Judge Corley says, moving around me to view another painting.

An hour quickly passes. She’s been busy most of the time, and even when she isn’t, she finds something to do. She doesn’t just sit behind the counter and look bored like Palindrome Hannah did. Hannah perfected the art of boredom, filing her nails so much during the two showings she worked for me, I’m surprised she even had nails left by the end of it.

Auburn doesn’t look bored. She looks like she’s having fun. Whenever there isn’t someone at the counter, she’s up and mingling and smiling and laughing at the jokes that I know she thinks are lame.

She sees Judge Corley approach the table with a number. She smiles at him and says something, but he just grunts. When she looks down at the number, I see a frown form on her lips, but she quickly shoves it away with a fake smile. Her eyes briefly meet the painting titled
You Don’t Exist, God
 . . ., and I immediately understand the look on her face. Judge Corley is buying the painting and she knows as well as I do that he doesn’t deserve it. I quickly make my way to the counter.

“There’s been a misunderstanding.”

Judge Corley looks at me, annoyed, and Auburn glances up at me in surprise. I take the number out of her hand. “This painting isn’t for sale.”

Judge Corley huffs and points to the number in my hand. “Well, the number was still on the wall. I thought that meant it was for sale.”

I put the number in my pocket. “It sold before we opened,” I say. “I guess I forgot to take down the number.” I wave toward the painting behind him. One of the few left. “Would something like this work for you?”

Judge Corley rolls his eyes and puts his wallet back in his pocket. “No, it won’t,” he says. “I liked the orange in the other painting. It matches the leather in my office sofa.”

He likes it for the orange. Thank God I saved it from him.

He motions for a woman standing several feet away and he begins walking toward her. “Ruth,” he says, “let’s just stop by the Pottery Barn tomorrow. There’s nothing here I like.”

I watch as they leave, then turn and face Auburn again. She’s grinning. “Couldn’t let him take your baby, could you?”

I let out a breath of relief. “I would have never forgiven myself.”

She glances behind me at someone approaching so I step aside and let her work her magic. Another half hour passes and most of the paintings have been purchased when the last person leaves for the night. I lock the door behind them.

I turn around and she’s still standing behind the counter, organizing the sales. Her smile is huge and she isn’t trying to hide it at all. Whatever stress she walked into this studio with, it’s not plaguing her right now. Right now, she’s happy and it’s intoxicating.

“You sold nineteen!” she says, almost in a squeal. “OMG, Owen. Do you realize how much money you just made? And do you realize I just used your initials in my sentence?”

I laugh because yes, I realize how much money I just made, and yes, I realize she just used my initials in a sentence. But it’s okay, because she was adorable doing it. She also must have a natural ability to conduct business, because I can honestly say I’ve never sold nineteen paintings in one night.

“So?” I ask, hopeful that this won’t be the last time she helps me. “You busy next month?”

She’s already smiling, but my job offer makes her smile even bigger. She shakes her head and looks up at me. “I’m never busy when it comes to a hundred dollars an hour.”

She’s counting the money, separating the bills into piles. She takes two of the one-hundred-dollar bills and holds them up, smiling. “These are mine.” She folds them and tucks them into the front pocket of her (or Palindrome Hannah’s) shirt.

My high from the night begins to fade the moment I realize she’s finished, and I don’t know how to prolong the time between us. I’m not ready for her to leave yet, but she’s tucking the cash away in a drawer and stacking the orders into a pile on the counter.

“It’s after nine,” I say. “You’re probably starving.”

I use this as an opening to see if she wants something to eat, but her eyes immediately grow wide and her smile disappears. “It’s already after nine?” Her voice is full of panic and she quickly turns and sprints for the stairs. She takes them two at a time; I had no idea she was capable of displaying so much urgency.

I expect her to come rushing back down the stairs with the same haste, but she doesn’t, so I make my way toward the stairs. When I reach the top step, I can hear her voice.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I know, I know.”

She’s quiet for several seconds, and then she sighs. “Okay. That’s okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

When the call comes to an end, I walk up the stairs, curious what kind of phone call could cause someone to feel so much panic. I see her, sitting quietly at the bar, staring at the phone in her hands. I watch her wipe away the second tear tonight, and I immediately dislike whoever was on the other end of that call. I don’t like the person who made her feel this way, when just a few minutes ago she couldn’t stop smiling.

She lays her phone facedown on the bar when she notices me standing at the top of the stairs. She isn’t sure if I saw that tear just now—I did—so she forces a smile. “Sorry about that,” she says.

She’s really good at hiding her true emotions. So good, it’s scary.

“It’s okay,” I say.

She stands up and glances toward the bathroom. She’s about to suggest that it’s time to change her clothes and go home. I’m scared if she does that, I’ll never see her again.

We have the same middle name
.
That could be fate, you know.

“I have a tradition,” I tell her. I’m lying, but she seems like the type of girl who wouldn’t want to break a guy’s tradition. “My best friend is the bartender across the street. I always go have a drink with him after my showings are over. I want you to come with me.”