Worth Saving(33)

“I really appreciate that, Layla. Really. But, you know what I’d appreciate even more, you coming over here and showing me how to paint this damn statue. I’m struggling over here.”

I feel my own smile return and I get up to stand behind him. When I see his painting, I can’t help but laugh again. His Stature of Liberty looks like a stick figure a two-year old would draw.

“Oh my goodness! It’s a stick-man,” I giggle. “I can’t save this painting, it’s passed the point of no return.”

Both of us start laughing once again. Maybe we’re forcing our laughter so we don’t crumble under the weight of our lives. Maybe it’s real and we’re laughing because it feels good. I don’t even know anymore, but I want to keep doing it. I could do this every day.

“Well, let me see yours then!” Austin jumps off the stool and stands in front of my canvas, pointing and laughing. “Yours is barely better than mine. This looks like a big ass Cabbage Patch Doll, holding a sunflower over its head.”

“What?”

“The Statue of Liberty does not have puffy cheeks, Layla!”

“Hater! Those cheeks are painted perfectly to scale. Ms. Danielle, isn’t my painting better than his?”

“You’re bringing the teacher into this?”

Danielle walks over to my painting. She gives it a once over, and then glances at Austin’s, barely able to stifle her laughter.

“Umm, you both . . . are doing fine,” she says, her voice shaky from trying to hold in her giggling. Then, she quickly walks back to the center of the room. “Alright class, we’re going to move on now. For this next painting, our last one, I want you to paint something that inspires you. It can be anything you want. Try to make it as detailed as possible. We only have about twenty minutes left, so try to make it quick, but beautiful.”

“She never said yours was better than mine,” Austin chirps.

“She didn’t say yours was better than mine, either.”

“Alright, this is the one right here. I guarantee my painting will be more beautiful than yours,” Austin says with a determined look on his face, then he gets up and turns his canvas so I can only see the back of it. “And don’t try to steal my ideas either.”

“Okay then. It’s on.”

I try to think of something inspirational. Thoughts and memories about things that have happened in my life flash in my head like a movie montage, but there’s nothing inspirational in there. My life has been twenty-one years of struggle and survival, and masking my sadness with counterfeit happiness. How do you paint that? Every now and then I see Austin lean over and look at me from behind his easel, but when I try to make eye contact with him, he quickly sits upright so I can’t see him, playing and teasing me like a cute little kid. Even with all the pain he’s hiding, he sure knows how to make me smile.

The next thing I know, Danielle is standing in the middle of the room again, telling us our time is up. As she starts to make her way around the room again, Austin gets up and looks at my blank canvas.

“Umm, did you fall asleep? Late nights of bartending starting to catch up with you?” he jokes, reminding me of the lie I’m still holding onto.

“No. What if I did this on purpose? Maybe I’m inspired by a blank canvas,” I reply. Then I realize that makes perfect sense. “In fact, I am inspired by a blank canvas. It’s a clean slate. It’s the opportunity to start all over again, and to draw something beautiful the next time. Or something like that.”

Austin chuckles. “Or something like that? I see.”

“Whatever. What’d you paint?” I ask, just as Danielle reaches Austin’s easel. I watch her facial expression as she looks at it, and it’s completely different from the other times she looked. This time, she smiles and nods her head in approval.

“Very good, Austin,” she says, looking up at him. “I knew you still had it.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Saxton,” he replies.

“What?” I say to myself as Danielle walks away and pats Austin on his burly shoulder. “What’d you paint?” I get up and look at Austin’s canvas, and my jaw hits the floor. There, on the paper, is an absolutely gorgeous painting . . . of me.





Layla

“Oh my god. How . . . how did you do this?”

Austin just smiles at me.

He obviously switched brushes and used different paint than he was using before, because these strokes are thin and carefully sculpted, and the colors are blended together to make other, better colors. It’s like he’s been doing this his whole life. I’m astonished at how quickly he painted up something so beautiful.

“It’s not an exact replica, but I think it’s pretty decent considering the tools and the time I had.”

“This is amazing, Austin. You’ve been faking this whole time? How do you know how to do this?”

“Danielle used to live in Seattle, right around where I grew up,” he answers. “She’s actually a friend of my mom’s, and has been for a long time. She used to teach me how to paint when I was little, but she moved here with her husband a long time ago when his company moved here. I come see her every now and then, just to reminisce . . . and paint a little.”

“Wow. You were playing me that whole time.”