It took us an hour and almost thirty minutes to get here to Los Angeles. A city famous for its Mediterranean climate, not exactly a fact I know of because I googled it and it was the first thing that came up.
We didn't expect that there would be traffic on the way here but at least we were prepared with snacks that I purchased earlier at the school vending machine that I never had the opportunity to eat during lunchtime.
The sun is already burning hot over us, and the roads here are more alive than the streets in Carlsbad. From time to time, I could see myself going here, but never staying here. Perhaps living for years in a certain city or town would make you uncomfortable with the prospect of leaving that area. Or at least, this is what it's been making me feel ever since the thought of leaving Carlsbad crossed my mind.
"It should be around Melrose Avenue," Aaren says, looking at his phone that was attached to a phone holder on the dashboard of his car.
Honestly speaking, Aaren would be the last person I would ever imagine going on an adventure in the search of my mom's original paintings. He would still be the last guy I would ever tell the story of my life with, but it was as if nothing had changed ever since I told him something about me. Perhaps it's true what they say that it is easier to talk to a stranger than someone you know. After all, they can't judge you since you're both strangers.
"I'm sure it's around this corner—"
"I see it!" I yell which took him off-guard. He nearly jumped in his seat the moment I yelled and started pointing at his side of the window.
Studio Bazaar it reads. I unbuckled my seatbelt the moment Aaren parked the car. I instantly hopped out of the car; my eyes glued to the name of the studio. I look from left to right before crossing the street and there it stood before me.
"Wow. Thanks for waiting for me. I really appreciate it," Aaren says sarcastically. I look at him, rolling my eyes and laughing as I apologize.
Feeling nervous never crossed my mind until I started feeling it right now. My hands are shaking and I shake the shakiness out of my hand as if that would help. I look at Aaren as he looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his face confused.
"Why are you so nervous? We're just here to see a painting," He says nonchalantly.
"Not just any painting," I remind him. "It's my mom's painting."
"...Right," He says, sounding unsure and weirded out.
"Then, what are we still doing here? Let's head inside," Aaren says as he fans himself with his hand, "I'm dying from the heat of the Los Angeles sun."
I chuckle at him as we both entered the art gallery. The doors slide open and we were instantly fanned by the soothing, cold air conditioning unit of the place. A woman stood up from her seat to greet us.
"Welcome to Studio Bazaar. How may I help you?" She asks. I read a name tag that was pinned on her right black blazer. Emily.
"We—"
"We're here to look for some paintings," Aaren cuts me off.
I gave him a look but he chooses to ignore me.
"Right," She says, "Are you looking to purchase some paintings?" Emily asks.
Purchase some paintings? Did they keep re-selling my mom's paintings? Having that idea in mind made me disappointed.
"Y-Yes," Aaren lied. It was obvious he was lying, not because I already know he is but the way he says things. He stutters when he's nervous, or unsure, and it's weird.
"Do you want me to show you around?" Emily asks, offering us her assistance but this time, I spoke and declined the offer.
She let us roam the place and look at some paintings. Before she's out of our sights, only then I started walking from place to place, frantically, trying to find the painting that Aaren showed me earlier on his phone.
There was a painting that had a theme identical to Monet's. Each stroke has an ink-like smudges quality that renders the painting. The street was obvious enough to be London. Each pedestrian had umbrellas of their own, fighting their way through the stormy weather. The red double-decker where tourists get to ride was also on the scene. It reminds me of the time my Dad told me about his trip to London, how beautiful London was even though there was rainy weather that ruined his trip.
"I think this is it," I hear Aaren say behind me. I turn my heel around and watch him walk a few steps away from me. I first noticed when he turned around that he was holding his phone in his hand, and then the look that he gave me in his eyes. I sometimes forget how the way he looks at me makes me feel at ease—the opposite of how I feel when people and strangers look at me.
I walked towards him where the painting of my mom was placed, then there it was, right in front of me. A few inches from my hand. Nearly out of reach, even. The paper stuck to the wall reads: DO NOT TOUCH in bold capital letters.
"This is it," I say softly.
I turn my head towards Aaren only to see him staring at me with a smile on his face.
"Congratulations on finding your mom's first painting," He says, making me smile. "Too bad you can't touch it."
I turned back to the painting and admired it, just like how my mother admired every detail in her artwork. She admired the flaws she made along the way, too. In order to ultimately have a beautiful product, she used to tell me that making mistakes is always part of the process.
"So, what's your plan now—"
"Shush," I say, holding my index finger to my mouth as I cut him off. "Let me admire the painting for as long as I am allowed to."
My dad would always gather me in the kitchen with my sister while mom was too busy to paint in the garage. Dad would have us help him make mom some snacks. We either bake her some cookies or cupcakes. Some days I would recommend making pancakes for mom, but Elise would disagree with me, reminding me that pancakes are only eaten for breakfast, not for snacks. I'd have to fight back, then, and remind her that eating pancakes at any time of the day is very much allowed. When dad sees us arguing, he makes this look on his face that in the end makes us laugh at our disagreement.
It's the small things in life that make up the beautiful and unforgettable memories you get to carry with you, and I know that I'm going to treasure them forever.
I look around, making sure there is no one to see me touch the painting except for Aaren. Aaren sent me a look as I raised the bottom frame of the painting.
"What are you doing?" He hisses at me. "I feel like a criminal with what you are doing."
I gave him a look and rolled my eyes.
I continue to touch the frame's edges until I feel a piece of paper sticking to the back of the frame. I pulled it out of the frame quickly and looked at the sheet of folded paper that was in my hand now.
"What's that?" He asks the moment he sees me holding a piece of paper.
I look at him, "It's my sister's note," I told him.
"How did you know that it was even there?" He asks me.
"Because I saw her putting it," I say, "She placed it in every painting my mom had sold over the last two years because she thought that my mom wouldn't sell those paintings."
Aaren looks at me with a mixed expression on his face—a mixture of sympathy and confusion.
"I think she placed them there so that mom wouldn't feel alone whenever she paints in the garage," I say as I look at the piece of paper, fidgeting with it.
We both left the art gallery after I found what I was looking for, but before we did, I took a picture with my mom's painting since I know I couldn't afford to retrieve it. At least I get to retrieve my sister's note.
Before exiting the gallery, Emily stood up to question us, "Have you not found anything you would like to purchase?"
"No," Aaren and I both said in unison as we both looked at each other, jinxing each other by looks.
I breathed in the deep air that Los Angeles has to offer to me. The sun was almost setting, reminding us it was time to go home to Carlsbad.
"What's next on your agenda?" Aaren asks.
I look at him and my smile only grew wider.
"Ten more paintings to go."
There is no point for me now to leave him behind after today. He had already seen the note I had grabbed from the painting in the art gallery. I might as well tell him the entire story about this whole hunt for eleven of my mother's paintings.
When I looked into Aaren's eyes, I notice that there was a sparkle in them that convinced me that he's already in it on this with me and that maybe calling him by mistake last night was the best mistake I ever did.
***