Devon Hartford - Painless

I gazed up at Christos, my eyes pleading for comfort and reassurance. I asked him meekly, in a vulnerable voice that was on the edge of shattering into fragile shards, “Are you sure?”

Christos cupped my cheek and caressed the side of my face. “Yes. I’m not going anywhere, agápi mou . Ever.”

Looking into his loving blue eyes, I believed him with all my heart. The wave of energy that passed from my heart to his was confirmation.

He smoothed a lock of my hair behind my ear. That simple gesture of affection was so powerful, I broke into fresh sobs and collapsed into his muscled chest. In his arms, I felt safe. Protected. I never wanted to leave them.

I wept quietly for awhile, letting it out.

Eventually, I sniffed and said, “I think the guy my mom is seeing might be my father.”

“What?” Christos gasped.

I cringed now that I’d said it out loud. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy. But my mom said all these things about you like she’d had experience with her own bad boy when she was young, and it got me thinking. Maybe this guy she’s seeing got her pregnant twenty years ago. With me. My dad said this guy is from her college days and he is a bad boy. Maybe it’s the same guy from when she was young and she wants to get back together with him now that I’m out of the house? Because she doesn’t need my dad anymore?”

“Wow, that’s insane,” Christos said.

“You’re right. I’m crazy.” I shook my head. “I’m making it sound like a soap opera storyline. It’s too crazy to be true. Right?” Desperate thoughts pulsed in my head, Please tell me I’m crazy, please tell me my reasoning is idiotic. Please please please…

Christos sighed, “Who knows. People do crazy shit. Anything is possible.”

I clutched his T shirt and heaved a painful sob, “You don’t think it’s true, do you?”

“I have no idea, agápi mou ,” he said softly. “But whatever the truth turns out to be, I’ll be by your side through all of it.”

I burrowed further into his arms and sobbed.

At the moment, I was desperately afraid, half insane, but above all things, grateful I had Christos.

SAMANTHA

Denial quickly became my best friend. It was the only way I could function and stay sane. I did my best to block out any thoughts of my parents’ crumbling marriage and focused on school and my new job.

Kamiko and I were eating lunch at the Adams College Cafeteria.

“What’s the Samantos status?” Kamiko asked before popping a french fry into her mouth.

“The what?”

“You and Christos? Duh.”

“Samantos?” I scoffed. “That sounds like a breath mint.”

“The fresh maker!” Kamiko quipped.

I chuckled, “We’re good.”

“How are his paintings coming along? Does he still have a parade of models coming in and out of the studio every day?”

“No. He’s, uh, changed directions.” I wasn’t quite comfortable telling Kamiko that Christos was painting me nude.

I wondered if I could keep Christos’ upcoming solo show a secret so I could avoid having my friends gawk at a nude picture of me. Who was I kidding? Kamiko followed the upcoming gallery shows like a hawk. She’d find out and she’d be there. At least I could appreciate her desire to show up and support.

Changing subjects, I said, “Have you done any new paintings to submit to Brandumb for his upcoming Contemporary Artists Show?”

“A bunch,” she smiled.

“How are they coming along?”

Kamiko had been crushed when Brandon had rejected her first batch of submissions.

“Awesome,” she said. “You wanna see them after lunch?”

“Sure,” I smiled.

When we finished eating, we walked our trays over to the trash cans and emptied them into the bin then walked out the front doors.

There was a newspaper rack right outside.

Kamiko stopped and squealed, “Oh my God!” She grabbed a fresh copy of The Wombat off the rack. “Sam! It’s your wombat!” She handed me the paper. “It looks so good!”

Wow, my art was on the cover, next to Tammy Lemons’ illustration.

“You should totally save like ten copies!”

“But I haven’t won,” I said.

“So what?” Kamiko said, excited. “You’re in print! That’s YOUR art!”

“I guess you’re right,” I smiled. “But maybe I’ll only take five copies.” I grabbed a handful off the rack.

“Will you sign mine for me?” Kamiko asked, digging frantically through her book bag for a pen.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Kamiko,” I dismissed.

“What, did you forget how to spell your name?” she asked sarcastically and thrust her pen at me.

I frowned, “No.”

“Then sign it, bitch! I’m so proud of you!” She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly. When she was done, she pushed her pen at me again. “But seriously, sign it. I’m going to hold onto this until it’s worth a thousand bucks. I’ll sell it at San Diego Comic Con in twenty years when you’re a world famous cartoonist.”

I scoffed, “I think you’re getting a bit carried away, Kamiko.”

“Shut up and sign it. If I’m going to be a doctor for the rest of my life, I’m going to tell people I went to school with Samantha Smith, the awesome artist.”

I arched a doubtful eyebrow.

“Quit being fake humble and sign it!” she growled.

I wasn’t being fake humble. It just seemed weird she was asking me to sign the paper for her. I hadn’t even won yet. For all I knew, the students who read the paper and bothered to vote would pick Tammy’s art.

Some random guy with glasses and wavy long hair walked up to the rack and picked up a copy of The Wombat. He chuckled when he looked at the cover.

“My home girl drew that wombat,” Kamiko said to him. “She can autograph your paper if you’re nice.”

“Kamiko!” I hissed.

The guy looked at the pictures thoughtfully. “You drew this?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly, “the one on the toilet. I didn’t draw the one with the baseball bat.”

“Oh,” he nodded, examining the drawings. He chuckled, “I love that he’s stoned while he’s taking a shit. That’s awesome.”

Kamiko nudged me, “Sign it!”

“Yeah,” the guy said, “will you sign it for me? I’m hanging this in our bathroom in the dorms.”

I couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or an insult.

He smiled, admiring my art, “The guys are going to love this.”

So I signed it. I mean, a lot of people read when they were on the toilet. Sure, a bathroom stall in the dorms wasn’t exactly Charboneau Gallery, but it was the next best thing, right?

Kamiko and I went to her dorm room in Paiute Hall.

“I’m trying something totally different,” she said, sliding a big black portfolio out from under her bed. She unzipped it and handed me a stack of paintings on 1/8” thick illustration board. “These are all done with pen and ink, and acrylics.”

They were drawings with washes of transparent color over the ink lines, and touches of opaque acrylic here and there on some, and more thickly applied acrylics on others.

“What happened to all your oils?”

“They’re in the closet,” she nodded toward the wheeled wardrobe next to her bed. “Since Brandumb didn’t want them for the show, I put them all away. Maybe I’ll try to sell them later. But for now, I’m doing this,” she pointed her chin toward the stacks of paintings in my lap.

I sat down on the bed and flipped through them. There was a half dozen of them, all in totally different styles. One showed a dolphin jumping out of waves made of blue human hands and arms. Another showed a beautiful woman in a giant Victorian gown with hands that snaked out in looping coils that ended in bouquets of roses. Another showed three identical young girls with black pigtails and kimonos standing on a Japanese garden bridge over a pond filled with koi that had human faces. “Are these kimono triplets supposed to be you?” I asked.