“What’s your favorite painting?” he asked in enthusiastic, heavily accented English.
“My favorite?” She cocked her head to the side, as if the question was confounding. Of course she’d been asked her about her favorite painting before. It was a common question for an art history professor, but that was also part of the reason she couldn’t really choose. It was like asking someone to choose a favorite song or a favorite child.
The truth was that she couldn’t possibly have a favorite painting. There were too many brilliant works to choose from, too many different styles that evoked different emotions and reminded her of different moments from her life. Many were moments she’d shared with her grandmother at the Art Institute of Chicago, where they’d spent weekend mornings when Grace was a kid. She remembered her grandma staring at Georgia O’Keefe’sSky Above Clouds IVfor so long that Grace worried something bad had happened, but she did the same thing atWater LiliesandInventions of the Monsters, until Grace understood that this was the kind of dedication and time that art required—to stare and stare and take it all in, every drop and detail, to find a way inside the piece and to feel it as if it were a part of you. And perhaps, on some rare occasions, it really would become a part of you forever.
Grace’s grandma liked the beautiful stuff, the impressionists and the landscapes and the bright colors and people dancing in summer. But as she got older, Grace wandered off on her own to explore the weirder stuff, the stuff that seemed to appeal to her more and more. She couldn’t stop thinking about Francis Bacon’sFigure with Meat.For all of the complicated feelings about Picasso she’d discussed with Rafael,The Old Guitaristhaunted her dreams. And that was before she started to really study art, to actually learn about the techniques and the context. With all of that, how could she possibly choose a favorite?
“What’syourfavorite painting?” she asked Marco, because that’s what teachers did. They just asked the tough questions back to the class, especially when they didn’t have the answer.
Marco scrunched up his face, clearly giving it some thought. “My mother painted a vase of flowers that she hung up in our house,” he said. “It’s very nice.”
Grace smiled. “That’s lovely. Maybe as we start to talk, you can learn about some of her influences.”
“I think she was just influenced by our garden,” Marco said.
“How was it?” Alma asked the second Grace walked through their door. Alma was sprawled across the couch with a magazine and a glass of wine, but she sat up as if she’d been waiting all day to talk to her best friend.
Grace smiled before she could find any words. “Terrifying,” she said at last. “And wonderful.”
“You liked your students?”
“They were kind and enthusiastic and patient with me when I couldn’t work the projector. It was better than I could have imagined. Usually there are a few in the class that don’t care much, and I’m sure that will be the case, but they were engaged today.”
“Oh Gracie, that’s amazing. See? You made the right decision coming here.”
Grace nodded. “Time will tell, I suppose, but Alma?—”
“No, don’t you dare. If you thank me one more time, I’m kicking you out of the apartment.”
“I wasn’t going to say thank you.”
“You weren’t? What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say I’m sogratefulto you.”
Alma shook her head. “Get out of here. Actually, yes, do get out. We should go somewhere and celebrate your first day.”
Grace leaned against the counter and hung her head. “I’m tired.”
“Come on, we have to do something. A drink?Helado?”
Grace knew it would be suspicious to say no to ice cream. She never said no to ice cream, but she felt worn out. She’d felt worn out for the past three months or more, and even with the excitement of a new class, a new city, a new country, she couldn’t help wishing that she could feel like herself again. It seemed impossible when she’d lost her entire life and imagined future. Her career. Her partner. Her family. How could she ever be the same?
Alma’s face fell, and Grace hated to disappoint her. She hated that she couldn’t be the girl who talked about hand-jobs on the college quad and loaded up on soft-serve with sprinkles for dinner, the girl that danced until her legs were literally aching and stayed out until four o’clock in the morning just because her best friend wasn’t quite ready to go to bed. They’d met the sunrise on several occasions, just because they couldn’t stop talking to each other about anything and everything.
That seemed like another life, a life that required more energy than Grace could muster. “I think I might just start planning for my next class,” she said guiltily.
Alma nodded.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Gracie. I understand.”
Grace sighed. “Yes, but you probably weren’t prepared to have a mopey weirdo living with you and killing your vibes. Especially when you’ve been so happy with Obinna.”
“You’remymopey weirdo, and I want you here, no matter what.”
Alma’s phone rang, and she went to pick it up. “Hola?”
