Of course she'd say that. She pr
obably even half believed it. "They're okay," he said as mildly as possible. And by okay he meant crap.
Holding up the clipboard, she tapped the picture. "Tell me what could possibly be wrong with it? You've caught my concentration, even the squint while I'm studying that weld. Your drawings make me actually feel how hot it is in the room. And I swear the horses are going to fly off the pages. You really can't see how brilliant your drawings are?"
"You have a vision, Charlie. You pound your work into submission, work and rework metal and parts until it perfectly meets your vision." His gut felt completely wrenched as he admitted, "I don't know what my vision is. I never have."
"You keep talking about this vision thing as if it's a big deal. Keep saying it's perfect. But half the time I hardly know what I'm going to do with something until I stick it on somewhere and finally see its true purpose. And we both know my work isn't perfect--how can it be, when I'm slapping together disparate pieces of junk all day? It can't be perfect, but it can make people feel."
"You don't think I wish I could make people feel what I want them to feel when they look at my drawings?" A massive wave of frustration rushed through his veins, and he stabbed so hard, his finger nearly sliced through the paper. "All I wanted was to show your concentration, your focus, your drive. But I can't get down what's in my head. I never could."
"Maybe that's it," she said slowly. "Maybe you should stop trying to make people feel one way or another. Stop trying to control other people's emotions through your art and just trust that they will feel something, whether you intended it or not." Carefully, she smoothed out the drawing. "You might have been trying to show my drive and focus, but I'd much rather you did what's on the page instead--you showed my heart, Sebastian. And I've never felt more beautiful or more appreciated than when I look at this drawing."
But if he'd truly drawn her heart, then why couldn't he understand what she really wanted? Half the time he thought she was doing everything for her mother. Sometimes he even thought she was doing it for him. Lord knew she had enough commissions to take her into next year. Her bank account would be full and her mother cared for.
Yet he sensed Charlie wasn't happy--and was becoming less and less happy by the day. He had no clue how to fix that. Was she focusing on his sketches simply as a way to get him to slow down the pace of everything else?
"All I want is to understand you, Charlie. And to make you happy." She'd be done with the sculpture in three weeks. Twenty-one days that felt like a ticking time bomb. Despite knowing that they loved each other, he was beyond frustrated that they hadn't figured out anything else. "Tell me how to do it. Tell me what I can't see or fully understand." Because he didn't want to screw things up again.
"Do you really want to know what would make me happy?" She smoothed a hand over the four sketches in her lap. "That reporter from the big magazine you got in touch with--she's coming next week and she wants to show the artist at work. Your drawings are good enough for that article."
He didn't equivocate, just gave her a flat, "No."
But she was just as stubborn as he. More, maybe. "It would be awesome, Sebastian. Your art and mine on the same page. This is a perfect opportunity for us to do something together."
"No," he said again, his voice harsh this time. "Drawing is just for myself. I already have a career."
"I know you do. But I see the way your hand flies over the paper when you draw. And how, despite your fears, you're totally alive in the moment. You have to know you're not alone--every artist who lives a creative life deals with fear and uncertainty. None of us have any idea how things are going to turn out--but that's part of the magic. And that's why I'm here. To tell you that I trust you, that I'll be right here, right beside you every step of the way, believing in you until you can believe in yourself." She balanced on the edge of her seat, gesturing in the air, her sentences a rapid-fire burst. "You just asked me what I want you to see. What I want you to understand. This is what you need to know, how amazing your art is. I know it would be exposing yourself, but I do it all the time and I can tell you that--"
"You're not exposing yourself, you're exposing your art. It's not the same as what you're asking of me."
"I am exposing myself every night." She clenched her hands together, so hard her knuckles turned white. "At those parties we're always going to. I always have to be on."
His gut was torqued so tight he could hardly breathe. In the back of his mind, he knew he should pause, take a breath, step back and look at things objectively. But he was already way past any of those choices.
"Those parties are about introducing people to your art. They're about creating massive anticipation for the chariot and stallions. Once you're huge, once you're at the top, you can call all the shots, Charlie." He reached for her hand. "Soon. It will happen soon, I know it will, and then it won't all seem so crazy and nonstop."
"If it's all about my art and not about me, then we should just wheel one of my sculptures from party to party." She tugged her hand from his and ran it over her face. "Dressing up, schmoozing every night for endless hours. I'm so tired I can't even create anymore." She looked at him, her eyes suddenly swimming with tears. "I don't even know if I can finish the stallions or the chariot, Sebastian. I'm burned out."
He reached for her, but she almost seemed to shrink from him. Jesus, what had he done?
"We'll take the whole week off if you want. Or I can attend the parties by myself and talk you up. I'll stall any other projects you get until after the chariot is done."
But she was no longer focusing on him. She looked at the stallions, then her hands. "And there's my classes. If I want to teach in the fall, I need to put my syllabus together."
God, he was such a fool. Last night she'd fallen asleep in the car on the way back from another event. She hadn't woken even as he carried her into the house, not when he undressed her, not when he whispered to her and kissed her good night.
How could he have done this to her?
"Maybe you should take a few months off school." It was the first thing that sprang to mind, a surefire way to stem the flow of lost hours. "You can go back in the spring."
In an instant, she blinked back into total focus. "That's your solution? I need to give up teaching?"
"Not give it up." He felt as though he were watching himself from a distance, shovel in hand, digging the hole deeper and deeper. And yet, he still couldn't figure out how to drop the handle and call for a time-out. "Just take a quarter or two off while you see how things go and how much time you have in the future. I can't stand the thought of you burning yourself out and losing even an ounce of your brilliant artistic vision. Anything but that. Tell me what I need to do to fix this, Charlie, and I swear I'll do whatever I can to make you happy."
*
"You've already done so much. And I appreciate all of it, all the doors you've opened."