Stubborn Love (2 page)

Three Years Later…

The blaring noise of the car horns surrounded me, causing the hair on my arms to stand up straight, as if it were my ‘spidey sense.’ I had only been in the city for a couple of weeks, and I wasn’t used to the constant chaos that seemed to surround me here. If I had my choice, I would have stayed with my mom in Indiana.

We moved there together after Ashton—well, just after. Mom had friends, from what she referred to as her ‘younger years,’ who lived on a hippie commune called The Grove. She loathed when I would call it a commune, arguing that just because a group of like-minded people decided to live together, working toward the betterment of each other’s lives, didn’t make the place a commune. Instead, she called it ‘a community of enlightened individuals.’

I should have thanked her; in a way, The Grove saved my life. The people there kept their distance, unlike back in Ohio, where I couldn’t walk down the street without someone asking me if I was all right, or if there was something they could do for me. It made me want to scream at the top of my lungs, “No you idiot, I’m not okay. My husband just blew his brains out, and it’s all my fault.” Instead, I smiled, playing the role of grieving widow as best I could.

The Grove was full of other broken people, just like me. Instead of questions, they simply offered acceptance. I was able to keep to myself, and some days I managed to get away without even seeing another living soul, besides my mother, of course. I managed to develop a routine. My mom would go to local markets and fairs with residents of our tiny community, selling goods they created. After a while, she offered to take some of my paintings to sell. It didn’t take long before I developed a following. I even started selling my work online, which allowed me to start a nice little savings account for myself.

When the day came for me to leave Indiana, my mom pointed out I had the same anxieties when I left the place that had been home for my entire life. She was right, though I could never tell her that because I was far too stubborn. The funeral had been hard. His dad kept pushing for answers, wanting to know what would have driven his son to such an end. I couldn’t tell him. How could I tell his father he lost his only child because of me—because I was leaving Ashton? I pushed him past his breaking point. I did this.

The entire burial process had been quite overwhelming for me. I went from the mindset that I was leaving Ashton, to planning all the details of his funeral. Once he was gone, it didn’t seem right to tell everyone what we had been going through. Nobody needed to know how messed up our relationship was; that would be my burden to carry now. I couldn’t figure out if I was pissed at him for doing this to me or at myself for what I had done to him.

The funeral week was a blur: what color casket, would you like a single tombstone or couples, will there be a wake with food? The questions were endless; at least Ashton took the decision of open or closed casket out of the equation. His closest friends put together a tribute video for the service and gave touching speeches about what an amazing man he was, including how much he loved me. It was complete bullshit. They carried the casket while his favorite R.E.M. song, “Find The River,” played in the background; I surprised even myself when I cried.

At first, everyone treated me like I was a wounded animal; they wanted to help me, protect me, and nurse me back to health. As time passed, things changed. They looked at me differently, and perhaps it was my own paranoia, but I think most of them figured I might as well have pulled the trigger. Who knows, maybe they were right?

My mom could see what was happening, the way the small town rumor mill was beginning to wear on me. I couldn’t stay in the house where Ashton had ended things. After the funeral, I handed the keys over to his father, as he had mostly paid for the home, and there was no possible way I could handle the process of selling it. It didn’t take me long to become somewhat of a hermit. I had suddenly become the girl who only left the house to go to work. A little more time passed, and I couldn’t even bring myself to go to work.

When my mom first told me she wanted us to move, I fought her. I told her I couldn’t leave. Honestly, I think part of me felt like I deserved the pain the town wanted to inflict on me. It didn’t take much pushing, though; I had very little fight left in me at that point.

I’ll never forget those first couple weeks at The Grove. I started going out of my mind. Ashton haunted my dreams—he was everywhere I looked. I didn’t know what to do. I changed my name back from Stirling to my maiden name, Hayes, in an attempt to regain a portion of my identity. Mom was the one who convinced me to pursue my studies through a distant learning program. It was the first thing she had suggested that made sense to me. I needed something to bury myself in—a distraction.

And it worked. I completed everything I could on my degree via correspondence in record time and still managed to find time to paint. Of course, it helped that mom refused to have a television when we moved. She claimed she was tired of all the negativity the rest of the world had to offer. It was shocking how much time the device had eaten up in the past.

Once I completed my correspondence courses I was left with a choice: I could accept a degree in art history and be done with it; or, if I wanted the fine arts degree that I had always aspired to earn, I would need to go to a physical university to complete my studio courses. If I buckled down, and worked hard, I knew I could finish in a year.

Applying was the easy part, though. I never thought I would actually get into either of the two schools I’d applied to. It is very easy to say you want something that might be scary, when deep down you think it is impossible. Courage comes from actually following through when the opportunity presents itself. An education primarily made up of distance learning, a patchy portfolio, at best, and the fact that I was now twenty-six years old, I was certain of the response I would receive. But then, if I applied, at least I could say I tried, and no one would ever be able to tell me I didn’t.

As part of the application process I was required to write an essay as to why I deserved one of the few spots available to Parsons School of New Design. I don’t actually remember writing the paper. That sometimes happened to me. Stuff about Ashton seemed to get put into boxes in my mind, tucked away onto dusty shelves, never to be thought about again. When the acceptance letter arrived, it said the essay had clenched it for me. I considered pulling it out and rereading what words had managed to open this door for me, but thought better of delving into those dusty boxes.

Which leads me to now. It was that quick. I had managed to build a quiet existence of solitude in the past few years, and now… now I was surrounded by chaos.

I thought finding an apartment would be easy; I was never so wrong about anything… well, except maybe for Ashton all those years ago? Classes started in two days, and though I had seen about thirty units, I was no closer to finding a place to live than the day I started. Though I had been saving money, it was quickly becoming evident that what I thought would be a nice sum to live on for a year, was nothing compared to the cost of living in New York.

“Are you getting in or not?” asked an impatient voice behind me.

I turned around to see the most ornately decorated girl I had ever laid eyes on. Her hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail on top of her head, pink stripes randomly placed throughout her platinum blonde hair. Her dress was a white retro cut A-line, adorned with cutout lace flowers. Climbing up both arms were brightly colored bracelets, and her four-inch red patent leather shoes caused her to tower over my five foot eight inch frame.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, confused by what she was asking.

Placing a hand on her hip, clearly annoyed, she clarified, “The taxi. You’ve had your hand on the door for the past five minutes. Are you getting in or not?”

“Oh—” Startled, I looked down and realized I had zoned out. This happened to me sometimes, as well. “I was headed to West 16th Street.”

“I didn’t ask your life story, hon.”

I looked at the girl, my face burning bright red. “Sorry.”

“Are you a nut job?” the girl inquired, giving my body the elevator look. I glanced down at myself, my bohemian skirt seemed to be hanging properly, my v-neck t-shirt had a stain from breakfast, but nothing I thought seemed too offensive.

“I don’t understand… What do you mean?” I questioned, looking back to the girl’s sparkling blue eyes.

“I have a shoot in the Meatpacking District. We can split the cab if you’re not a crazy.”

Remembering my quickly dwindling funds, I decided the idea had merit. Nodding, I climbed in, the slender blonde following me. We each gave our addresses to the cabbie.

“I’m Paige.” As the girl introduced herself I felt a wave of disappointment wash over me. Not that there was anything wrong with her name, but I had imagined something so much more exotic; perhaps Keira or Delphine.

“Clementine, but my friends call me Emmie,” I responded with a smile.

“Well, since I don’t really know you, I’ll call you Clementine,” Paige chimed, looking out the window.

Something was off about Paige, but I liked whatever it was. She was snarky. I could see how her humor could easily be mistaken for rudeness.

“So, where are you from?” she inquired, glancing in my direction.

Surprised she had so quickly made me for a tourist, I asked, “How do you know I’m not a New Yorker?”

“Please, I grew up here, the last thing you are is one of us. Not a bad thing, sweetheart, but I can spot a tourist a mile away.”

“I’m not a tourist,” I corrected her. “Not exactly. I’m moving here from Ohio, well, Indiana, to go to art school.”

“Which is it? Ohio or Indiana?”

I smiled. Paige was quick witted, which I liked. “I grew up in Ohio, but moved to Indiana a couple years ago.”

“Welcome hayseed,” Paige offered, before leaning forward and tapping on the cabbie’s window. “Come on! Do I look like an idiot?”

The man mumbled something under his breath before taking a sharp turn down a side street.

“You gotta watch some of these guys. They’ll take the highest traffic routes to jack up the fare on you,” Paige explained.

“I see, thank you,” I replied, taking note of her warning.

“Don’t get me wrong—most are honest—just saying, not all of them are, ya know?”

I nodded, but I didn’t know. I felt like I didn’t know much. Twenty-six years old, and all I seemed to understand was pain.

“Art school, huh?” Paige asked, which I assumed was her attempt at small talk.

Happy to not think about my past, or the pain I was trying to escape, I gladly engaged in the conversation. “Yeah, Parsons.”

“No shit?” Paige said, squinting and looking closely at me. “You a transfer student or something?”

I smiled. This girl said what she thought, and I liked that, too. She could tell I wasn’t fresh out of high school anymore. “Yeah, I needed to get my senior studios in. I’ve been looking at apartments, but no luck yet. I knew it was expensive out here, but I had no idea it was this insane. I’m still waiting on my living stipend from school to show up, too.”

I could see Paige’s ears perk up when she heard that I was receiving a stipend for living expenses.

“Do you mind roommates?” she asked quickly.

“No, I mean, not as long as I have my own space to work,” I answered. Based on the prices of the places I was finding, this was a much taller order than I had originally anticipated.

Paige reached over and grabbed the pencil that was resting inside the spiral casing at the top my sketchpad. Pulling it free, she scribbled a number on the front. “We might have a spot opening up in our loft.”

Just the sound of it—loft—it was so elegant, and so New York. “All right, I will, I mean—call you.”

A moment of silence lingered between us before my curiosity got the better of me. “So, are you a model or something? I mean, I don’t want to be nosey, but you said you had a shoot to get to.”

“No, I just like to dress up like Rainbow Brite for fun,” Paige answered with a serious face.

“Well, I like your look,” I said, unsure if I had offended her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me? This crap is so uncomfortable. These low budget jobs are incredibly annoying, but money is money, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” But I really had no idea what she was talking about. A low budget job versus a high budget—they both seemed glamorous to me.

“Some club is trying to act like they’re the new hip rave scene, and I get to go to a shoot and pretend to actually be having fun.” Paige stuck her finger down her throat to mimic a gagging motion.

“So—I take it’s not a cool place to go?”

“If you have to advertise you’re underground, then you’re about as far from underground as one can get. The wankers pay cash, so oh well.”

I had never actually heard anyone use the term ‘wanker,’ but I wished I could use it and sound as cool, however, I already knew I could not.

The cab screeched to a sudden halt. “150 West 16th Street.” Glancing at the total on the meter, I handed the cabbie my share and stepped out onto the street.

Paige leaned over before I closed the door, and inspecting the dingy street, she giggled then added, “I’ll expect your call.”

“Nice meeting you,” I said with a smile. The moment the door was closed, the cab pulled away from the street side. I turned, and flipping open my sketchbook, I glanced down at my apartment-hunting notes. I found the address, the notes scrolled next to it read: