“Yes? Okay, well, we were just calling to confirm everything was set for this Saturday. Do you have a final piece count yet? I was told it would be at least four, but you’d indicated there may be more.”
Roland had planned to ask Donny if he could hang the birthday flowers in the show, but now Donny wasn’t here to ask and the birthday flowers were destroyed, so it was a non-issue. He glanced across the room at the four canvases which he’d packaged up before Donny’s birthday and safely tucked in the corner. They’d been spared his rage, if for no other reason he hadn’t been sober enough to get them open.
“Four,” Roland told her. “Possibly five or six.”
Roland couldn’t recall the coloring he’d used on the sunrises. It felt like they were something he’d painted a lifetime ago. He was concerned they weren’t as good as Donny had led him to believe. So, the showing could go one of two ways— really well or spectacularly catastrophic. Maybe people would see him for the hack he'd been the past ten years and this would be his last opportunity to share his vision with the world. Then everyone would leave him alone— the final nail in the coffin, and he could just live on his savings until it was gone.
The idea of this weekend being his last gallery showing, surprisingly, settled like a brick in his gut. He didn’twantthis week to be the end of everything. Bearing the weight of Donny’s absence was already more than he could manage.
Then show them who you arehis heart whispered.
“That’s great. We’ll have room. Can you have them here Friday night so we have time to hang them, please?” Kathryn was extremely cheerful.
“That’s fine.”
“Great! We’re so looking forward to the event, Mr. Wilson. Please call if you have any questions.”
“Will do. Bye.” Roland hung up the call before Kathryn could respond. Once the screen returned to normal, he pulled up the app for Frank’s Delivery to order some new art supplies. He didn’t have much time before the weekend, but he felt a familiar spark of inspiration curl around his heart and he refused to silence it again. He tapped out his order, and not so secretly hoped Donny would be the driver. That he could see him again, even for a moment, to try and explain. He dropped his phone to the floor and banged his head against the wall. He slid his knees up, and rested his forehead against them, waiting for the delivery to arrive.
A decent amount of vodka later, there was a knock at the door. Roland stood, grabbing his phone, and stumbled into the living room, smoothing his hair behind his ears before cracking the door open and peeking out. It wasn’t Donny. Just a kid with unremarkable brown hair and uninspiring brown eyes. Roland glared at him, as if it was his fault that Roland was in the situation he was now in.
“Where’s Donny?” Roland asked him while he signed the kid’s clipboard.
“Dunno, man. Haven’t seen him in a couple days.”
“Oh.” Roland thrust the clipboard back at the kid and slammed the door closed in his face. He looked down and cupped his fingers together behind his neck, taking a deep breath. He dug his phone out of his pocket to send a text to Donny.
Roland: It’s been three days, and I still miss you.
As with the previous messages, it went unanswered.
Roland set the new canvases up in his studio and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard it looked like fireworks behind his eyelids. He dropped his hands and stepped backward, out of the studio. He went to his bathroom, turned the shower on, and stripped his clothes off. When steam was billowing out of the shower, Roland stepped inside. The hot water immediately turned his skin red and he didn’t shy away from the sting. He washed his hair and washed himself.
He wrapped a soapy hand around the base of his cock and gave a few experimental strokes. He hardened under the touch, the pressure quickly building inside his balls after days of being ignored. Roland braced a hand against the wall of the shower and jerked his cock with short, rough tugs until he came in a gush that promptly washed down the drain.
His orgasm felt empty.
He washed himself again and then turned the shower off, stepping out to towel dry. Wiping a hand across the mirror to clear the steam, he was taken aback by the man reflected— sunken eyes, and four days’ worth of facial hair curled out from his cheeks. He scrubbed his hands over his face and shoved them into his hair, pulling violently at the roots. He screwed his eyes shut and screamed. Roland yelled at the top of his lungs, a cry so furious it shook his entire body. He braced himself against the edge of the sink, chest heaving while he tried to catch his breath.
This life wasn’t fair. To exist the way he did and always be at war with his own mind was a cruel joke played on him by some malevolent god somewhere. He just wanted to paint. He wanted to be healthy. He wanted to be good enough for Donny to give him another chance. He wanted to stop fucking everything up. He wanted to have something good of his own for once. His mind flicked back to Cody and he startled as a long missing puzzle piece clicked into place. He’d backed Cody into a corner that day, and like a skittish horse, Cody had reacted by bucking up and bolting. Roland’s denial of how serious his depression could be had made their relationship toxic, and he’d made the same mistake again with Donny.
Roland opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out his clippers. He combed his fingers through his burgeoning beard before methodically trimming it, taking the hairs down low so they were barely more than a five o’clock shadow across the lines of his jaw. He dropped the clippers in the sink, and they clattered around the porcelain bowl. He debated using his actual razor and shaving himself clean, but decided against it.
Roland dropped his towel and combed his fingers through his hair, tugging at the tangles. He dared another glance at his reflection and couldn’t ignore the fact he could count his ribs when he inhaled. Roland worried his lower lip between his teeth as he assessed his physical appearance. He’d never been particularly muscled, more naturally broad than anything, but now it almost looked as though his limbs just hung there. He straightened his shoulders and found no confidence in the posture, so he returned to his slump.
He leaned in close to the mirror and raised his hands to his cheeks, dragging his fingertips across the dark circles below his eyes. He pulled his fingers down, with the grain of his scruff, then traced the line of his jaw to his chin. He lowered his arms and stepped away from the mirror.
Roland dug a pair of briefs out of the dresser and was getting dressed when a flash of black caught his eye. He looked down toward the bedside table and saw the top drawer on what had been Donny’s side of the bed was half open. Donny’s sketchbook was tucked inside, half of it sticking out. Roland pulled on his pants and sat on the edge of the mattress, taking the sketchbook in his hands.
He moved it from hand to hand for a few passes before deciding to open it. He skimmed through to the back until he reached the sketches Donny had done most recently. Many of them were of Roland, some he’d known about, and some that looked like Donny had drawn them from memory. Roland must have been a far greater man in Donny’s mind, because he was still unable to see the truth of himself behind the lines of Donny’s pencil, and he hated that.
All Roland wanted was to be the painter everyone thought he was, be the man everybody thought he was, be the man Donny deserved. But he just couldn’t find it in himself. He hated how weak he was, how suggestible he was to the misgivings of his own mind. He’d sold paintings for tens of thousands of dollars, he was living off money he made a decade ago— that wouldn’t be happening if he was as useless as he was in his own head.
But that couldn’t be true because, after all, Cody and Donny wouldn’t have left him if he was a better man.
Roland tucked the sketchbook under his arm and went into the kitchen. He placed the book on the counter, then opened the freezer and dug around for a frozen pizza. Donny loved them and it was easy to reach with the vodka being gone. He slid it into the oven, even though it wasn’t pre-heated, and then paced the house, waiting for it to be done. He picked up Pete’s toys from the living room and with every one he found, it was like a vise tightening around his heart.
He collected all the toys and set them on the edge of the kitchen counter, and dumped out Pete’s food and water bowls, stacking them alongside the toys. He poured himself a glass of water and finished it in one gulp, so he poured himself another. Three glasses later, his vision started to clear.
