Finding Laila: Some Changes are Necessary (5 page)

“Searle,”
I pause and wait for him to look at me, “you have nothing to be nervous about!
And if you need me, I’m here.”

He
turns away and leans against the headrest again, staring at the ceiling. I want
so badly to ease his fears.

It’s going to be okay.

I’m
waiting for a response and he knows it, but he chooses to remain quiet and I
give him time to think. My phone is in my clutch and I feel it vibrate, but I
ignore it for now in hopes that he’ll finally relax.

“There
are things that only a few people know. When you go in there tonight, you’ll
know everything about me.” He exhales as he rolls his shoulders back and
finally looks at me.

“And
I’ll still love you, Searle,” I remind him, because there’s nothing he could do
to change that.

“I
hope you can handle it,” he says, and I can tell he’s really worried.

“Then
what are we waiting for?” I ask, opening my car door. I slam it shut and move to
the sidewalk while I wait for him to join me. When he’s finally in front of me,
he looks so unsure and sweet with his hands stuffed into his front pockets. I
sweep his hair out of his face and give him a wink. “You’ve got this.”

“Thanks
for being here tonight.” He smiles and sticks out his arm to escort me into the
building and I nod. Just before we reach the door, he drops his arm and takes
my hand in his. “You look good in yellow.”

I
can feel my cheeks flush and I hate it. The guys rarely compliment me, and when
they do, I can’t help but get awkward. I squeeze his hand and follow him
through the entrance where a crowd of people mill around the gallery looking at
the artwork on display.

“Haden,”
a skinny man, in equally skinny black pants yells as he rushes over. Haden
hasn’t told me much about Stefon, but the geek-chic glasses, titanium-colored
hair, and bright pink button-down under the checkered coat tell me this is he.
When the man is closer, he gives me a quick glance but returns his attention to
my friend. “Where have you been? People have been waiting to meet you.”

“I’m
sorry, Stefon,” Haden says and squeezes my hand tighter. It’s clammy and I want
to let go, but he’s got a death grip on me. “This is my friend Laila.”

Stefon
finally turns his attention to me and his mouth opens to speak, but he silences
himself. When I extend my hand to introduce myself he shakes his head and
instead places his hands on my shoulders—a gesture far too familiar for
someone I have just met.

“Laila,
darling,” he smiles and air kisses my cheeks. “You are going to love this.”

I’m
lost for words, but do my best to find something to say. “I’m sure I will.”

“But
I have to steal Haden away.” He lets go of me but maintains eye contact. “There
are some people here that he absolutely needs to meet. You understand, right?”

I
finally wrestle my hand away from Haden’s and the panic in his eyes leaves me
wary of walking away, but he needs this. I wrap my arms around his waist and
give him a quick hug before pushing to my tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“You
got this,” I whisper in his ear before turning to Stefon and responding. “He’s
all yours.”

“Don’t
leave me,” Haden mutters, but I give him a wink and walk off to discover what
artistic displays wait.

The gallery is in the middle of town in
one of the oldest buildings around. I think it’s been a restaurant, a pharmacy,
and a coffee shop before someone leased it and turned it into the local art
hotspot. It’s actually really cool, with the weathered brick walls and stamped
concrete floors. The space has been divided with temporary walls, all of which
have art hanging from them.

Standing
in the lobby, I take in my surroundings and the mix of people in the room.
Everyone is dressed up, but it’s clear the definition of “dressed up” is
available for interpretation. There is a small group of well-dressed couples in
customary black attire. The ladies have champagne flutes in their hands as they
chat, and each looks like she’s doing her best to one-up the others. The men stand
off to the side, their chests puffed out as if they’re trying to show off their
muscles. The entire exchange looks like nothing but egos fighting for the
limelight.

Another
group, one I would consider hipsters, stands in front of a painting and takes
turns pointing and speaking. The others nod in agreement as each speaks and I
wonder if any of them know what they’re talking about.

In
all honesty, I could stand here all night and people-watch—it’s
fascinating—but I’m here for a reason.

I
take a few steps into the interior so I can see whose art is on display in the
main room. No surprise,
it’s
Stefon’s. I spot him
across the room laughing and talking animatedly with Haden and a few others,
though my friend looks quite uncomfortable. He glances in my direction and
looks desperate for me to rescue him, but I simply wave and walk off.

Stefon
has two different types of art on display. One looks like trash
photography—as in, they look like pictures from the local
junkyards—while the others are paintings that look like something Luka
could have done. Honestly, none of them grab my attention and I find myself
judging whether he’s any good at all, so I walk away. Besides, Haden’s art is
what I’m here for.

To
the left of me, there is a woman with a business suit on; her hair is a knotted
mess on the top of her head. She’s on a small stage sitting on a workout ball,
holding a book in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

Is this art?

I
walk toward her and notice a placard with a note that reads “balance.”

Yep, apparently, this
is
art.

I
look at the woman a little closer and notice that her makeup is a mess and she
looks like she’s been crying, though I’m not sure what any of it means. A few
others walk over and start murmuring about the meaning of the “piece,” but since
I have nothing to offer, I walk away in search of Haden’s exhibit.

On
the opposite side of the room there is a small doorway that leads to another
artist’s work, and as I get closer I see that it is work by ‘debut’ artist
Haden Searle. The surge of excitement and pride that flows through me is
indescribable. I swear, it’s like Christmas morning and I can’t get to the room
fast enough. There are two people looking at a piece on the right wall, and I
wish they’d leave so I could gush alone, but I’m impatient and walk in anyway.

My
eyes widen when I see our place, the spot the five of us disappear to every
weekend.

The
title reads
Oasis
, and I smile
because that’s what it is for all of us. The quarry looks three-dimensional on a
huge canvas, and I smile knowing how much we all mean to him. Every detail is
to perfection, down to the rocks we sit on and the trail we’ve rutted into the
grass from taking the same path every time. He captured the solace and serenity
of the quarry so well that I feel as if I’m there.

I
move to the next piece and it’s a charcoal drawing of his dad that he titled
Their Forever
.

Tears
prick my eyes seeing his dad lying in a bed with tubes going into his nose. Mr.
Searle is the picture of strength, fighting the cancer to the bitter end.

What
really catches my attention is the loving look that he’s giving Haden’s mom as
she holds his hand. Haden never said much about his father’s death, but we all
knew how devastated he was; there were no words necessary. His dad used to
tease me about being the only girl, but said anyone who could put up with those
four was worth keeping around.

God, I miss him.

Each
painting or drawing tells a story about Haden; some I know, some tell me more
than I realized.

I
can’t help but smile when I reach a sketch of my boys hanging out at the
quarry, staring at the edge of the lake. He titled the image
Regret,
and I shake my head to contain
my scoff.

It’s
familiar only because I saw it from the other side. We had been running around,
taking turns jumping in to see who could make the biggest splash. Of course,
all of them had done significantly more damage than me, but it was still fun to
try to beat them. All four of them were in the water waiting for me to do my
final jump and I took a running start and just before I reached the edge, my
foot caught a rock and sent me tumbling head first toward the water. Somehow, I
managed to flail around and hit feet first, but not before hitting a huge rock.
It gashed my shin and I was screaming as they all swam over to help me.

I
remember looking up and seeing all of them staring down with guilt and concern
on their faces as my dad carried me up to take me to the hospital. I needed
stitches for the cut and a cast because I got a hairline fracture on my ankle.
I knew the guys felt bad, but it was no one’s fault but my own.
Stupid pride.

I can’t believe that he
painted that day.

There
are only a few more paintings left, and as I move to the next one I’m suddenly
frozen where I stand. My hand covers my mouth and my heart rate increases.

“Forbidden,”
I read aloud to myself from the placard.

It’s
a watercolor painting of me sitting on my favorite rock at the quarry. I’m
looking toward the sky and my hair is blowing in the wind. I look peaceful and
happy—lost in my own world.

I don’t understand the
title at all.

The
next one is also of
me and my exposed back
. My hair is
pulled into a loose twisted ponytail and I’m looking down toward my shoulder
with a small smile playing on my lips. What really catches my attention is that
the entire drawing is black and white with a huge, colorful butterfly across my
back, as if it were a tattoo. I don’t have a tattoo, but I mentioned once that
if I were to get one, I’d want a butterfly because they’re so elegant. When I look
for the title, all it reads is
Pure
.

What alternate universe
have I entered?

Slowly,
I move toward the last one, afraid of what I’m about to see. When I look at the
remaining piece my entire body runs hot and I feel exposed. A shiver runs down
my neck, sending a strange sensation down my arm to reveal goose bumps.

“Laila?”

I
spin around when I hear Haden call my name and my cheeks flush.

I
point to the image because I’m at a loss for words. Unable to say or do
anything else, I turn back to the drawing and stare at it, but I can feel his
anxiety permeating from behind me. He remains silent as well, and I’m grateful
for that.

What is happening?

The
painting is almost life-sized and captures a moment that has never
happened—yet it feels like it captured the truth about something of which
I’m unaware. I can’t tear my eyes away from the piece that he titled
My Forever
.

In
the drawing, Haden is standing in front of me with a smile as I hold his face
in my hands. It appears as if I’m moving in to kiss him, or maybe we’ve just
kissed? Regardless of the moment, we both look happy to be in each other’s
arms.

“I
don’t get it,” I finally manage to say, still looking at the image.

He
moves next to me, but stays a few inches away and looks at the artwork, too.
“What do you not get?”

I
turn my face to look at him, but his eyes are fixed on the image.

“What
is this?”

“It’s
a sketch of—”

“I
know it’s a sketch, Haden, but why am I in this? In any of these?”

With
those words, he turns to face me and he furrows his brow in confusion. He
doesn’t answer, only looks at me like he’s waiting for me to crack or fill in
the blank.

“Haden,
you’re gay,” I inform him as if he doesn’t already know this.

“I’m
what?” he asks with wide eyes.

“Gay.
You’re gay,” I repeat, but I feel my throat getting dry when I ask, “Right?”

“What
made you think I was gay?” he scoffs lightly, clearly taken aback by my
observation.

“You
haven’t had a girlfriend since -”

“Since
we agreed that
you
were off limits,”
he finishes.

I’m off limits?
To who?

“What
do you mean ‘we’ agreed?”

“We
can’t do this here.” He looks at his watch and then to me. “Give me five
minutes, then we’ll get out of here and talk, okay?”

“Can’t
do what, Haden? You can’t leave—we just got here. This is
your
night.”

“That’s
right:
my
night, and I want to leave.
With you.
Please, just wait a minute and we’ll talk.”

He
rushes out of the room and I look at the image again before scanning the rest of
them. All of his artwork tells stories of things that mean something to him:
his parents, the gang, the quarry, and apparently me.

I need to talk to Joey
because my head is spinning and he’s the only one who can calm me down. He can
help me sort this out.

“You
ready?” Haden asks as he extends his hand to me. We arrived hand in hand as
friends, but I’m hesitant to take it now as we leave. He sees my trepidation,
and drops his hand and waits for me to reach him before we head toward the
entrance.

* * *

Say something…wait,
no—don’t. This has to be some sort of joke he’s playing on me.

Haden’s
been driving for ten minutes, but I know where we are headed. I glance at him
from the corner of my eye, afraid of what he’s going to say. This is uncharted
territory for me, and I want to rewind—go back and never press him to
take me to his show tonight.

“Can
we not go to the quarry?” I finally ask.

“The
park okay?”

“Yeah,”
I answer and I realize that he thinks I don’t want to be with him in the gang’s
special place. “I’m in heels. I can’t walk that far.”

Not because I might
actually faint or something crazy like that.

He
pulls up to the curb and throws the car into park before shutting the engine off.
In the same position earlier, the silence wasn’t so deafening; but now, there
is so much unknown and unsaid that it almost suffocates me. Haden opens his car
door to get out and I do the same.

A
newer, shinier one has replaced the merry-go-round we used to spin on as kids,
which is a good thing. The old one was rusty, wobbly, and squeaked way too
loud. My shoes keep sinking into the grass so I pull them off and carry them in
my hand while I make my way to the new toy. I toss my shoes to the side and take
a seat, holding onto the rails on either side of me.

Haden
walks to the opposite side and sits down, shifting the balance of the circle
with his weight. I chance a look over my shoulder and he’s sitting in the same
position, so I drag my feet in the sand to start a slow spin and he joins in.
We get a solid rotation going and both lie back so our heads are near each
other; the sky above is swirling though the streetlights are almost blinding.

“Haden?”

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

“Why
not?”

“But
why now? Why me?”

“It’s
always been you, Lai.”

I
try to sit up, but he reaches out and clasps his hands over mine, causing me to
relax.

“You
really didn’t know?” he asks. I hear the surprise in his tone, but it only
frustrates me.

“Haden,
for the last four years I’ve assumed you were gay. You haven’t dated anyone.
You never talk about being interested in anyone. I thought you were going to
come out tonight in your art.” I snort and shake my head. “I guess you did come
out, just not like I thought.”

The
merry-go-round slows and I try to stand up, but I’m still dizzy from the spin.
As I wait to gain my equilibrium, Haden walks over and sits on the grass in
front of me, obviously not worried about his suit.

“I
never talked about being interested in anyone because you’re the only one I
want—and I haven’t dated for the same reason. You really never knew?”

“How
would I know? How would any of us know?”

“Everyone
knows, Lai.”

“What?”
I gasp, feeling stupid and angry all at once. “The guys know?”