✾ Hydrangea ✾
"Beau, would you stay behind for a second?"
I froze up a little. My mind was still reeling from class, deep in consideration of where reality ends or begins or whether it really exists at all; I barely registered Professor Miller's voice until I realized he was staring directly at me.
"Yeah, sure," I said, approaching his desk at the center of the auditorium as my classmates filed out. I caught Amory's eye briefly as he left. He raised an eyebrow at me. I gave him a half-shrug. It struck me as strange that the professor had called me out. NYU was a big school. I could normally fly under the radar.
"You're not in trouble. Promise," he said, smiling.
"I didn't think I was." I was unsure how to act.
"I'm not keeping you from something, right? You're not in a rush?" he asked, picking up a folder. He opened it, peering at me from behind his glasses. Old, grouchy Professor Brown had already left. He had a habit of zipping out of the classroom before the students even could. Miller and Brown couldn't have been any more different in both their ages and their dedication to their students.
I shook my head. "No."
"Well, in that case, I just wanted to talk to you about your most recent essay. The one on Descartes' theory." He pulled my essay out of the folder and stared at it.
I couldn't help it. I got a little bit nervous. "What about it?"
"I wanted to ask you why you focused on the line that you did. Your entire essay is about gratitude, but that's not the core of the argument in Passions of the Soul. Did you read the theory?"
I nodded vigorously. "Of course, I did!"
Miller nodded. "I figured you did. You don't seem the type not to."
"I always do the reading, Professor."
"Glad to hear it. Couldn't say the same for some of your peers," he commented, clearly a little bit grouchy about it. "Anyway, I suppose before I give you a grade, I wanted to know why you chose to write about what you did."
I swallowed. "You wanted me to write about the entire theory."
He shook his head. "Not quite. That's what the prompt said, I suppose. But I like to encourage creativity where I can. That's what education is about, in my opinion. I don't mind that you went outside the box, as long as I can understand why."
I exhaled, relieved. "It just spoke to me, I guess."
"Spoke to you how?"
I rubbed my arm awkwardly. "I recently lost my mother. I was in a really rough position for a while there."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Beau," he said softly. I could tell that he meant it. His smile lines made his eyes look soft and caring. Professor Miller was young but he had an old soul. It felt like he'd been teaching for ages despite how he must have been new at it. He just knew what to say. I appreciated it.
"Thank you," I said because it was all I could say. No one really seemed to know how to talk about death. Maybe I'd figure it out someday. "But the reason why I wrote about Descartes' theory of gratitude is because when I was in that dark place, someone helped me out. I thought an exploration of generosity and gratitude would help me to understand how I felt."
He looked pleased with my response. "I have a proposal, then."
"What's that?"
"Do some research. I'll send you an email later with some links and some books you can get from the library. There's a really good article, a recent one, that you might find helpful."
I beamed. "Really?"
He nodded, apparently glad that I'd responded with enthusiasm. "Rewrite the essay with the new sources, and I'll give you extra credit."
"I can do that!"
"I'm hoping it might...help you understand how you feel. You'll get an extension, also, to give you time to work on this. I'll see you tomorrow."
❦
The way he'd called me earlier echoed in my dreams. I woke up multiple times that night.
Beau.
There had been zero affection in Ren's voice. I'd never heard him speak like that to me before. For the past few days, he'd been acting strange. He was a rollercoaster ride, with the jerkiest ups and downs I'd ever felt. I got whiplash around him. One minute he was being sweet, caring, thoughtful Ren. He'd pat my head or he'd give me a little smirk. Next second, without my even doing a thing, he'd grow cold. He wouldn't look at me or he'd leave the room without a word.
I couldn't understand him. I wondered if I ever had. Ren had been just a touch mysterious ever since we'd met. I sighed and sent Sallie a text. Is Ren ok?
She texted back immediately. She was the kind of person to do that. I'm sure he's fine. What's up?
It struck me as strange how little concern she displayed. I started typing but by the time my message was five lines long, I decided to call her. Again, she picked up immediately. "Hey, Duckling."
"How are you, Sallie?" I asked.
I could hear her amusement in her tone. "I'm just peachy. Though I'm missing you, 'lil guy."
I smiled. "Yeah, sorry. I've been going a little insane."
"Amory told me you guys have been hanging out," she said.
"We have. He's a very kind person."
"He also told me you kissed," Sallie said cheekily.
I scowled. "He did not."
"I don't think he really knew what he was doing. He probably didn't realize that most people don't want that information shared," she said.
I sighed. "It's ok. I don't mind you knowing. You're you."
"Indeed, I am," she said. "I don't know, bud. You enchanted Amory quite effectively. He hasn't found his new flavor of the month yet. Might be because of you."
"I told him I don't feel that way toward him," I said. "Or, he just knew."
She was quiet for half a second. "Yeah, I gotcha. So what's this text you sent me about?"
"I'm worried about Ren," I said. Sallie laughed. "What?" I asked, confused as to what I'd said that had struck her humor chord.
"It's just that he said the same thing to me not that long ago," she replied.
"What? That he was worried about himself?"
"No, you absolute wallaby. That he was worried about you. You two are weirdly similar. It's mysterious," she said.
"What? Wait, why is he worried about me?"
"Don't worry about it, kiddo. Just tell me why you're worried about him."
I sighed. I wasn't quite sure, to be honest. I just had a gut feeling that something was up. There was the mysterious way Liam had acted and the scratches on Ren's skin. Maybe it was just because of that. But something else felt wrong. "Sallie, does Ren ever just act strange?"
"Um, besides all the time? He's a weird guy," she said.
"No, I mean extra strange. Like, he changes how he acts or goes off on his own..."
She was quiet for a second. "No, not really. At least, not around me. But I wouldn't worry, ok? I'm serious. I'm sure if there's something really important, he will tell you." She said 'will' like she believed he would, wholeheartedly. Maybe even like she knew he would. It reassured me.
"He hasn't said anything," I said. "If there's something wrong and you know, you'd tell me, right?"
"Of course, Beau," she said.
"Good," I said. "I trust you."
She spoke next with a subtle jerkiness. "But maybe ask him what's up if he's really being a scaredy-cat," she said quickly.
"I can do that," I said. "But what do you mean 'scaredy-cat'?"
I could almost feel her shrug come through the receiver. "He's a bit shy about emotions. Never been good with vulnerability."
"Oh," I said. "Well, me, too."
She chuckled. "Yeah. Believe me, I know."
"You know everything."
"Yep. Now get some sleep. It's like one a.m."
"Thanks, Sallie. You, too."
I sighed and stood up, walking to my desk. I woke my computer up, pulling up my essay. I'd stayed up late writing it the night before. But since I couldn't sleep now, I figured I might as well work on it now. I stared at the last sentence I'd read from my extended research for a little bit too long.
"Thankfulness is the beginning of gratitude. Gratitude is the completion of thankfulness. Thankfulness may consist merely of words. Gratitude is shown in acts."
Henri Frédéric Amiel, a nineteenth century Swiss philosopher. He was also a poet. I frowned, blinking hard and rubbing my weary eyes. I was thinking about Ren. I realized immediately how futile it was to attempt to compose sentences while he was on my brain, so I googled some quotes from Amiel.
Amongst a long list of philosophical, poetic thoughts—most of which I couldn't entirely grasp in my sleep-deprived state—one stood out to me.
''Self-interest is but the survival of the animal in us. Humanity only begins for man with self-surrender.''
Self-surrender. I wondered when I'd last entirely surrendered to myself. I'd spent so long trying to protect myself and just survive that I'd forgotten how to slow down.
I glanced around my room. It was illuminated only by my desk lamp, the glowing light of my laptop screen, and the moon. It had more of my things in it now, objects from my old life that I brought from home or my uncle had sent me. A framed photograph of a giant sequoia hung on my wall. My mom gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday, before she'd gotten sick. I felt a stinging barb of loneliness.
I rested my head on my desk, using my arm as a pillow because my head felt heavy. I reached out and knocked on the wall lightly. Ren was on the other side of it. He was dead asleep by now, but I liked the thought of being able to knock on his wall and reach him. Maybe he'd hear it in his dreams?
I felt sleep clinging to my lashes, dragging them down slowly. My breath slowed, and I listened to it. In and out. Out and in. Then—
Knock. I sat up. Knock.
I rubbed one eye, confused. Had I pre-dreamed that? I stood and approached the wall. I knocked on the wall again, only once, and waited.
I smiled when the knock came again. I felt something fragile in the air. The quietness of my room surrounded the glasslike connection between us like a soft blanket.
I took a deep breath, feeling a bit shaky. Humanity only begins for man with self-surrender. And why should I fight? It had been a drawn-out war, begun long before I even met Ren. I was tired of it. My heart ached, and my skin had gone blue with loneliness.
I went to my door and pulled it open, walking to Ren's room with fire in my veins. I knocked. He opened.
"You're awake," I observed.
"You're knocking on my wall," he said with the usual smirk.
"Sorry," I said awkwardly. I switched which foot was holding my weight.
"What's up?" he asked. "Why are you up?"
"I was working on my essay," I lied. I shook my head. I was trying to be honest here. "No, actually I just couldn't sleep."
Ren looked concerned. "Something bothering you?"
You. I bit my lip. My heart quickened. Had those dark eyes just flicked to my mouth? No. No way. Wishful, sleep-deprived thinking. "I read a quote," I blurted. Had to start somewhere, I guess.
He scoffed. "Is now really the time for this? You should try to sleep."
I shook my head. "So should you. But neither of us are asleep, so I don't see why I shouldn't tell you this right now." My voice was much bolder than I was feeling. I suddenly had to pee, but I think it was just my body trying to give my mind an excuse to give up. I ignored it.
"Ok," he said, leaning against his doorframe. "Go for it."
"Humanity only begins for man with self-surrender," I recited.
Ren's face changed slightly. He slipped into concentration. "Self-surrender," he repeated. "I think I like it, but I'm not sure."
I felt a little sweaty. Each time I inhaled, I wondered whether it would be that breath I used to tell Ren that I loved him. So far, none of them had been. "I think I like it, too," I said.
"So..." he said, "this is just a late-night philosophy lesson? I'm glad you're enjoying your classes, but I'm kind of in the middle of something."
My heart stuttered. "The middle of what?"
Which Ren was I talking to? The one I loved or the new one that had shown up lately, the one that wouldn't deign to meet my eyes. I hated that he had been slipping between skins, switching masks on me. Anxiety pulsed in me, angry and spiteful. I couldn't help thinking of what Liam had said to me, that foul, black-hearted man. He'd hurt Ren. I was sure of it. The thought of it made me fiercely want to protect Ren from anything that would ever harm him again. I was furious when I'd realized it in the stairwell and ever more furious when Ren acted like it wasn't a big deal; no one should be treated like that, no matter what. I wanted to revenge-strangle Liam.
He was probably what was making Ren act like this. But still, his words had taken up residence in the dark corners of my mind. I couldn't flush them out.
They're all of his lovers. Ren's not the kind of person that settles down. He's incapable of caring about anyone.
Was Ren lying to me about something? Someone? Who even was he? I had to believe that I knew. I knew. I couldn't claim that I loved him if I didn't understand his heart, and I trusted my feelings. I just had to surrender to them.
"I'm painting," he said.
I took his appearance in for the first time, forcibly crawling out of my own mind. He was, indeed, covered in paint. He had a spot of it in his hair. I wanted to reach up and touch it. "Oh. I thought you weren't painting these days," I said.
He groaned. "Why does everyone know that?"
"Everyone?" I asked, confused.
"Ok, fine. I wasn't painting for a while, but I decided it was time to start again. I couldn't sleep until I had," he said.
"What are...you painting?" I asked.
Was he painting me? I mentally shook my head at that. He needed me to pose for him, and I most certainly hadn't been. Unless he'd taken a picture of me?
Ren smiled, his eyes lighting up like a kid's who'd just been told he could have ice cream before dinner. "You can look, if you want."
I grinned and nodded, forgetting what I'd come to his room for in my eagerness to finally see Ren's art. His room was lit up bright with somewhat blinding standing lights he must have brought in or been storing. All of his covered paintings had been shoved up against one wall, partially hidden behind his dresser. His bed was unmade and he hadn't done laundry in a bit. "I've never seen anything you've painted before," I told him
"Really? That doesn't seem right, does it?" he said.
"It doesn't," I agreed.
In the middle of the room was Ren's latest work. I approached it, a little bit breathless. It was of a woman. She was a little bit older, but still glowing with beauty. Her lips were apple red, and her hair pitch black. It wrapped around her, blending flawlessly with the big black coat she wore. And then that magnificent river of black, soft brush strokes flowed all the way down and down, taking shape and forming an eerie humanoid shadow by the woman's feet. But it wasn't her shadow. It was a man's. Her eyes were closed like she had accepted her fate, like she knew that the shadow might engulf her and she would let it. It was amazing and incredibly sad.
"She looks like Snow White," I said quietly, "but like she's woken up and found herself all alone." I reached out to her, wanting to help her without even knowing who she was. My fingertips hovered above the wet paint.
"She's my mother," Ren said quietly.
I stared at her. It made sense. The shadow was his father. "I can tell that you love her a lot," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "I had a dream about when I was a kid. About her and about my dad. It made me want to paint this. Not that anyone would buy it, but-"
"I would buy it," I interrupted. "It doesn't matter if you know who she is or not. Your heart comes through the paint either way. It's stunning."
Ren made a small sound of contentment. I was about to turn and congratulate him on finally painting again, but then the nerves on my entire back sparked to life. Ren was standing right behind me, so close that I could feel his warmth seep through my shirt. His arm reached past me, pointing to a spot on the painting. "Do you think this came out ok?" he asked quietly. His breath stirred the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. They stood up. "I think the transition between brush strokes is what makes it..." He didn't finish. "You see," he started again. "Her brush strokes." He pointed to the small, feathery strokes, then to the broader, more violent strokes. "His."
Did he know what he was doing to me? I couldn't tell the difference between the strokes any longer. I couldn't even see the painting. The entire room had faded. I'm sure he was talking, but I was only aware of my body and his, so torturously close. Why was he doing this? Why was he so close to me? Why was he always touching me softly?
I craved action. Any action. I could turn and grab him, taking his face in my hands and pulling him down to me. I could kiss him like my life depended on it.
Except no, I couldn't do any of that. I couldn't do anything. I just stood there like a deer in headlights, unable to breathe much less move or say something.
But...I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. Uneven. That's when I knew he felt it, too. I knew! The realization made my heart swell to three times its original size. I was doing to Ren what he was doing to me.
He wasn't talking anymore. We were standing there in silence. My face felt hot. I could feel my heart beating even in my throat. Maybe that's why I couldn't speak.
I felt his cold fingertips on the back of my neck. Goosebumps erupted along my spine. His face was in my hair, his lips touching the back of my head. I hated that I still couldn't move, couldn't turn around and make it easier for him, for us.
Lines were blurring. Reality, I finally decided, is not real.
"You can stay and watch, if you want," he said. He stepped back suddenly.
"Yeah, ok," I barely managed, sitting on his bed. It was over. It had passed, whatever it was. Ren went back to painting. I watched his hands, wishing they were touching me instead of the brush. I watched his back, longing to press my hands to his muscles as he leaned over to change brushes. I watched his eyes, hoping that they would look at me with such intense care one day.
I didn't say another word. The next morning, Ren was gone.