Page 111 of The Muse
Callie turns, letting her socked feet touch the ground. She bows her head, mug cupped in her hands. “People who don’t care, don’t get edgy. They don’t get angry. They don’t fight.”
“I never said I don’t care.”
“What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?” She looks up at me.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t want to know, then I would not have asked.”
I focus on the gray sky, stained with hints of purple and blue, rejecting the sun’s attempt to break through.
“We all have stories, Flynn. Some people are an open book, others are a diary with a lock and key. Relationships take time and work. Years of patience. Love is an invitation into someone’s heart. But you have to think of it like someone inviting you into their home for the first time. You wouldn’t charge past them to explore every room and rummage through every drawer. Maybe the first time you visit, they don’t invite you past the foyer. Perhaps you get invited into the kitchen for tea, but you pass a room along the way with a closed door. And you’re curious what’s behind the door, but you don’t kick it down, and you don’tget angry with them for not giving you access to everything all at once.”
“When did you know?”
She frowns. “I suspected when we met. But I knew the day she tuned my cello. She hasn’t put out new music or toured in years. Art is passion in form. If she’s stopped following her passion, I have to believe she has a few closed doors.”
When lightning flashes in the sky, she turns to watch it. “I knowIhave doors that I’ve closed, locked, and thrown away the key.”
“I think Mr. Rawlings thinks I can unlock them.”
She smiles. “I’m sure he does.”
“I’ll change for Pilates,” I say while standing.
“Did you let her go?”
“If I say yes, are you going to lecture me?”
She shakes her head.
I walk toward the door. “Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s not my job to open your doors.”
After Pilates, Callie has me take her to the Minneapolis Institute of Art, but I suspect the trip is more for me than her. She chooses certain sculptures and paintings to stand in front of for a long time—fifteen to twenty minutes—before moving to the next piece.
“Nope,” she says each time I attempt to reach for my phone.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for a decrease in pay. This is torture.
The next day, it’s not raining, so we spend the afternoon at the Walker Art Center. I’ve been through the Sculpture Garden next to it, but I’ve never seen the inside of the building.
That night, Rupert steps into the garage as I sit in his Chevelle, watching YouTube videos.
“I’ll rent you a room for three hundred a month, but you have to clean it and the bathroom you choose to use.”
“The car is fine.” I shrug.
“I don’t want you drooling on my leather seats or jerking off to porn.” He nods to my phone.
“Either your cameras suck or you need glasses.” I hold up my phone for him to see the screen. “They’re videos of rebuilding engines.”
“Well, either way, you don’t need to sleep in my car. It’s worth more than the bed I’m offering you. But if you want to keep sleeping in it, I’m going to charge you a grand a month.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That’s stupid.”
He turns, heading back into the house. “Life is stupid. Get used to it.”
