Page 17 of Unreasonably Yours

Toni

Art supply stores should be required to post warning signs on the door: Contents may cause absolute loss of self-control. Enter at your own risk.

I'd already deposited a stack of canvas and a travel easel at the counter, and my hand basket was dangerously heavy.

Over the past week, I'd burned through the scraps of paint and canvas I brought with me. To be fair, that didn’t account for much. They were the dregs left over from my time with David.

A total restock was necessary. But did I really need the gold leaf?

I toss it in.

With each year I spent with David, I found myself creating less and less. Never replenishing things when I ran out, or him insisting I get rid of them. Reducing my footprint bit by bit to make space for...What? His rowing machine?

I also put copper leaf in my basket.

“Wow. Cheating on me, I see.” Jac, the barista I’d become friendly with over the last few weeks, takes a long sip from an iced drink, the logo of a different local coffee shop matching the one in my hand.

“Didn't realize we were in a monogamous situation.”

They laugh. “I would never! Not that I'm yucking anyone's yum.”

“Of course.”

“What'cha got going on here?” They peek into my basket.

I hold up my spoils, letting them paw through the contents. “A hefty credit card payment.”

“Do you have a project you're working on or just in it for the vibes?” It's a fair question given there's a bit of everything shoved in there. Watercolors and oils and gouache and brushes and charcoal...and...and...and...

“Both? I've always gravitated to whatever felt right for a piece rather than sticking to one medium.” One of the reasons I didn't major in visual arts. The other was that I didn't have a trust fund to fall back on.

They nod. “Can't wait to see where this ends up.” They hold up the gold leaf. “I'm a slut for shiny things.”

“Once I know, I’ll update you.”

“We rotate the art in the shop, ya know? You could show some of your stuff.”

I fight a grin. “You sure about that? I could be terrible.”

They give me a once-over. “I don’t buy that.”

“We'll see.”

“If you stick around?” I don't try to hide my surprise. “Cillian gave me the skinny last week. It's why I sent him with a free coffee.”

“To bribe me?”

“Whatever works.”

An awkward laugh slips out. “Why would it matter to you if I stay?”

They shrug. “You seem cool.”

“As a person hurtling toward her mid-thirties, who spent last night listening to Taylor Swift and drinking box wine, I'm going to hold onto that compliment for dear life.”

Jac bursts out laughing. “I'm only judging you a little for the T-Swift inclusion.”

“What happened to not yucking yums?” I ask.

“I . . . Ok, but . . .”

I loudly slurp my coffee while they try to find the words.

“Fine. If you agree to put one piece up in the shop, I'll let it go,” Jac relents.

“Deal.” I needed to stop making these bargains.

“Jac!” A skinny guy in patchwork overalls and a frohawk calls from the door.

“Shit. Right. I need rhinestones.”

“Fun!”

Jac bounces on the balls of their feet. “Actually, I'm performing at a drag show on Sunday. You should come! It's gonna be weird.”

“I love weird.”

They give me the info and sprint off. “See you Sunday!”

After three trips to unload my car of supplies and groceries, I'm hungry, sweaty, ready to collapse in front of the window unit for a while, and to my absolute surprise, happy. And excited. And inspired. I can’t remember the last time this heady combination danced in my veins.

I turn on the AC, but rather than collapse, I fish out Heartbreak Express by Dolly Parton. It’s an old vinyl—one I’m pretty sure I stole from my mom’s collection when I moved out—but the rough state just adds texture to the sound.

As the record plays, the groceries get put away, and not just the refrigerator items either.

Everything. The dishes that had been drying on the counter for a week find their place in the cabinets.

I even pull a few more kitchen items—mostly coffee-related—from the boxes they'd been hiding in and find them homes.

By the time the whole album finishes, I have the kitchen of a fairly functional person.

Riding the wave, I grab a Loretta Lynn record next and move into the would-be dining room.

When I saw the pictures of the apartment, I loved how this room got so much light.

I could envision the built-in filled—not with china as intended—but with paint and supplies, the floor covered with a drop cloth, my newest work sitting by the window.

I move a few boxes to the edge of the room and lay out the drop cloth.

One of the paper bags of paints, brushes, and other goodies crinkles in my grip as I hesitate. There was a better, less chaotic way to do?—

“Fuck that,” I say to no one.

Who would see me? Who would judge me? What did it matter if I went about this in a way that worked for me? I was the only one here.

I dump everything out onto the drop cloth so I can see it all laid out.

It's fully dark outside when I stop and take in my little studio space. Sure, I was using a couple of boxes as tables, and I could benefit from a shelf or two, but overall, it wasn't bad.

Still a mess , David's voice echoed in my head, level, calm, and so condescending.

He wouldn’t be wrong. But it was my mess. My life.

I pull out my phone and open my conversation with Cillian.

We'd only hung out once since he took me into the city a little over a week ago. I joined him, Lucy, Oliver, and some other friends for a beach day. It was an exceptional time, even if the water was frigid by my standards .

Beach access was absolutely going in the pros column for New England. Not something I'd been anticipating.

Even though we hadn't had much face-to-face time, we hadn't stopped talking.

Our text chain was a constant flow of random side conversations, suggestions for places I might like—he'd even recommended the local art supply store I'd been at earlier—and, admittedly, some spicier things. All were great, but the best part may be how he hadn’t once gotten touchy when I didn't respond immediately.

No passive-aggressive hello s or quips about something being more important than him.

It was my life. And I wanted to enjoy it. I muster up an ounce of courage and text Cillian.

Got any plans Sunday night?