Chapter Seventeen

Wren's mustang was beginning to feel like a piece of me. Every time we took a drive, we got closer, and I became more familiar. He filled the middle console with fast food napkins and guitar picks. I could make a notebook with all the loose paper stuffed into his glove compartment. It was cluttered with lyrics he'd forgotten as soon as the ink dried. How many lives were lived in this car, and how many memories still lingered in its remains?

I wanted to leave something behind for him, or maybe it was the car. I wasn't quite sure who I wanted to remember me.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

I shifted my weight, burying my face into the passenger's window. The paper crumbled in my hands as I scribbled. I pictured him finding it years from now, and how he'd retrace the memory of me. The words I wrote for him, because they were true, even on the days when he forgot.

Your purpose will succeed you.

I folded it and slipped it under the sun visor above me. He tried to read it, but I swatted him away. "It's not for you. It's for the car."

His cheeks lifted like he'd just overheard someone compliment the behavior of his kid. It still amazed me how much he loved his car. It was like they both had been through hell and back and still managed to work perfectly in tune.

"What kind of building are we looking for, anyway?" I asked as we passed another skyscraper.

Another one of his infamous surprises. I started looking forward to them, but I didn't want him to think I'd forgotten what he told me. I was a distraction for him as much as this summer was for me. It was like, as long as we were together, and it was summer, our lives would be on hold. But summer was almost over.

I just didn't know what else to say. He needed to know how strong he was, but I had no idea how to say that and not sound like everyone else. People raved about him all the time. At some point, it was hard to decipher what was real and what was just chatter.

I looked out the window. People were out as if they had no lives to lead by morning. Traffic was tight, the sidewalks were cramped, and night watched above quietly. There were no stars, and the moon seemed to take the night off. It was just city lights, crowded streets, and the smell of pollution. Yet people still loved to call this place home.

"No matter how many clever ways you try to ask, I'll never tell you. You're just gonna have to wait," he said.

"Are we at least almost there?"

His car rumbled against the broken concrete as he turned onto a side street. Cruising the narrow street, he found a tiny space between two trucks. He was going to do the impossible. He was going to parallel park. Even my father broke into a cold sweat at the sight of city parking.

"Wren, it's not enough space."

He gave me a wink. My challenge had been accepted. He put the car in reverse and gave it a shot. He tried and tried and tried, to no avail. After the fourth, I suggested he admit his defeat. He laughed in the face of danger. Before I could declare myself the winner, he made it. By the skin of his teeth, he made it.

Cupping his mouth with his hand, he hissed out the sound of fake applause. "I looked cool, right?"

"You look so cool," I laughed. I surveyed the tight spot when we got outside. "You're never getting out."

A car sped by and a gust of wind fanned over my bare legs. I looked down and smiled. Wren bought me a dress. It was lilac with lace detailing at the shoulders. He even dressed him up too. Simple black slacks, white quarter-sleeve shirt, and a blue vest. Again. He looked good in anything.

"Hopefully, they'll be gone when we get back," he said. "We won't be back for a while."

I wanted to ask again but knew it was a lost cause. He had something up his sleeve and as we passed every building in sight, my interest toppled over. I had run myself dry with possible scenarios.

I looked ahead and saw twinkling lights in the distance. Just a few blocks down, a crowd gathered. I fidgeted at the green light, willing it to change. I wanted to see the surprise waiting for me at the end of the block.

When the walking light lit up, we headed for it. Casual tourists and locals weaved through the crowd. A woman with a doberman twice her size slipped past us as it barked at another dog.

I yelped. I don't play with dogs. They terrified me. Pushing into Wren's side, I eyed the thrashing demon until we were far enough away. I held him tighter. "We should stay close. That way I can protect you," I said.

He laughed as we waited at the last light. The beginning of the next block looked like another world. The street was blocked off and spectators cluttered every inch of free space. I could barely see, shuffling on my feet to find the best view.

"You look pretty, Nora." Wren's sudden words sprung my attention back into place. I met his gaze. How long had he been looking at me?

"Thank you, so do you."

He looked away so quickly; I wasn't sure, but I think I made him blush.

When we crossed the last block, I found myself fixated on the ground. A few specks of paint decorated the concrete. We were in the middle of the city, and it was vast. Buildings intermingled with planted trees and greenery. When the concrete turned into cobblestone, pink paint covered the once gray stones. It was the beginning of the mural that stretched the length of the block. It was the city in vibrant cartoon fashion, with more character than the people it addressed. An ode to the city and the arts.

Footprints crowded the colors, but you could still see it peeking through the empty spaces. Graffiti twisted around the walls. Fairy lights hung from building to building. Art pieces stood at every nook and cranny. Admirers and critics greeted each of them with their undivided attention.

"An art exhibit?" I asked.

"Let's see if you can figure out who the artist is."

"I know the artist?" I rushed to the first piece, but their work wasn't familiar. I hadn't actively followed an artist in years.

We followed the crowded path to the next piece as it opened up. At first glance, it looked like a dark sky. The rolling clouds seemed to carry buckets of rain, withholding a thunderstorm for later. But when I looked closer, it was also a portrait of an elderly woman. Her eyes slumped at the sides, were speckled with tears. The painting was mostly gray, white, and black. I could practically feel the state of the artists when they created it.

A cry for help. The calm before the storm. In the painting, you see the storm but when you look closer you see her. Almost like the artist knew they were about to lose it, but hadn't yet. Sometimes you hold on for so long, hoping and praying you won't break. But eventually you do. It's...just sometimes, you don't have the confidence to speak up or ask for help. So you let the storm consume you. And wait until it's over.

"What does this make you think of?" I asked.

As he circled around me, his shoulder slid across my back. I felt tingles at the tips of my toes. When he greeted the portrait, he took a minute. I watched how the gray colors reflected in his eyes, and wondered how differently he saw the painting from me.

A smile curled at his lip, and I knew he could feel my gaze. I almost gave him privacy, but he pulled me closer. Giving me a light kiss to my nose, I nearly squealed. He looked over my expression, and I knew it was somewhere between embarrassment and thrill. He kissed me and the tingles dispersed to every inch of me.

"Was that your answer?" I asked.

He hummed, pressing his forehead into mine. We were silent for a moment. My heart thumped so loud I could hear it in my ears. He leaned away just enough to give the painting one more look, but spoke no louder than a whisper. "It's a trick to the eye. What do you want to focus on? The storm or the person? The problem or the source?"

What? Were we looking at the same painting? "What do you mean, what do you want to focus on?"

He smiled. "To me, it's kinda calling out people who judge others. When most people see someone's life in a wreck, they blame it on the person. But sometimes the person can't tell where the storm begins and where they end. For people looking on the outside, they can, if they look a little closer. But most people don't. If someone walked by this painting, they'd only see the storm. You have to actually look close enough to see her."

I looked at the painting again. He made perfect sense, but I wondered if he felt like this often. I hope he never felt that way when he was with me. He needed to know how much he meant to me. "I just wanted to say—"

"Shit." He checked his watch and looked down the block. With a quick kiss, he backed into the street. "Sorry, Songbird! I'm going to be right back. Don't move."

"Wait! Where are you going?" I tried to grab him, but he disappeared into the crowd. "Wren?"

"Ms. Campbell?"

It was strange how the sound of someone's voice could catapult you into a memory. I was eleven years old again. A nervous wreck about starting middle school and terrified of making one false move. I fantasized about being popular, loved, and admired. I thought I would live the stories I read about in books and saw on movie screens. And within three classes, I would've been lucky if someone remembered my name.

I wanted nothing more than to make it to the end of my first day, and the moment I walked into that art class, I got to be and create whatever I wanted.

"Mr. Fisher?"

He stood as tall as I remembered. As he beamed with pride, I knew this was his exhibit. He was the artist behind every painting, and I wanted to ask him about each and every one.

Still sporting a bald head and bright smile, I got to meet the savior of my first year of middle school. A time I cherished more after it was gone.

"Nora Campbell, my favorite student." He shook my hand with a firm grip, just like he did every day we entered his class.

"You don't remember me," I teased.

"Of course, I do." He engulfed me in a hug and for a moment, I almost believed him. The only people who seemed to remember me were the ones who bullied me.

"The porch swing," he said.

Oh, God. He did remember me. My cheeks burned red. The memory I was happy to forget and tortured every time I remembered. I cringed as his familiar, erratic laugh ballooned in the air. I wanted to hide in a bush, but without missing a beat, he pulled me to another painting.

It was of a mother and daughter. They swung on a tether swing seat. "You did this because of me?" I asked.

"Yup." He lifted on his toes, surveying my expression. "After years of trying to be a full-time artist, I figured I should try teaching, but the kids didn't care about art. Apart from you."

"Everyone loved your class, Mr. Fisher. Everyone wanted you as a teacher. I remember how lucky I felt when I got you. We did care. All of us."

I studied the painting. It was a stark difference from the last one. The sun shined here, and the women were all smiles as they looked at each other. The mother's hand rested gently on her daughter's cheek as she looked down at her. A bird set atop the porch as grass carpeted the grounds behind them. It felt open and quiet.

"Is this my mom?" I asked, then cringed. I wanted to make my life the focal point of his work. "I mean, of course, it isn't—"

"It is, actually." He bore an expression I couldn't read. His lips thinned into a straight line as he practically bowed his head. "When Wren and Shae reached out to me, they told me about your mother. I'm very sorry."

"They reached out to you?"

"Yes." He chuckled like a memory crossed his mind, but he didn't share it. "I wanted to give you something because it was you who made me quit being a teacher and give art one more try."

"Me?"

"I could tell I converted you." He laughed. "You were falling in love with art, just as I had around your age. I always thought about this moment. What if I met you years from now and you never gave art a chance? Maybe you fell for something else or didn't think you were good enough. I didn't want our paths to cross, and I was in the same position. At least I could show you dreams really do come true. Because I sparked a love for art in someone when I was losing mine."

"You still dream?" I asked.

"I don't think we ever really stop."

There was a certain sadness in the way he said it. Like we're never satisfied. What do you do after you've achieved everything you wanted? Do you continue feeling fulfilled? Maybe Wren felt like that now, but he could do more. He was just scared.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered as quickly as it took to ask it. I don't even think of the answer anymore. It's the answer people wanted to hear, anyway.

"I'll tell you the one thing I never got to tell you before I left." He peeked at the crowd. It was headed to the end of the block. "Don't yield. There's a reason they tell you to drive into the skid when you swerve on ice. If you run away or get so afraid you slam on breaks, you're only putting yourself in danger. Your life is bigger than just one moment. It's okay if you can't see the end, but don't live like the end is right around the corner or you'll miss everything. Take it all in. Everything. Even the bad parts."

I was scared in middle school and tried to stay out of everyone's way. He never seemed to like it and constantly made me participate in class. On our very last day, I'll always remember his words. 'Don't be afraid to be great.'

A single guitar string ricocheted through the city. The crowd had made it to the end of the street and cheers erupted.

Mr. Fisher pressed his hand into my back and pushed me to the end. "Looks like he's holding up his end of the deal."

🌻 Full Playlist?

Just type in "Smelling Roses" in Spotify.

Fun fact: After the fifth chapter, I loathed this book. Writing it felt like pulling teeth. I literally tried to quit writing it almost every week. I ended up taking the summer off, and one night, I dreamt of it. The first scene in the chapter is the dream I had. After that, I fell in love with this book and Nora and Wren. From this chapter on, I was determined to finish their story.

Reference:

Boy Meets World Season 5 Episode 20. It's the end credit scene. To be exact 20:07 mark.