'S mise le meas 007

Chapter Seven: Broken Ice

As I closed the front door, I saw my father's reflection in the glass. I turned to face him, staying by the door. I couldn't read his expression.

"I don't like it," he said. I frowned. "This can only end badly for you, Lila."

"Don't pretend like you know everything, Dad," I said. "Because you don't. For all you know, I'll wind up marring him and living happily ever after! I just-" I shoved my hands into my hair and pulled. The pain helped calm my anger a little bit. "I hate it when you claim all authority-all control-over my life, and yet you despise my very existence! Why not just let me run wild and do whatever the hell I want? Let the world decide my fate so that you don't have to!" My breaths were coming quick and uneven. I couldn't believe I had just shouted at my father. I think he had a hard time coming to grips with it, too.  I had never yelled at him before. I had never yelled at all. He just stood there staring at me like he'd never seen me before.

I leaned back against the door, all energy suddenly leaving my body. I was exhausted. I just wanted to sleep. I walked into the living room, grabbed my paintings, and headed to the stairs.

"I don't," he said when I reached the foot of the stairs. I stopped. He looked down at me. "I don't despise you." He rubbed his face in his hands. He looked as tired as I felt. "I just-" He stopped himself from explaining. I could see there was something he wanted to tell me… but he couldn't. "Good night." He went up to his room, leaving me standing at the foot of the stairs, wondering what had caused his resolve to crack that tiny bit. He'd wanted to open up. I could see it. Well… it was a start.

I returned to the art studio and locked the door. I took a moment and just stared at the beginnings of my painting of Damian. In a split-second decision, I grabbed the biggest brush I had and plunged it into the can of white paint, running it over today's work, erasing all trace of what I had started. I set that canvas aside and grabbed a dry one. I quickly threw my hair into a bun with a long paintbrush to get it out of my face, and tied an apron around my waist.

The whole time I painted, I had words running through my head. Words I'd only seen spoken (or sung, rather) once in my life. Without realizing it, I was reciting the lines aloud.

"Come by the hills to the land where fancy is free and stand where the peaks meet the sky and the lochs meet the sea." I worked for hours, reciting through nearly every song I'd seen that night multiple times. I probably made the biggest mess, throwing brushes down, not patient enough to clean them between colors. I was hardly thinking about what I was doing, relying solely on memory and emotion.

Three hours after I started working (2:30 in the morning) I slowed down a bit. I was now sitting on a stool rather than standing, and absentmindedly reinforcing colors already there. The painting was done… but I wasn't. I kept going over his eyes, making them bluer and bluer.

"'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow… Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy… I love you so…" I was only mouthing the words now. I sighed and dropped the brush to the floor. It made a blue spot on the concrete. We'd had the carpet taken out for the studio. There were lots of stains on the floor. But somehow, this blue spot stuck out like a sore thumb. I wouldn't even try to clean it up.

I grabbed the brush to use for signing, dipped it in black, and initialed the bottom right-hand corner. I picked up all the brushes I'd used and took them over to the sink to wash them out. When I came back to the stool, I just sat and looked at it for about twenty minutes. I only left when I started to fall asleep. I needed to set an alarm. Damian was coming at nine. I should get up at eight. My phone vibrated as a sign that the alarm was set. I didn't even change out of my apron, falling on my bed and sleeping instantly.

When I woke up, it wasn't to my alarm. I hadn't closed my curtains last night and the sunrise shone right onto my face. It was almost seven. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I went to take a shower. I dropped everything at least once, my razor twice, cutting my foot and my knee in the process. I got shampoo in my eyes and hit my head on the water knob when picking up my razor, turning the cold water up all the way and gaining a throb above my right temple. All in all, not a very relaxing shower. But I was awake.

I crossed from the bathroom to my room wrapped in a towel, my hair still dripping across my shoulders. I liked to get ready in my room, so I was out of the way of anyone else who needed to use the bathroom. Even though Dad was already gone and Nick was sleeping until ten today, I did it more out of habit than anything else. I sort of got half-dressed, then did things like dry my hair and brush my teeth. I used the sink in the art studio. My dad had knocked down the wall in the closet to connect the two rooms. My gaze kept drifting to the painting I'd done.

It was scarily accurate. I didn't even remember doing half of it. I was more venting pent up frustration, than being artistic, but it came out amazing. I wondered if I should let Damian see it….

I did my hair and makeup before picking out an outfit. My red frizz went up in a messy bun, my bangs hanging around my face like they always did. Just foundation, Chap Stick, a little bit of green eye shadow, and mascara for the makeup. I decided to wear black tights under a pair of jean shorts. It was too cold to go without the tights. I slipped on a striped sweater. I liked it a lot. I was a little snug, but not tight. It had black, gray, and white horizontal stripes, which made me look thinner. One of the good things about being an artist is you know how to manipulate the eye using illusions. My look was completed with my beat up Converse and diamond stud earrings. I looked at my watch.

Damian should be here in forty-five minutes. I went downstairs and made scrambled eggs. I put half in a bowl with a lid and stuck it in the fridge. I put a Post-It on Nick's door that read, "There's eggs in the fridge. Try to have some breakfast. And Damian might be here when you get up. Heads up. Lila."

I put a couple pieces of bread in the toaster and leaned against the kitchen sink to start on my eggs. My foot tapped impatiently on the linoleum floor. When the toast popped out of the toaster, I put way too much butter on them and made an egg sandwich. Leaning against the sink again, I twisted my ankle then straightened it multiple times, repeatedly cracking the joint. I stared at the clock on the stovetop, willing nine o'clock to come faster. At a quarter to nine, I saw movement outside the front door. I dropped my plate in the sink and wrenched the door open before Damian had even stepped onto the platform.

I hugged him before he was even in the house. I could feel him laughing. He put his arms around me and I inhaled the scent that was uniquely him. I stepped back and let him in.

"Hi," he said laughing. I blushed a little.

"Hi," I said. "Sorry. I-"

"No, don't apologize," he said. "It's all right." I noticed he had a bag over his shoulder. I looked full.

"What's that?" I asked. He smiled.

"You'll see," he said. "First I want to get the business-type stuff out of the way." I led him up to my room, leaving the door propped open with a dictionary. It was the biggest book I had and worked extremely well as a doorstop. While he glanced around the room, I quickly shut the door to the art studio. I still wasn't sure if I wanted him to see my painting. I mean, it kind of creeped even me out. I didn't know how he would take it.

"Oh, let me log on to my laptop," I said and typed in my password quickly. My wallpaper was a picture of Butterfinger sleeping under the Christmas tree last year. She was just too adorable to not take a photo of. I brought up a Word document. I noticed he was still standing in the middle of my room. "Oh! Here, hold on." I slipped into the art studio and grabbed the stool, bringing it into my room next to my desk. "You don't have to stand there. Have a seat." He scooted the stool closer to my chair and dropped his bag on the floor.

"All right," he said. "So, I mentioned texting, emails, and letters. We both have each other's phone numbers already. I'd also like to give you my home phone number just in case I forget, and call from home, you know who it is." I giggled.

"Okay." He told me his home phone number and I typed it in the document. Then he told me his email address and I typed it in as well. Finally, he told me his home address for letters. I clicked "save" and opened up a new document. I typed out all of my information to print out and give to him. "Anything else before I print?"

"Yeah," he said. "Do you have a MySpace or anything?"

"I have a Facebook and a LiveJournal account," I said. "And I have a DeviantArt account for my artwork and stories. That's it."

"Okay, you can put those on there too, if you want," he said. I did. "All right, that's all I need. And if I do think of something later, I can email you or call. I have a Twitter account, if you ever wanted to get one, I'll tell you what it is." I laughed.

"All right," I said. I added that to the other document and saved. "So I can print now?"

"Yes, you can print now," he said with a chuckle. I handed the paper to him. He folded it and put it in his wallet.

"You like to wear plaid," I observed. He laughed.

"Yes, I like to wear plaid," he said, shaking his head. "And you like to wear Converse."

"Touché," I said. "So, what's in the bag?"

"Ah," he said and quickly grabbed it. "I bought you something."

"Oh, my," I teased. "Presents already. I think we're taking this relationship a little too fast." He just smiled at me, setting the bag on my bed to open it. First, he pulled out a T-shirt. I laughed when I saw that it had a picture of him on it. "Wow, you're not narcissistic at all." He smirked.

"I wanted your opinion on the new design," he said. "This is a prototype, so to speak. I look a lot different than I did three years ago, eh?"

"Yeah," I said. "I'd be kind of worried if you didn't." I took the shirt from him and looked at the back. "Oh, how sweet. You included the rest of the guys." He laughed.

"Well, I'm not quite a solo artist yet," he said. "I figured I'd keep it within the Celtic Thunder group. It's bound to help me get it approved."

"So, why are you the one designing your own shirts?" I asked, folding it back up and laying it beside his bag.

"Well, no one's making new ones," he said. "I don't know why."

"Well, this is a very nice design," I said. "I like the font on your name and you can see the blue in your eyes really well." He smiled and reached back into the bag.

"You can keep that one," he said. "I have a few of them." I smiled when he pulled a notebook out of his bag. "It's a bunch of songs Keith and I have been working on. I made copies and cleaned them up a little bit. I thought you might like them. Maybe even give a few pointers." He nudged my side. I laughed and took the notebook from him. I peeked at the first one. It was called "Faith". I set it on top of the shirt.

"I like your handwriting," I said. "A lot of guys have sloppy writing. Yours is pretty." He laughed.

"Uhm, thank you?" he said. He reached back in the bag for more. "Here's what I actually bought for you." He pulled out a book and a box. He opened the book first. "I found this last night on the internet and was lucky enough to find it in a store in town." He turned to a page about a third of the way into the book. I gasped when I saw my photo next to a small paragraph. I grabbed the book.

It was a feature on my bird painting. My jaw dropped as I read a short biography about myself. On the next page, the entire page was taken up by a photo of my painting, and the feature continued. I looked at the title of the book: Art Prodigies of the Future.

"Oh, my God," I said. "I'm in a published book." I put my hand over my mouth and sniffed. My throat got tight. "Oh, my God. You actually went and found this? For me?"

"I couldn't sleep for a long time last night," he said. "I went browsing for anything about you. I saw this feature online and it said it was an excerpt from a book. I looked up the book and there were actually a few copies in the bookstore a few blocks away. They've had them in stock for about a year."

"I never knew," I said trailing off. Tears started to run down my cheeks and I wiped them away. "Thank you so much." He pulled me into his arms and let me cry into his chest. I was too short to reach his shoulder. I felt him kiss the top of my head and he rubbed circles on my back. I clutched the book tightly to my chest.

A few minutes later, I leaned back and wiped my face dry. I looked at the back of the book for a price tag. He'd scraped it off. I chuckled.

"What?" he said.

"You took off the price tag," I said. "My mom used to do that." I set the book on top of the notebook on top of the shirt. He was still rubbing my back. It felt nice. "What's in the box?"

"Ooh," he said, suddenly excited. "I saw this and I couldn't help but buy it. I really hope you like it." He handed it to me and seemed almost nervous. I smiled and slipped open the lid.