And I can’t seem to stop myself. Call it the hormones, the embarrassment, the loneliness, the rejection, or the inability to be loved by someone else, but it’s all getting to me.
I set the paintbrush down and step away to marvel at my work. I smile to myself as I read, “This room belongs to Johnny Jim.”
Now that is what I call decorating.
Satisfied with the change, I walk into the living room and survey the space. A few pictures of him shaking hands with some famous hockey players hang on the walls. Frankly, a little pretentious if you ask me.
So I decide to change them since I’m on a roll.
I take a seat at the desk in the corner of the living room, and pull out a Sharpie and some paper. Getting comfortable in my seat, I uncap the Sharpie and then tap my chin, thinking what to draw.
Anything could be better than a stodgy picture of two men shaking hands.
Smirking, I press my pen to the paper and start my first commissioned art piece. Commissioned by me, of course, and as I continue to draw, ensuring there’s specific detail, I know my customer will be very satisfied.
I repeat the same drawing but make some adjustments here and there.
And then one more.
When I’m done, I cap the Sharpie and stare at my drawings, chuckling.
One picture is of a penis, flaccid, looking very sad and almost weeping because it’s so sad.
The next one is a picture of just a pregnant belly and boobs, coming from the side of the paper. The penis is now happy.
The third picture is the backside of the pregnant woman, walking off the paper, hair floating in the wind, the penis is sad again. Talk about portraying a story through art. Doesn’t get better than this.
It takes me a moment and some finagling—the frames were held down with what felt like glue—but I add my new art to the walls and step back.
“Wow,” I say to myself. “Those look amazing.” I snap a picture with my phone and send it to Blakely.
Almost instantaneously, my phone beeps back with a message.
But it’s not from Blakely, but rather a friend I haven’t talked to in a while.
I swipe open the message and read it.
Remi: Hey, gorgeous. I’m in town. Are you free for dinner this week?
I read the message a few times and feel a sense of . . . nostalgia pass through me. Maybe it’s because I’m in such a dark place right now, but before I can stop myself, I text him back.
Penny: Hey you, I’d love to see you. Just let me know when and where.
Remi: Perfect. Tomorrow night, I’ll come pick you up. Send me your address.
Absentmindedly, I text him back, and then on a deep, satisfied breath, I set my phone down. It will be good to see an old friend, maybe get me out of this rut that I’m in. At least it will get me out of this perfectly decorated apartment.
Drumming my fingers again, I turn toward the kitchen. “What next?”
I spend the next half hour taking all the throw pillows apart so they’re just the filler pillow rather than the pretty sham. I move his phone charger into the fridge because it felt right, and I take one of his shoes and repot a succulent in it and set it at the window. I take another picture and send it to Blakely, telling her I might be onto something with the succulent shoe. Eli walks through the door just as I’m about to rearrange the coat closet by turning it into a mini rave space, disco ball included.
“Hey, babe,” he says when he spots me halfway in the closet, halfway out. He places his hand on my back and kisses my cheek. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I slam the closet door and fold my arms together. “Why do you ask?”
He eyes the closet and then me. “Just wondering. Why, are you trying to hide something?”
“What would I hide?”
“I don’t know. You just slammed that door pretty quickly, as if you’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything, Eli.”
“Then why did you slam the door?”
I laugh maniacally as if I can’t even believe what he’s saying. “Me? Slam the door? Maybe you walked into this apartment so fast your breeze from opening the door actually slammed the door. Ever think about that?”
“What are you hiding in there?” he asks, growing more irritated.
“Nothing.”
He tries to open the door, but I swat at his hand. “Don’t you dare go in there.”
“Penny, I’m not fucking around anymore. What’s in there . . . or who’s in there?”
“Who?” I shout, my eyes widening. “Are you really asking if there’s a who in there?”