"Hah-hah." I shoot her a look, even though there's absolutely nothing I can say to that, and walk toward the mural, pretending to study the strokes, when the truth is I need to put my focus on someone else's unraveling.
Thumb the wall. "Your landlord knows you're vandalizing his property?"
She gets up instantly, spinning a brush as she crosses to me. "Eh, had nothing to do. When I finish, they'll beg me to keep it. Probably charge the next tenant extra for 'artistic ambiance' or some bullshit." She plucks another brush from her pocket and slaps it into my hand. "Come help me."
I take a step back. "No way. I'm not ruining it."
"You need to do something with your hands to stop that mind-vomit, and you don't come often, so I need proof you were here," she says.
When I don't move, she nudges me, rolling her eyes. "Come on. If I don't like it, I'll repaint it."
I pause a beat longer.
I can sketch, especially bodies—especially some bodies, ehm—but painting is a different beast.
I wish I was like Lu, painting, smacking some clay around when life deserves a punch.
But she's right. I have to stop overthinking and unclench. Ben is here and there is nothing I can do about it.
So I dip the brush into black—weird, usually I cravecolors—and say this with an omen in my voice: "Whatever I do is on you."
She shrugs, indifferent, and peels back the foil from the fridge to rummage in it. Then pulls out a bottle of rosé without a label, and studies it up close.
"Your big exhibition is coming up. You nervous?" I ask her.
"Nah. My feng shui says I blow up next year so I'm trying to enjoy these days when I can run braless and nobody cares."
I know that's BS. She's freaking out that someone will get in the house and set it on fire before the world sees her genius but will never admit it.
"Baby, I don't need any divination tool to tell you'll be huge. So huge, artsy kids will hate you because they'll have to study your life in school."
She pulls a horrified face. "God, no... But thanks?"
I grin because I can tell it made her happy.
"Alright. Not sure when I got this—" She inspects the wine like it belongs in a toxic lab. "Might have been last year. Let's do it. But don't expect anything fancy."
I stare at her, insulted. "I'm still the same girl, you know."
She smirks, giving me a judging once-over. "Yeah. Only now you're wearing what?"
"Eh... Ralph Lauren, I think," I admit, making a face. It's probably headed for dry cleaning, and I'm sure it will be costly. "Either way, I want that hangover."
"That's my girl." She smiles and pours me a full glass.
I stare at the sediment, swirling like volcanic ash. Perfect. Headache incoming. Exactly what I ordered.
I take a sip, and pull a face because ugh, how can rosé be bitter? But whatever, it's not about the wine—it's about sharing it with Lu. So I take another sip and drag a shapeless blob of paint across the plaster.
And then, I don't know how it happened, what time it is, probably close to evening, but we're laughing. Finally. I'm laughing, like in good old days.
When I used to live here, this was it. Tea lights, and indie playlist, and gesturing like heathens—our own language since we were seven and she moved next door.
We clicked instantly, probably because of our childhoods that both left marks. Mine mostly courtesy of Mom, who I can finally admit, thanks to therapy, is a narcissist, and Dad who preferred to be MIA.
Lu's parents were cooler, but divorced when she was seven, splitting her between two homes and poisoned barbs about each other. Different shapes of damage, same scar tissue.
We're still at the wall.
