“Oh. Uh…” I trail off.
I wonder if I’ve ventured too far. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t think twice about opening up like this. I’ve always loved connecting with people, talking to them, learning about them. And I don’t mind people knowing me in return. But now… everything’s different.
“You don’t have to tell us,” Hazel says, throwing me a lifeline. An out. If I wanted to Phone-a-Friend, she’d be the one to pick up, and all I’d have to say isShirley MacLaine.
Hypothetically, that’s when one of us would feign a stomachache, like we discussed. I’d tell Maxwell that we need to cut the session short and thank him for his help.
But I don’t say our safe word. I surprisingly don’t feel uncomfortable or like we’re being taken advantage of.
“I was in an accident when I was younger. For underage drinking and driving,” I confess, keeping my voice steady and my hand even steadier as it sweeps more paint onto the canvas. With part of my focus on painting, sharing this story feels more approachable. Like it’s part of something else and not the only thing that matters.
Because at one point, it was all that mattered to me. I’ve grown a lot since I was twenty, though, and I’m proud of who I’ve become. I’m proud of who I’mnotanymore.
Hazel pauses what she’s doing, just for a second. I catch her reluctance to keep going once I’ve dropped a statement like that. She slowly keeps moving, but I can sense she does so for my benefit, to not make me feel like I’m under a microscope.
“It was just another Friday night when I thought I was above it all. Above the law,” I say. “I borrowed my dad’s car when he explicitly told me not to, just to show him that I was above listening to him, too. I raided my parents’ bar, started drinking, didn’t stop, and got behind the wheel.” I dip my brush into brown paint and spread it across the canvas. “I crashed the car. Drove right through my neighbor’s fence and through his daughter’s playhouse. Thankfully, it was at night, and she wasn’t inside playing. It could’ve been… it could’ve been more of a nightmare than it already was.” As I relay this, I realize I’ve turned toward Hazel like I’m telling this story just to her. Like this piece of me is just for her.
“Were you okay?” is the first thing Hazel asks.
“Physically, yes,” I say. “I was fined, and my license was suspended. My neighbor, Mr. Patterson, didn’t press charges, but it was only on the condition that I rebuild the fence and playhouse. I went over every day when I didn’t have classes. It’s how I learned carpentry. The entire trajectory of my life changed. Was saved, really.” I run my hand over my shoulder. “Of all the yards I could’ve driven into, it belonged to someone who was not only forgiving but who actively helped me out of a bad situation. He taught me the foundations of woodwork.”
“That must’ve been really scary,” she says, leaning over to grab my hand.
It was terrifying. It was the worst experience I’ve lived through, still to this day. Even worse was that I felt completely alone throughout it all. Anytime I wanted to talk about it, Mom would just remind me how much worse it could’ve been, and my ex-girlfriend didn’t want to constantly hear about it.
So I convinced myself that everything was good. That I was good. After all, I did survive it in the literal sense.
But there’s a reason I’m behind the stage and not on it. My act wasn’t convincing enough, and my relationship with my ex was never quite the same. When I couldn’t move on from the accident, she moved on from me.
For years, I stayed in town improving my carpentry skills, forcing down any negative emotions when they came up. The heartache—related to my ex or the accident, I couldn’t tell anymore—lingered. That’s when it was time to do something about it. I went to the inn, and then, after that, to New York.
Somehow, it feels better that Hazel knows this about me. I want her to know the whole person she’s graciously decided to help, but I also don’t want to bring her down more than I already have. So I squeeze her hand back and say, “The accident made me stronger. Scary is what happened to this canvas while I was talking.”
Hazel’s gaze lingers on me for an extra beat. “Right. Of course.” She watches as I adjust my hat, her eyes lingering on my head. “Your lucky hat. It was the one you were wearing the night of the accident.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
“And the accident, the aftermath… that’s what you believe was the right place, right time?” Maxwell asks, reminding me that he’s here, too.
“I don’t believe it. I know it,” I say, my eyes drifting back to my canvas. It’s now that I realize I’m painting a portrait of Hazel. I don’t have anything close to the skill level it would take to capture her beauty, but it’s abstract enough to be presentable.
“I can see how that feels lucky. No one got seriously hurt; you were introduced to a new career path. Maybe people even reminded you how much worse it could’ve been.” Maxwell runs his fingers down his mustache. “With Mrs. Walker, how did she know you were a carpenter?”
“I told her. That’s when I learned she worked in the theater.”
Maxwell nods thoughtfully. “And when that opportunity was presented, you said yes?”
“I stayed in my hometown way too long after the accident. I would’ve said yes to anything at that point,” I say. “The opportunity… it just presented itself. They always have.”
“It was an opportunity you acted on,” Maxwell says. “You were in the right state of mind to say yes to begin with. With your accident, too, you didn’t have to say yes to Mr. Patterson. In fact, several of my clients don’t say yes when opportunities like that come up. I take it you’re not a soft worker.” He pokes the air with his pointer finger. “You’re a hard one. Would you agree with that?”
I don’t pretend that I’m not a hard worker. I have been ever since Mr. Patterson gave me that second chance.
“You were exposed to people. You made yourself easy to get to know. You shared your life with people. Your interests,” Maxwell continues. “You were open to opportunities. You said ‘yes.’ ” He holds his hands out, palms up. “That’s luckyoumade.”
Luck that… I made?
“I was born lucky,” I correct.
