Best Friends Don't Kiss(45)

But God, it’s been so long.

I just stare down at the blank page, pencil in my hand. “I…I…don’t think I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” he gently whispers into my free ear. “And you’re going to.”

“Why?” I ask and turn my head to search his eyes.

My emotions feel like a damn roller coaster. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to flee. I want to…draw.

“Because it’s time for you to stop ignoring what you’re really meant to be doing. Deep down, you know that you need this because you love this. Art gives you life. Not looking at art, but creating art. Your art,” he responds without hesitation. “And because I’m a bit selfish,” he adds with a little smirk, “I want you to do it because this used to be one of my favorite things we’d do on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “I always thought maybe you got bored…”

“Bored?” He shakes his head. “I was fascinated.”

My heart does weird things inside my chest.

Tears threaten to prick my eyes.

And my belly feels like a million little fairy wings are fluttering around inside of it.

“Just draw, Ace. Use what’s inside you.”

I search his gaze for a few more seconds, noting the way his brown eyes stare back at me with warmth and kindness and something else I can’t quite discern.

And then, on an unsteady, slightly shaky breath, I put the tip of my pencil to my sketchbook, and I draw.

First, the lady sitting at the other end of the tram. A book in her hands, her caramel-colored skin highlighting the pensive, beautiful look on her face.

Next, a small child sitting beside his mother. He looks to be five, six, maybe, and he has a dinosaur toy clasped inside his tiny hand and his head resting on his mother’s shoulder.

I don’t know how long I sketch.

I don’t know how long Luke continues to watch me sketch.

But with him by my side and the soft lilts of my favorite classical pieces in my ear, I lose myself in the simple act of tracing my pencil across the paper and creating something.

And man, does it feel good. Like relief and peace and nostalgia. Like breaking through a massive mental barrier while simultaneously reliving the good old days when Luke and I were just two young college kids with our whole lives ahead of us.





A Sunday in August, thirteen years ago…

Luke



One of my favorite things to do in my downtime is people watch in various spots throughout the city. Central Park, coffee shops, Times Square, you name it, and I’ve found myself there more than a time or two in the name of observing my fellow humans in their natural habitat. Though, given the hectic nature of every weekday when you’re working toward a degree in aeronautical engineering, it’s been reduced to an activity that only occurs on the weekends.

These days, every Sunday, Ava lets me borrow her new—bright-pink—iPod Nano for the morning while she interns at a gallery in SoHo and then meets me at the corner café right down the street from our dorm.

I already have coffee waiting when she slides into the chair across from me and says loudly, “Nice color choice for your iPod, Luke. Real men use pink and all that.”

I roll my eyes at her lame attempt to tease me and hold it up proudly. “I know. I bet you wish it were yours.”

She sticks out her tongue, snags her iPod, and slinks back into her chair dramatically. “Man, you should have seen the pieces in the gallery today.”

“Good?”

“Beyond,” she corrects. “I almost wept at the feet of at least three artists.”

I laugh. “And someday, they’ll be weeping at yours.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You don’t get it, Luke. These people are so talented.”

“So are you,” I insist. “The only difference between them and you is confidence.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re oversimplifying it, and you know it. It’s nearly impossible to make it as an artist.”

I glance to the bustle of the street around us and then back to the sketchbook she’s placed on our table. She carries it nearly everywhere.

Somehow, it’s almost like the light of day shines too much of a spotlight on other people and their work. She needs a dark tunnel to narrow her vision.

And we are in New York.

An idea strikes, and I don’t waste any time letting it marinate. Lord knows, if I give her time to think and rationalize a way out of it, she’ll do it.

“Come on,” I prompt, standing from the table and grabbing her notebook and iPod. She bristles at the sketchbook, so I pull it tighter to my chest.

“If you want it back, you have to follow me.”

“What are we, nine? Stop, Luke.”

“Follow me, Ava,” I assert.

I take off for the next block over, where I know there’s a subway station, and I don’t even look back to check to see if she’s following me.

Her huffing and whining are plenty loud enough for me to tell without question.

The A train is waiting on the tracks when I get to the bottom of the stairs, but I know it won’t be for long, so I turn back, grab Ava’s hand, and hustle her aboard before it can pull out.