How We Disappear

Chapter 17.

I tried to make it seem like I hadn’t been watching her as she moved on to my piece by looking anywhere but her way. She didn’t seem to notice me at all, and simply followed the routine she had going. I cautiously looked her way, watching her minute after minute as she studied my art. It seemed to be safe, to be looking at her as obviously as I was, because she seemed too fixed in the art to notice anything around her. But when her head popped up to look at me, I almost jumped out of my skin. 

“Are you the artist?” She asked, pulling her right hand to the front of her body to gesture to the wall in front of her. 

I nodded, swallowing nervously. She hadn’t noticed me looking at her! Either that, or she did notice, but chose not to say anything. Either way, I was thankful that I wasn’t forced into more of an awkward situation than I was already in. 

“This is...amazing,” she stated, looking back at the art. “I’m not a comic book reader, but this isn’t an average comic. Not only did the words added into the art tell a story, but the images themselves. You’re definitely talented in the general sense, but man, do you know how to put emotion into something like this. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She shook her head, looking from me to the art, and back to me. 

“Uhh...well, thank you. Very much. It means a lot, coming from you.” Mistake. 

“What do you mean?” She asked, turning her whole body toward me, forgetting about the art for a moment and directing her full attention to me. 

“I...uh...well, to be honest, you seem like the one person in here that actually knows what art is really about, especially after hearing your opinion about my piece. Instead of just looking at the exterior of a piece of art, you absorb yourself into it, to feel what I assume the artist felt when making it. You find the emotion and passion in the art, not just judging it just by the way it looks.” 

The girl bit her lip, looking down at her shoes. “Wow...uh, thank you, I guess. I never really thought about it like that.” 

I nodded, and it was a long moment before either of us said anything. 

“Well, uh...I’m gonna go...look around more.” She said, playing with the end of the long cardigan she had draped around her shoulders. 

“Alright. Well, thank you. For...” I gestured to the wall that displayed my art. 

She nodded before walking slowly past me and around the corner. 

I sighed, looking around worriedly. I didn’t see Frank anywhere, and the show had started more than a half an hour ago. Maybe he was outside, waiting for me. Or right inside the front door, not sure where to go. Or standing in the hallway, intimidated by the crowd of people. 

I made my way through the crowd, into the hallway, to the entrance door, and outside. No sign of Frank. I headed back inside, going straight to the only familiar face.

 “Hi, uh...” I couldn’t believe I didn’t know her name by now. I searched the desk in front of me for a name plate, but there wasn’t one. 

“You can call me Rebecca.” She said, smiling. 

I nodded. “I...I’m kind of expecting someone, and I was wondering if you’ve seen him. He’s, uh...a few inches shorter than me...darker hair. He has a few piercings. He’ll probably be dressed formally. Uh...” 

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen anyone like that around here tonight,” she watched my expression fall, and was quick to reassure me. “but I’m sure he’ll show. How about this - you go back to your art, and if he comes in, I’ll direct him straight to where you are. Sound good?” 

“Yes,” I nodded. “Thank you, uh, Rebecca.” I said, before heading back into the large room, lacking the confidence I had tried so hard to build up the last couple weeks. Frank would have been here by now, I know he would have. Something had to be wrong.

~

Frank didn’t show up to the art show that night. I stayed in the building long after the show was over, until Rebecca had to physically lead me out the door. I sat myself on the bench outside the gallery, wrapping myself in my own arms and trying to hold back tears. Rebecca exited the building moments after leading me out, locking the door and turning to the street before she noticed me on the bench. She stopped, keys in hand, and gave me a worried look. 

“Frank...you need to get home.” 

I nodded. “I know.” 

“You know it’s too late for him to show up tonight, right? He would’ve come by now.” 

“I know.” I repeated. 

“Do you...need a ride home?” 

I looked up at her slowly. The look in her eyes shocked me - I had only seen it one other time. And that was in Frank’s eyes. “No...no, it’s okay. I’ll get home.” 

“I - okay,” she nodded. “just take care of yourself. Get home safe, please. I don’t want to hear about you in the news.” She waved her free hand at me. 

I faked a laugh. “You won’t.” 

She nodded again, making her way down the street, toward her car. 

I stood up from the bench, walking slowly down the street. I wanted her to see me walking as she drove by, to reassure her. I didn’t want her to go to sleep that night feeling worried about me. 

It was cold outside, and I hadn’t brought my big jacket. I rarely noticed the cold when Frank was next to me. On the few occasions that I did, Frank would notice instantly, and give me his jacket, ignoring my protests. 

But now, I didn’t have either sources of warmth. So I walked slowly, my arms wrapped tightly around my body, thinking about Frank and who the hell he thought he was. He’s the one that, from the first night we met, encouraged me to put my art out there. He’s the one that got me this opportunity, then pushed and pushed for me to do it when I doubted myself. I had seen him earlier that day, and he had looked me in the eyes and promised to see me tonight, for God’s sake. How can you lie to someone like that? Who did he think he was, to do this to me? I couldn’t believe he actually had the nerve. 

I thought about Frank the whole way to the bus stop, on the bus, and the rest of the way home. I mean, what else was there to think about? It’s normal for humans to think more about the negative than the positive. I should be thinking about the art show that night - all of the people that looked at my art, the few that commented on it. The girl that seemed to let the art embrace her completely. Sarah, how sweet she was, how much she believed in me. 

But no, I was too focused on worrying about Frank, and the million ways he had broken my heart that night. 

I was too engrossed in thinking about him, that I missed so many things that were crucial in not making my night worse than it already was. I missed the fact that most businesses in the city were closing down as I walked down the street, and that the only people on the bus were me and the driver - both things signaling the fact that it was way later than I had ever been out before. I missed the fact that I could barely feel my fingers and toes - which, on any given day, was never a good thing.

And most importantly, on my way up the driveway, I missed the fact that the living room light was on, and that I was literally walking right through the front door, and that the door was unlocked. I didn’t realize any of this, of course, until I saw my parents standing in front of me.