“What are you really doing here, Amelia?”
Hearing my name come from his lips sent shockwaves through me.
I wasn’t sure if he remembered my name.
“The shortened version of the story… my roommate and someone she knows, who runs a blog or site or something, thought it would be a good idea to have me come here and interview you and write up a story. Because that’s going to suddenly make me want to write again and chase down the dream I gave up.”
“Why’d you give up the dream?” Josh asked.
His hand was still wrapped tightly around mine.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just did.”
“So, if you’re going to lie to me, does that mean I can lie to you?” he asked.
“Whatever you want,” I said. “I have no idea if I’m going to write anything at all.”
“So then why’d you come?”
“To see what you’ve been up to.”
“What I’ve been up to, huh?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“You see what I’ve been up to,” Josh said.
He slowly peeled the flask out of my hand.
He took another big drink from it.
“Can I ask you about your work out there?” I asked.
“You just did.”
“So tell me about it. The one with the trees. Reaching for each other. It looks like you took a picture of a wide-open field and then added the trees by hand. But they’re not regular trees though. Each has their own… personality?”
“That’s what you see, huh?” Josh asked.
“Is that what you want everyone to see?”
He grinned. “Tell me more about these stories then. You’re a reporter?”
“No.”
“Then what do you write?”
“I used to write.”
“What did you used to write?”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m here to talk about you.”
“And I don’t have to talk to anyone.”
“I guess you don’t,” I said.
“You don’t even want to write. You don’t even give a shit about being here. Maybe you shouldn’t be here then.”
Josh started to walk away.
I froze for a few seconds but then lunged forward. “What happened to you?”
He paused. He looked back. “What?”
“What happened? How did you get here? Forget the paintings. The pictures. Forget the scene out there. What about you?”
“Are you asking as a writer or something else?”
“Maybe a friend.”
“A friend, huh? Is that what we were?”
“I don’t know. But I remember you being there. And then you weren’t. And now you’re here.”
“The same for you,” Josh said. “There and gone. Me saving you. And that was always that. You want to know about the trees? You already know about the trees. Go write about it. Look at everything out there and look deeper. Create your story.”
“The story is about you, Josh.”
“And I tell that story. Always.”
“You’re not telling it to me.”
“Count the years. You think you know what you’re saying. But you don’t. Go write a book. Make something up.”
“You’re drunk. You don’t want to be out there. You’re the one that doesn’t want to be here.”
Josh laughed and slowly clapped. “She broke the case, folks. Give her a detective’s shield and let her solve murders.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you even care what anyone writes about you?”
“No,” he said without hesitation.
He started to walk again, head down.
He slipped his flask into his back pocket.
I watched him exit through the back door.
When he was gone, I gave a wave.
Good to see you again, Josh.
I wandered through the gallery and took notes and pictures of everything.
It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t supposed to be. I could humor Bel and write up a story about the artwork, what it looked like and what it made me feel. I could write about the people and conversations I heard. And if need be, I could write about my dark hallway encounter with Josh.
Dark and brooding, sipping from a flask - no, gulping from a flask - trying to chase away the sounds of those there to see him. When, in reality, all he wants is those there to see him through the artwork he’s created. Most don’t have the eyes or ability to see what’s really there. Too worried about a drink, a conversation, the smell of the person next to them, the kind of things that artwork should make a person forget about.
I was rolling my eyes in my head as I walked through the gallery one last time before leaving.
There was a part of me that thought about talking to the lady who owned the gallery. To try and get more information about Josh from her, but there was this feeling in the pit of my stomach that said to just leave. If Josh didn’t want to be bothered, so be it. In a way I owed him that much.
Bel would get her dumb story from me and I could tell Grace to never do that to me again.
If I wanted to write something, I would do it on my time. It would be my story to write. Definitely not an article. Not some non-fiction thing that would get posted on a blog and never seen.
I slipped into the night without being seen, turning alongside the outside of the building.
That’s when I saw something on the ground.
It looked like a folded-up piece of paper.
My curiosity stopped me, and I crouched down to pick it up. I unfolded it just once to see if there was any money or credit cards. Or identification. The storyteller in my mind had been unleashed for one night, so I felt jumpy as I wanted to open the piece of paper.
It’s a piece of paper, Amelia. It’s probably directions to the gallery. Or a printed receipt of something. It’s nothing.
Even still, I caught myself walking along the building, waiting for the right time to open it. All the while I continued to think about Josh. As though I was supposed to be chasing after him. To get some kind of story. Like he was a criminal and I was going to do what he said. Crack the case. Become a detective.
It was stupid.
Actually, it was embarrassing.
When I
