There's something exhilarating about bloody red. I keep myself at ease, as this particular painting requires patience.

My eyes squint. Breathe, Chloe. The brush, heavy between my fingers, swims across the canvas. The stool under me stills, unmoving and anxious as my bottom lip takes shelter behind my top front teeth. Compared to my usual projects, the work of art is a dwarf. My completed paintings in the past towered over me. Now they're stored away at the high school.

Since my father decided the garage would make an ideal spot to work out his midlife crisis by forming a band, I lost my work space.

I sign the corner of the canvas and drop the goopy brush into a spattered jar. The milky water inside ripples into crimson, tinting the liquid like smoke. I then leave the room and close the door behind me. Standing outside, my hand lingers at the knob while I cover my eyes. I need a fresh reveal. I swing the door open and uncover my face, peering through my fingers surveying my work. The colors blend perfectly, forming a mystical image of a burning sun falling behind a hyper-realistic ship sailing over the water's surface. It's actually quite stunning. Sometimes I surprise myself. I stand at the door tiptoeing over the detail. I can see every flaw in a rushed swoop here, a loss of confidence there.

Thumping bass vibrates under my feet, followed by a god awful wailing. My father must be 'practicing'.

"Should we tell him?" My mother says behind me. Her thin arms wrapping a woven laundry basket with bleached towels, all folded with specific measure. "I don't know if my ears can handle another Bohemian Rhapsody rendition." She grins.
"Maybe we should." I glance back at the painting inside my room. "I think he might make the paint peel right off."

She steps closer to peek into the room. "Oh." Her voice breathy, she places the basket on a table in the hallway and takes soft steps toward the easel as if it were asleep and she doesn't want to wake it. "This is fantastic, Clo." Her hand holds her chest as other fingers linger just above the drying paint.
"Thanks, mom." my cheeks burn pink. Below our feet my father's pitchy, off key voice blares into the microphone while he stumbles to keep his fingers in place on guitar strings. I imagine the neighbors stuffing cotton balls, their fingers, a freshly sharpened pencil; anything in their ears to drown out the sound.

"Oh, Z's here. He's in the kitchen." She informs me, grabbing the laundry basket and breaks off the hall into her room. She's always on the hunt for something dirty to clean, or something to clean again.

Zen meets me at the bottom of the stairs, his grease stained fingers stuffed into his ears.
"I think he's getting better!" He nods sarcastically. "I think my brain is bleeding." He laughs as I playfully punch his arm.

We find ourselves down the street at his house, far away from my father's ear assaulting singing. Well, a few houses down, but still out of earshot.

"So it's finished?" Zen pops a Cheeto into his mouth. His fingers come back dusted in orange powder.
"It is." I swallow my chip, and reach into the large bowl stationed between us, and grab another.
"You know you're a real artist, right?" He chews. His arm bends at the elbow, supporting his head. "You're not going to turn into one of those artsy chicks in college who cuts all of their hair off and leaves nothing but the bangs, are you?" He teases.

"What?" A sarcastic gasp giggles out of me. "And lose all of this?" The length of my hair tickles my waist. "I'd die before I cut my hair off." I laugh.

Terrible dating shows turn into hours sitting on Zens living room couch.
"Is it time?" He asks, as I look at my watch.
"I think so. The paint should be dry by now."
Zen shuts the tv off and checks the house for upraised light switches before leaving.
"What?" he shrugs at the sight of my tight line lips. "My dad fusses about the power bill."

***

The next day, after the paint has dried, I carefully package the canvas in bubble-wrap and enclose my scholarship application. I then wish it the best of luck at the post office. My fingers never uncross on the way back home.

"Stop! You're turning into a cannibal." Zen tells me from behind the steering wheel. He holds my hands together, a way of keeping them from rising to my mouth. I'm a nail-biter. When preparing for my valedictorian speech, my poor fingernails were down to nubs. Zen releases my hands with a questionable side glance. "You're going to get it, Clo. That painting was amazing." He assures me, taking his eyes off the road to check my hands that rest in my lap.

In our tiny town, it takes less than ten minutes to make it back to our street from the post office.

Zen pulls carefully to the curb outside my house. The tires making a faint squeaking sound.
"See you tomorrow." He calls from the car.
I watch as he pulls his mom's car into their drive a few houses down. I'm not sure why he didn't want to take his motorcycle instead. It's much more fun than an old Volvo.

....

Three pacing-the-floor months later and I'm awarded the Duncan Artistry Scholarship. A full ride to Turner University in New York City. A dream come true, really. My bedroom now looks stripped. Like a chicken leg that someone ate all the plump meat from, leaving nothing but the fat and bones. On my bed sit multiple bags and boxes filled to the top with everything a girl could need for life in the dorms. They've been packed and unpacked for over a week. Putting things in, then taking them back out after changing my mind. A grueling process, but they are finally ready to be loaded into my car.

Being the only child, my parents are taking my leave hard as we sit around the antique dining table. Part of me thinks it's a bit dramatic, but then again, they've always been a little closed off. Not in a neglectful way, just private in what they do, what they discuss in front of me, never wanting to stress me out. My mother pushes her food around in silence. My father, however, isn't good at hiding emotion. He sniffles, taking a tiny bite of his salad. "Dad?" I sit my iced tea on the wooden table. "Yeah?" he glances up, his eyebrows meet the tips of his thick hair resting on his forehead. "Are you crying?" I try to keep my voice level, fearing a laugh might escape my lips. "Oh, no. I think it's my allergies." He lies. I decide to leave the conversation at that and just finish my dinner.

After eating, I decide to sit on the bench in the garden. In my backyard, I soak it all in, not wanting to forget anything. My childhood tree fort leaning to one side, ready to give up. I stare into the field in the distance, watching the sun sink. Daydreaming, I let my mind travel to New York. It doesn't stay there long before my thoughts drift back to West Brooke. I find myself thinking about high school, how much I'll miss it. I wasn't popular, but I wasn't an outsider either. Freshman year, I was the awkward blonde girl whose body hadn't caught up with the seniors. Like a twig next to a voluptuous tree trunk. Oh, how I envied the girls who had boobs. I think back to the time I would stand before the bathroom mirror and stuff my training bra with tissue. Practicing kissing my hand for the fairytale moment I yearned for. I never got my fantasy kiss, instead I got a pimple faced chubby kid named Milo under the bleachers. His lips tasted like nachos and Dr. Pepper.

From behind me I hear the screen door whine and snap back into position. It breaks my concentration. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Zen sits beside me. My best friend. A short month after my nacho cheese kiss, Zen came to school. The new kid. Scrawny and tall. He wore metal frame glasses, and always stood with his hands stuffed into his front pockets. He was shy, but we became friends after I let him use a pencil. The teacher had passed out a pop quiz. Zen sat in his desk, glancing around the room, too nervous to ask anyone for something to write with. We've been inseparable ever since, always the duo.

We would spend our free time playing around our small town: hunting swimming holes in the summer, riding our bikes until we couldn't move our legs anymore. It was dreamlike as I think about it now. We played like children. Until a year ago, when his skinny build transformed into a rock hard, iron pumped body. The girls took notice, then the boys noticed me shortly after. By senior year I had taken on my mother's former beauty queen features. Parties were gone to, Zen lost his virginity beside a dumpster just outside his parent's diner, and I blossomed into a much larger bra size.

"You okay there, Clo?" Zen chuckles.

"I'm fine, just thinking about New York. Will you be here when I leave tomorrow?" I ask. The amused look in his eyes fades as he turns his head away. I've wounded him by choosing a college so far away.

"Um... No, I'll be taking the breakfast orders of grumpy old men when you leave. That's why I'm here. I wanted to tell you something." He takes my hand, the sweat on his palms moistens my skin.

"Yeah?"

"Chloe..." he stammers. I've never seen him so nervous before. He isn't taking this the way I imagined. "When you get there, don't forget me. It's a big city you're going to. I don't want you to leave and never come back." His blurted honesty grips my heart and squeezes it. His hand that holds mine tickles its way to my wrist. "If you start to panic just. . ."

"Count the knots. I know." I interrupt with a nervous smile. We hug for what seems like centuries. I honestly don't want to let go. His hugs are always so warm.

His parent's own the cafe in town. In their youth they spent their time getting high, and having sweaty hippie sex to Aerosmith. So, when the unexpected bump that contained their new bouncing baby boy came along, Zen was an obvious name choice. Now they only smoke weed in private. They assume it's a big secret, but their blood-shot eyes and constant dry lip-smacking give them away. We all know about it, but it's never mentioned.

I wish I could take Zen to college with me, hide him in my closet, but I can't.

Zen can do anything to a car. It's his passion, but his grades just didn't cut it. While I'm on my New York co-ed adventure, Zen will be across town taking night classes at the West Brooke Community College. An institution that educates the tri-county area, mostly middle-aged men and women who lost their chance at having a career. The rough necks who were sick and tired of wasting their time at the paper mill, slaving their life away to barely make it, and, of course, the high school students who didn't spend enough time with their nose in a book.

Sometimes we don't get what we want in life, we get what we can take, and we make something with it. Unfortunately, life didn't give much to Zen upon graduation. We sit on the bench for hours. I nestle my head on his shoulder, seeking warmth, until we light the fire pit.

"You know what this moment needs?" He jumps on his heels, a playful smile takes over his face. I pucker my lips to the side and smile. "What?"

His child-like excitement simmers down to him, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets. His head lowers with a shyness I haven't seen since freshman year. He tilts his head up slightly. "Nevermind, I change my mind. This moment doesn't need anything. It has everything." His eyes almost swim.

"Zen, you okay?" I become concerned. He kicks at the grass, peeking through the ruffled hair that has fallen into his eyes.

"I'm going to miss you, Chloe." His lips form into a thin line that he tries to cover with a half smile. I can tell he's on the edge of crying. Any hint of the excitement now drained from him. He does this sometimes. He tries to perk up the mood when he feels depressed. When it's needed, this can be helpful, but I want to know what's bugging him so badly. We don't hold anything back. Ever. In the past, Zen has brought me through my hardest days. Reminding me to breathe, making me take control of my breathing when I'm in a panic. Now it's my turn to guide him through a tough experience, and he won't open up. For the first time, he will not tell me what's wrong.

Finally, after an awkward and prolonged silence, he sits back down. Taking my hand in his with a tangle of fingers, he looks straight into my eyes. There's something behind his forced smile, something straining and worried. I've never seen him like this. I want him to blurt whatever he's thinking. I can almost see the words on the tip of his tongue. I don't know what they are, but I can't stand seeing him this uneasy. Like he wants to plant his feet firmly on the ground and fly away all at the same time.

"I'm okay. Just worried is all. I mean, what if you get mugged? You're tiny! How will you defend yourself?" He asks. I try, but I can't hold back my giggle. He rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth to let me know he's annoyed. "What were you going to say this moment needs" I ask him, mostly out of curiosity. He relaxes his breathing, and I let my head fall on his shoulder again. I hear him take a strong inhaling breath through his nose. He exhales, staring into the crackling fire. Sleep tugs at me, and my eyes fall heavy. Blanketed by the flames, I fight to keep my eyes from closing.

Zen's head gently presses into mine, "It's perfect, a good moment. It doesn't need anything. Absolutely nothing." He whispers, just as the view of the fire starts to fade.

I wake the next morning to the beeping of my alarm clock. Blinking my eyes awake, I give a little stretch. I don't remember getting into bed last night. I must have been exhausted. My door creaks open. My dad's smile is forced as he makes his way to my bed. He sits just at the tip of the mattress, holding a tray. "You made me breakfast in bed?" I beam..

"Well, Mom did actually. But, being the man of the house, I carried it up the stairs. It's pretty heavy." The corners of his eyes crease when he smiles. If you squint just right, you can imagine what he probably looked like as a teenager.

He places the tray on my bedside table and folds his hands together.
"Dad," I start before he can begin, "If you cry, I'll cry. So please. . . Just don't cry." I pat the center of his back. Being the only child can have its perks, like having a father that adores each and everything in your being. Of course, that's how most dads are with their little girls I guess. But when you're the only kid around, they can't help but to focus all their attention on you.

We split the breakfast, a spread large enough for the both of us to eat: pancakes, eggs both fried and scrambled, sausage, bacon, toast, fruit of all kinds, and juice. My mother likes to go overboard when she's upset. Not much of a heart spilling sobbing when things get emotional for her. More like cleaning until she can see her reflection on the countertop, or covering every inch of said counter space with baked goods.