Alison
***
I put down my paintbrush and wiped my forehead. I took a step back and admired my piece from afar, taking a good look at the final product.
I was immensely proud if myself. I was still in awe at what I was able to produce. At first glance, the background of the canvas seemed completely dark, but on further inspection you'd realize you were in fact looking through a glass window and seeing the interior or a dark room. In that room there were three hanging lightbulbs at different distances and of different heights, the orange and yellow light being the focal point of the piece. By using the chiaroscuro technique, the light made minuscule raindrops on the window stand out, creating a very eerie, almost haunting image of a mysterious room.
At last, my first piece for the final assessment was complete.
At Evergreen's art studio, my friends praised my work, impressed by my realistic approach to such a surreal image. Even though their analysis and interpretation of my dark painting made me smile, what really boosted my ego was their compliments on my technique. If I at least nailed that aspect, I knew I would get a good grade.
At this point in the semester, Professor Agnes was barely around to guide us. She kept herself tucked away in the back of the room, watching us, observing us work. Among students, rumors started flying around that what she was actually doing was grade our demeanor and behavior throughout the creation of our collection and that would secretly be part of the final grade. That was nonsense of course, she just couldn't interfere with our artistic decisions anymore, but deep down I wish she had observed me, taken note of my professionalism and focus. I wanted her to have a good impression of me so when the time came to ask for a letter of recommendation she'd readily write on for me.
Despite her hands-off approach this semester, we were still encouraged to show her our work once it was complete. However, since it was a quarter to seven, she had already left Evergreen. I desperately wanted to get instant feedback on my work, so the only person I could think of other than her was Chris.
Since the painting was still drying, I took a picture of it sent it to Chris. I took a few close ups of the raindrops, of the lightbulbs, of the shadowy objects in the black background. As I took my painting to a special room designated for drying, my phone buzzed.
CHRIS: Ali, that's superb.
CHRIS: It's mesmerizing.
CHRIS: Professor Agnes is going to absolutely love it.
My heart leaped. I smiled like an idiot as I stared at my phone.
ALI: You think I'm going to get a good grade? I worked so hard on it.
CHRIS: If you make the collection cohesive I have no doubt in my mind you're gonna have one of the highest grades of your year.
CHRIS: I'm so proud of you.
As I read those four words, I suddenly felt a tug in my heart. I placed my phone on my chest and bit my lip. This was all I wanted to hear, this was all I needed.
Was he saying this because he knew James always looked down at my art and never believed in me? Was he saying this because he knew I desperately needed reassurance or because he truly felt it?
ALI: Are you really?
His reply didn't come right away. I gazed at the other drying paintings, admired my peers' talent and skill, compared myself to them. These thoughts stopped when his message pinged.
CHRIS: I'm so proud of you that I'd send these pictures to Kent and say "isn't it amazing how my girl can paint so much better than you?" if I could.
CHRIS: I'm so proud of you that I'd steal that painting and hang it on my wall for everyone to see if I could.
CHRIS: I promise I'll be there on Assessment Day so if it doesn't go as planned I'll persuade the assessing panel to take a closer look at the details of your work and see its beauty and mastery.
CHRIS: I'll be there with you because I'm so proud of you baby and I want to see you succeed.
Even before I read the last text, I was already sprinting out the door. I knew it was a workday and we weren't supposed to see each other during the week, but I didn't care. I wanted him, and I wanted him now.
I called an Uber and in fifteen minutes I was already by his building's front door. I felt rebellious for being so reckless, for showing up without him knowing, for feeling my insides tighten with desire. Just the thought of his reaction as I jumped into his arms was enough to make me wet.
I rang the doorbell and waited patiently in the cold. After a minute of waiting, I rang again.
"Alison?" He called through the intercom, sounding shocked. My eyes beamed as I stared at the small camera.
"Surprise!" I said, winking. The door buzzed open and I walked inside, happiness overflowing my body. I took the elevator and used the mirror to tame my unruly hair before the mechanical doors opened.
"What are you doing here?!" Chris' voice sounded from his door. I squealed in excitement, dashing out of the elevator knowing he'd be waiting for me with open arms.
I jumped on him and looped my arms around his neck. He grunted as he caught me mid air, his strong arms holding on to my back. I searched for his lips, wanting to make my intensions perfectly clear and as soon as my mouth smacked against his, I was invaded by the strong scent of alcohol.
Sensing something wasn't quite right, I pulled away and looked at him. His eyes were hazy, like he was looking through me and not at me. I dropped my legs to the floor, the rush of passion that I was feeling completely vanishing.
"Were you drinking?" I asked, genuinely puzzled, my stomach sinking. Why was he drinking on a Wednesday afternoon when he had work the next day?
He didn't answer right away, stuttering. "Oh, you know how it is, I enjoy a glass of wine at the end of the day."
I wasn't convinced. One glass was okay, but by the strong scent on him I knew he had drank more than that.
"I didn't know you drank regularly," I stated. "Is everything alright?"
We made me walk inside and closed the door behind us. He seemed jittery, like had just done arduous exercise. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
He seemed so distant. I placed my hand on his cheek and furrowed my eyebrows in concern. As soon as I did that, I felt something wet on my fingertips.
Paint.
I cleared the paint from his cheek slowly, confusion taking over my senses. I looked down at my hand, the tiny amount of dark blue paint smeared on my index finger.
"Chris, what's going on?" I asked in a serious tone. "What's this?"
"What?" He replied, sounding as confused as me. I showed him my hand and he immediately rubbed of the rest from his cheek. "Oh, how strange. Professor Agnes must have touched my face when I went to see her this afternoon."
What? That made no sense.
"I was in the studio the whole afternoon and I never saw you," I said, looking down at my hand. "Besides, Professor Agnes didn't pick up a single paintbrush today. She wasn't painting..."
He just stared at me in completely silence. There was definitely something going on and I wasn't liking it one bit.
With my anxiety suddenly growing, I continued: "The paint is fresh Chris. Even if Professor Agnes smeared it on you by accident it would've been dry by now."
He turned away from me and walked towards the kitchen sink. I followed him, my stomach tightening as I realized he was lying to me.
"Chris, what's going on? You're lying."
His lie was so obvious I was even wondering why he was trying to deceive me.
He sighed as he filled a glass with water from the tap. "Fine, I'll tell you, but you can't tell Kent about this alright? He'd planning on having one more painting in his collection. I was helping him and we had a few drinks, that's all."
I stood a couple of feet away from him, processing everything he was telling me. This sounded so out of character.
"Are you sure?" I asked, still not believing him.
He looked me in the eyes. "Oh, come on Alison, cut it out. Why would I be lying to you?"
I huffed. "I don't know, you tell me. You have to admit it looks pretty weird that the day I show up unannounced is the day you're in this... State."
He gulped the water, setting it down. "Oh please. You're overreacting."
I was silent as he moved closer to me. There was something going on, I just knew it. This was so unlike him, but what explanation could there be other than the one he gave me? There was not a single evidence of wine in the kitchen or the living room, not even a glass. There was also no signs of painting materials anywhere.
"Did you at least take an Uber here? You didn't drive, did you?" I asked, concerned that he lost track of the alcohol he had ingested when he was with Kent.
"Of course I Ubered home," he said, placing his hand on my shoulders. "Now, let's talk about your painting which I believe is the reason why you're here."
The overwhelming attraction I was feeling for Chris just a few minutes ago had vanished. The excitement was replaced with worry and doubt. Besides, with such a high content of alcohol in his system, sex was the last thing on my mind.
I faked a smiled as he got closer to me, caressing my face.
"It's good to see you. I'm glad you're here," he said, inching his way closer. I kissed him even though I wasn't feeling entirely comfortable. Why was he acting as if he hadn't lied to me seconds ago?
"So, the painting," I said, pulling away. "I just came here to tell you that knowing that you support me means the world to me and that independently of my grade I'll be happy because you like it so much."
"I appreciate the gesture but you and I both know you came here for something more than cute words of reassurance, didn't you?"
His lighthearted state made him go straight to the point. I just chuckled nervously, finding the whole situation bizarre.
"Perhaps," I replied. "But with you like this I think it's better if we wait for Friday."
He huffed in frustration and looped his arms around me. "Oh baby, I'm sorry. If I knew you were coming I wouldn't have gone to Kent's. We can still celebrate your fabulous painting though. I bought your favorite chocolate. Alternatively, the vibrator is fully charged and is yours to use as you please."
Even though he was trying to cheer me up and even make me laugh, everything he was saying was coming through a layer of alcohol and, as I suspected, a layer of lies. If Kent wanted another painting for his collection he would've told David and I.
This was all so strange, I was so confused. Why was he acting this way? Why was he drinking? Why was he lying?
"I'll pass. I need to go home anyway and you need to sober up."
I pulled away from him but he didn't let me go.
"Don't go yet, you just got here!" He whined. "I want to hear about your painting, your thought process, your inspiration, your interpretation, how it's going to link with the other pieces you're creating—"
"Well, I want to tell those things to sober Chris," I replied, wanting to sound playful but sounding annoyed. He noticed this and let me go, giving up on persuading me.
"Ali, hey, I didn't know I'd be seeing you today okay?" He said as I walked towards the door. "If I knew you were coming I wouldn't have drank—"
I let my shoulders fall in defeat. "It's not about the drinking Chris, it's about not knowing what's going on. You're acting weird. Why did you lie in the first place? Why couldn't you tell me you were with Kent from the start?"
He sighed as I opened the front door. "It's complicated. I just told you what happened today."
"It doesn't sound that complicated to me. I thought we told each other everything."
He leaned against the doorframe as we stared at each other.
"I swear I'm not lying. I drink with Kent often when we paint together, it's nothing out of the ordinary. I just don't want you to worry, that's all." He said with sincerity. All I could see behind those eyes was the alcohol coursing through his veins. "Friday it'll be different, I promise you."
He kissed my forehead tenderly as a goodbye kiss. He gave me space to walk past him and I bowed my head as I walked out the door. He stood by the door until I disappeared into the elevator. I sighed in relief when the doors shut.
What the fuck was going on?
I looked down at my stained fingertip. That blue, the darkness of it, the texture, the smell... If Kent was really going to create a new painting for his exhibition so last minute, how was that blue going to tie in with the whole theme? He had never used it before, unless he had used it to mix with other paints. In addition, Kent never drank when he painted. Painting for him was work, but maybe when he was with Chris he let loose. They were best friends after all. Maybe Kent wanted to create a special piece with Chris independently of the exhibition's theme.
Why did Chris try to cover up the fact that he was with Kent in the first place? Nothing made sense, and I was so worried.
During my commute home, I couldn't stop thinking about Chris: his lying, his demeanor, his drinking. All I wanted to was call Kent, but my embarrassment from the last time I saw him kept me from dialing his number. Besides, what would I even ask? Hey, were you with my professor this afternoon? The one you saw me kiss? There was simply no way of me verifying that they had been together.
My mind kept going in circles trying to put the pieces together. Maybe I was overreacting and overthinking. Worst of all, I wasn't trusting Chris. I knew it was wrong to feel that way towards him when he never made me feel like I couldn't trust him, but there was no denying the heaviness of the air in his apartment, the hollow look in his eyes, his distance, his unconvincing lie.
And then there was the fact that the paint was wet. The amount on his cheek was so small that it would have for sure dried up on Chris' Uber ride. The paint was so fresh, in fact, that it seemed like it had been used just moments before. But that couldn't be true, could it? Chris couldn't possibly have been painting, right? I didn't see anything in his apartment, not even a single paintbrush.
Unless he was hiding it from me.