I knew that, and I knew Aria, but a part of me thought it would be easier to walk away than face the reasoning. I wouldn’t be back to Wisconsin any time soon, and it wasn’t really fair to ask her to wait around for me. Plus, she obviously had things to work out with James, and I was probably just getting in the way of that.
The distance was better for us, for her.
I was only clouding her judgment.
It was about time I awakened from the dream of Aria and me.
Aria: I – noun, often capitalized, often attributive \ˈī\ : Aria Lauren Watson.
Aria: Miss – verb \ˈmis\ : To feel the absence of.
Aria: You – pronoun | [yoo; unstressed yoo, yuh] : Levi Wesley Myers.
Miss you, too, Aria Lauren Watson.
But I couldn’t tell her that, even though it was true.
41 Aria
I texted Levi and waited. I took a shower, stared at my growing stomach, and I checked my phone. I practiced the air guitar, and then I checked my phone. I spoke to Mom and Dad about James, and then I checked my phone. I ate dinner, and then I checked my phone.
Over and over again, I checked my phone.
Over and over again, there was nothing to see.
My mind started wondering how much of Levi had been nothing more than a dream.
All I wanted to do was fall back asleep and find him again.
Thursday was my last visit to Dr. Ward before the New Year, and I really needed to sit across from him and talk about art. I hadn’t spoken to James since Christmas. I wasn’t even sure where to start. Mom told me I shouldn’t say anything to Keira and Paul until James and I spoke to one another.
Dr. Ward’s candy bowl was filled with red and green chocolate M&Ms, and I ate all of them within the first ten minutes.
“So what’s on your mind, Aria?”
It was funny how I’d come to love those words.
“Gustave Courbet. He was a French painter who pretty much led the beginning of the realism movement. When he was asked to paint angels, his response was, ‘I have never seen angels. Show me an angel, and I will paint one.’ Mr. Courbet and I had very different views when it came to art. He believed that one should only paint what they could see with their eyes, and I believed that art should be from the heart and soul.”
“Believed? Do you not believe that anymore?”
“I want to, but each passing day realism is showing me its appeal. It represents life truthfully, without hidden meanings, without doubt and questions being seen from any angle. It’s just real. It’s exactly what it needs to be. It makes me embarrassed a little that I’ve only focused on abstract. Maybe Gustave Courbet was right.”
“Bullshit,” Dr. Ward said, narrowing his eyes. “I’m calling bullshit.”
“What?”
“Why does it have to be one or the other? The opposite of real isn’t abstract. The opposite of real is fake. Abstract can be real, and it can hold more truth in it than anything else. You taught me that. Abstract art can be as true as realistic art, as long as it finds the courage to speak its colors into the world with genuine honesty.”
“But what if abstract’s truth hurts someone else in the process?” I asked.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. His fingers clasped together. “One truth stings far less than a thousand lies.”
42 Aria
“We can’t keep him, James.” I sat beside him on his porch swing, watching as my truth stung his soul.
He repeatedly tapped his fingers against his jeans. “We can do this, Aria. I know it will be hard, but we can do this.”
I shook my head. “That’s not true.”
“Why? Why can’t we do this? Why can’t we have him?”
“We don’t get what we want anymore. We don’t make choices for ourselves. Everything we do is for him. Every choice we make is to give him a better life. So, we don’t get to keep the baby.”
“Why not?”
“Because that would mean we were going after our own selfish wants and needs. For him we have to be selfless. For him, we have to let go. You and I would never be a couple, James. If we were, we would hate each other. Do you really want to raise a kid like that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Keira and Paul are already amazing parents. It’s not like the baby is going to someone we don’t know. I’ve known them my whole life, and they are good people. They’ll love him. He’ll be safe and loved.”
The porch swing squeaked as he and I swayed back and forth on it. The chilled night sky was sprinkled with stars, and he stared at them as if trying to make a wish on each one.
“The night I slept with you was the night after I tried to fix things with Nadine,” he whispered at a volume that was almost mute. “We were already broken up for over a month, and she had no plans on getting back together with me. I came over to talk to Mike about it, and we ended up going to a party and getting drunk. I felt lost, broken.”
“So you were drunk when we slept together?”
“No,” he said quickly, turning my way. “No. I sobered up. But I was still lost. I didn’t handle things after she told me she had a miscarriage. I was still missing something I never really had. Something I never wanted. That nearly destroyed me. I was leaving Mike’s room and when I walked past yours, you smiled at me in a way that almost made it seem like everything would be okay. And then after you got pregnant, I reacted the same way I did with Nadine, searching for a quick fix. But, as time went on and I saw your stomach and that this whole baby thing was really happening, I guess I felt like it was a second chance to do the right thing.”
“You are doing the right thing,” I said, placing my hand on top of his. “It just so happens that sometimes the right thing sucks.”
He snickered and went back to staring at the stars. “So what do we do now?”
“You finish your senior year, then you go off to Duke and make something of yourself.”
“And you?”
Me?
I learn to breathe again.
I started homeschooling the first week of the New Year. Mom and Dad both worked random hours, and since they didn’t want me home alone during my online classes, I stayed with Keira each day.
Every day around lunchtime, I saw Mr. Myers walk outside toward the woods. By the time I left Keira’s in the afternoon, either Daisy or Lance showed up to spend the evening with him.
When the curiosity got the best of me, I packed up my lunch and followed him to the woods one day.
He stood on the snow covered ground, staring up at the old tree house.
“Did you build that for him?” I asked.
He slowly turned around to look at me and sneered. “You’re trespassing.”
“Yeah, I am, but I brought you lunch if you’re hungry.”
He huffed and walked back to his house, slamming the door in my face.
Maybe tomorrow.
I showed up at lunchtime each day for three weeks. It wasn’t until February that Mr. Myers let me inside. Actually, his nurse let me in, but it was good enough for me.
“You’re really annoying, you know that, right?” he muttered, sitting in his chair watching black and white shows.
“I brought chicken noodle soup.” I smiled.
“Not hungry.”
“Your nurse said you haven’t eaten much today.”
“Probably because I’m not fucking hungry,” he growled. He was grumpy a lot, but being that I was thirty-two weeks pregnant, carrying around Jicama, I had my grumpy days, too. I opened the soup, grabbed a spoonful, and hovered the spoon in front of his mouth. “What’s your problem?!” he hissed. “Why won’t you let me alone?”