Late to the Party - Kelly Quindlen Page 0,63

her apologetically, and she bit her lip shyly.

A minute later, she broke the silence again. “All right, I found something,” she said, glancing up from her phone. “Questions you ask to know someone better.”

I paused my painting. “The artiste has to answer questions right now?”

“Yes. If I’m going to be vulnerable, you’re going to be, too.”

I snorted. “This is vulnerable for me.”

“Too bad.”

She took me through a list of questions. Most of them were easy, like What’s the story of the day you were born? (“It was Saint Patrick’s Day,” I said, “that’s why I’m such a party animal.”) Some of them were fun to entertain, like If you had your own space shuttle, where would you go? (“Pluto,” Lydia said decisively. “I’d apologize for the whole you’re-not-a-planet-anymore fiasco.”)

Then we got to a question that required a more thoughtful answer.

“‘As you walk along the beach on a quiet, breezy day,’” Lydia read, “‘you come upon a glass bottle that has washed ashore. Inside, you find a message you’ve been waiting for. What does it say?’”

She looked up at me. I paused with my paintbrush hovering over the canvas.

“That’s a cheesy question,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows, unrelenting. “But do you have an answer?”

I tried to think about it, but I was hyperaware of her watching me. I looked at her, and she looked back, and then we both looked away, laughing.

“Okay,” I said, “give me a second.”

The question settled into me as I focused on painting her eyes. She could obviously tell I’d gotten to them, because she looked directly at me, her eyes bare and bright and steady. It felt more intimate than I’d realized it would—far more intimate than looking into Maritza’s or JaKory’s eyes, or Ricky’s, or even my parents’ and brother’s eyes; there was something intense but vulnerable about the way she was looking at me, like she wanted to be seen and hidden away at the same time, and the longer I held eye contact with her, the more I felt the same way.

I swallowed, forgetting about my paintbrush. “I have an answer.”

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Well, two answers. A fun one and a serious one.”

She smiled like she’d expected nothing less. “What’s the fun one?”

“The message would be from a fabulously rich old lady, and she would invite me to her mansion on the French Riviera for a dinner party with a bunch of famous artists.”

“I like that. Why does the lady know all these artists?”

“She’s just one of those crazy rich people who have lots of talented friends.”

“Yeah, and no one even knows where all her money came from.”

“Exactly.”

A beat passed, and Lydia asked, “Could I hear your serious one?”

I took a breath. I wanted to tell her—to invite her into my scared, insecure, vulnerable self—but it was terrifying as hell. I didn’t even know if I could be this honest with Maritza and JaKory.

Her eyes were still on me, searching me, and there was no expectation in them—only wonder.

“Okay,” I said. “The message would be from—well, I don’t really know, but it would be from someone like God, someone who really knows what they’re talking about—and it would say—” I paused. I took another breath. “It would say, There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re doing just fine.”

Silence. I sat there across from her, buffered by the canvas, my face searing with heat, my heart sprinting with panic.

Then Lydia spoke.

“It would be the truth.”

She wasn’t patronizing or dismissing me. Her voice was clear, and steady, and gentle.

I exhaled. “Could I hear your answer?”

She was quiet, but then she said, “It would be from my gram, who died last year.” Her voice wobbled, and she swallowed hard. “And she would say, There’s nothing to be scared of.”

I was quiet, giving her the moment she needed. Then I asked, “Lydia? What are you scared of?”

She didn’t reply right away, and I worried I’d overstepped.

But then she said, in a strained voice, “Going to college. Failing. Not being brave enough. Everything.”

I breathed in. A million responses flashed through my brain, but I settled on the one that felt the truest.

“I think saying what you’re afraid of makes you brave.”

We looked at each other for a long, burning second. I watched her breathe, her chest rising and falling.

“Codi?”

“Lydia?”

She bit her lip, a secret grin on her face. “What’s your favorite color?”

I laughed unexpectedly. “That’s what you want to follow up with?”

“Yes.”

I smiled, my hands in my lap now, all thought of the painting abandoned. “It changes all the time.