In the Loop
Georgia
it feels being in Archie’s space. His view is nearly identical to mine, and his apartment is even smaller—which I didn’t think was possible—but being here with him for the fourth time this week feels as much like home as my space ever has. It’s probably less to do with the physical location and more to do with the contentment that washes over me being in his presence. I rest my head on his shoulder and cuddle in next to him on the loveseat as we watch the second period of the hockey game, eating potato chips and drinking craft beer.
He drapes his arm over my shoulders and caresses my bicep with his thumb. “Do you want me to pour some beer on your head for old time’s sake?”
I snort-laugh and roll my eyes, turning my head to look at him. “Don’t you dare. If that’s not a case of deja brew, I don’t know what is. I’d never forgive you.”
Instead of the laugh at my stupid joke I’m expecting, Archie’s face morphs into a mask of anxiety. He refocuses his attention on the TV without responding, but his hand is fidgeting with the hem of his waffle-knit Henley, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip.
With Archie, I take two steps forward and one step back, which still may be progress, but his shifts in demeanor are exhausting. Every time I’ve tried to ask him about it, he tells me it’s work related and not to worry. But what does a joke about pouring beer on my head have to do with work? It’s not a fire hazard. How does he go from light-hearted and fun one second to nervous and dismissive the next?
He did the same thing the other day when we were in the sky lounge with my friends. He just shut down and left me trying to analyze what went wrong.
Quite frankly, I’ve had enough of being dismissed by people who I thought cared about me.
We sit in silence until the second intermission, and that marks the end of my tolerance for his standoffishness.
“Are we going to talk about whatever’s bothering you, or should we just sit here in silence?”
He shifts out from under me to stand and walks over to Vincent van Grow on the kitchen counter to touch the soil. I know for a fact he coddles his plants and has a regular watering schedule for them. He’s avoiding me.
After my trip home last month, maybe I’m a little more sensitive, but I’m not going to dedicate time to people who don’t value me enough to dedicate effort back.
I release the throw pillow I am clutching over my chest like a shield and toss it on the couch as I stand, then walk toward the door. “I’ll leave you to take care of your plants.”
Archie doesn’t chase me, but he calls my name before I reach the door.
I spin around to glare at him—hopefully making it clear I’m not impressed.
“Listen… I… uh.” He scrubs the back of his neck with his hand, pausing his words and actions simultaneously as if someone pressed his stop button.
“I’m listening.”
He turns his focus to his zebra plant by placing both hands on the edge of the counter and leaning forward. He sighs, then continues speaking. “I like you, Georgia. Really like you… and I’m afraid you won’t—”
My phone dings, which stops Archie mid-sentence.
“Won’t what?” I prompt.
He shakes his head without looking up. “You should get that.”
Him dismissing me again compounds my anger. I’m not shocked by him admitting to liking me. We’ve spent enough time together, I had already assumed as much because I really like him too. At least, when he’s not being infuriating and impossible to read. So, to make myself appear indifferent to his admission, I pull my phone from my sweater pocket and read the notification. I gasp as I read the words Priceless art stolen from Smith Goldstein & Co.
“What is it?” Archie now moves closer; the earlier traces of uncertainty are gone.
“The gallery I—” I stop myself before spilling my secret because I’m still not ready to share my potential career- and life-altering opportunity in case it doesn’t work out and I’m left feeling like an immense failure. “An art gallery in Streeterville was robbed.”
Archie scrambles to pull his own phone from his pocket, reads something quickly, then returns his focus to me. I know he’s had a vague interest in art, but he hasn’t shown enough to justify the flurry of questions he tosses my way. When, where, how, what… everything but the why. I take a seat on the couch part way through his interrogation because he insists on asking the same questions multiple times until he’s satisfied with my answers. A combination of his surprising enthusiasm and position on the counter-height stool at his kitchen island makes our conversation a bit intimidating.
It takes a lot of dancing around the truth to avoid telling him I set up Google alerts on that gallery because I’m supposed to be having a show there in four weeks. A lot of half-truths and withholding to avoid sharing how this theft affects me personally.
I try to detour the conversation away from my firsthand relationship and back to the big picture. “It makes sense thieves would target Chicago. We have the most expensive art collection of any city in the world.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Really. Even Paris and New York play second fiddle to Chicago when it comes to the dollar value of art here. It is a remarkable place to be an artist. Albeit, saturated and competitive.”
He leans forward to rest his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, much like The Thinker by Rodin—except Archie is fully clothed. “If you were going to steal any piece of art in the city, which one would you take?”
That question, again, surprises me. “For one, I’d never steal art because I wouldn’t betray other artists that way. Not only that, but I believe in art’s power and influence, which can’t be replaced by any dollar amount, so stealing it would be pointless.”
Archie studies me intently, but doesn’t interrupt. It appears he’s run out of questions.
“But if I were going to target something, I wouldn’t go after the most expensive pieces. Logically, that’s a waste of time because they would be heavily guarded, largely studied and documented, and nearly impossible to sell. I wouldn’t even go after anything at The Art Institute or other large museums because their mission is protecting their pieces of art, not selling them.”
“Not even if you had an inside man?”
I raise a brow at him, curious why he’s so interested all of a sudden. “Are you planning to steal a Monet, Archie?”
He lifts his head from his fist and sits upright. “No, I’m just wondering. I thought art heists only happened in movies.” He lets out an awkward laugh, adding to my confusion.
“Art is a valuable commodity. There have been thousands of successful thefts throughout history and a lot of lives lost in the process. It’s really sad, because artists just want their work shared and enjoyed, not turned into a reason for violence or murder.” One of my art history courses had a section on thefts and forgeries. I’ve also spent enough time touring the city’s extensive list of art galleries and museums and been around enough artists to know that’s a universal constant.
He studies me for a few seconds, as if he’s assessing my comments. His phone rings before he can respond, so I’m again left wondering what he’s thinking.
“Hello?” He listens for several seconds, then replies to whoever is on the phone, “I’m just here with Georgia, but I’m sure she’ll understand.” He continues with a few mm-hmms and uh-huhs before he hangs up the call. “I’m sorry, Peaches. My sister is in a bit of a situation and asked me to come help her.”
“Oh.” I try not to let my inner pessimist convince me he’s making an excuse to get rid of me. “Penny or Elle?”
“Uh, Penny. Some drama with a new guy she’s seeing.” He stands from his stool like he’s not giving me a choice in the matter. “I’ll text you when I get back if it’s not too late.”
If he thinks I’m going to sit around and wait for him, he’s mistaken. No matter how much I like him. “Don’t worry about it, Archie. I’ve got work to get done, anyway. I should be spending my time on that.” Then, like I attempted to earlier, I walk out the front door of his apartment.
This time, he doesn’t call after me.
“I don’t understand. Why don’t you just tell him about the exhibit?” Rene asks while adding some viridian green to her work in progress.
Tonight we’re painting an abstract pine forest, which isn’t really my preference, but I don’t come for the art. I came for a distraction after Archie’s dismissal two nights ago and the fact I haven’t heard from him since. Not to mention, I was supposed to present my final pieces to Sandra yesterday, but that has been delayed because of their robbery.
“I’ve told you. The gallery hasn’t made it official, and with this theft, I don’t know if they ever will. I can’t handle letting everyone down. It will be bad enough you guys know if it falls through. Which, FYI, you need to be on standby for with a few bottles of merlot.”
“Oh, stop,” Michelle chides. “Whatsername already said it was basically a done deal. They just haven’t done the press release. Big whoop. You’re making excuses not to tell him, which begs the question: why?”
Am I? Is my refusal to confide in him more than what I’ve been telling myself? I mean, I haven’t told my parents either, and with them, it’s definitely because I’m afraid of disappointing them. Rather, continuing my streak of being a perpetual letdown. That was my justification with Archie too, but maybe it’s more than that.
“I don’t know. He’s…”
Both of my friends abandon looking at their canvases and stare at me.
Rene wafts her hand. “He’s what?”
“Nothing has changed from before, even though everything has. I know that doesn’t make sense, but he has this mysterious side to him that’s hard to navigate. So, when he asks me to do something, I have this confidence that I can trust him. But with keeping secrets, I guess I’m holding on a little tight.”
Michelle surprises me by replying, “If you can’t trust him in everything, you can’t trust him at all, babe. That’s just the cold, hard truth.”
I drop my paintbrush on the paper towel in front of my table-top easel. Suddenly, my artistic inspiration is gone. “I don’t know what it is. He’s great and I enjoy spending time with him, but I have this nagging feeling that keeps holding me back. Maybe that’s all it is with him too. How do you decide who spills their guts first?”
“You shouldn’t have to decide. You just spill because you trust the person and don’t want to hold back. Especially in your case, when what you’re holding back is the best news ever. No offense, but it’s stupid not to tell him.” Motherhood has really worn down Michelle’s patience, because she wastes no time dancing around feelings.
Maybe she’s right. I should just open up to him and see if he’ll do the same. It’s not like I’m sharing any deep, dark secrets that would change the course of our relationship.
“Fine. I’ll tell him when I get a chance.”
“Good. Because I’d hate for things to go south with Hunky McHunkerson. That man is a fine piece of—”
“Rene.” I pinch my temples, trying to squeeze that name from my mind. “How’s number eighty-eight?”
“Ooooh, girl. Let me tell you…”
My trick works, and for the next forty-five minutes, I paint, drink wine, and listen to Rene tell us about his latest SportsCenter highlights, his press conferences, and social media. She’s activated full stalker mode, and I’m not convinced she wouldn’t be an asset to the CIA if she was motivated enough. Need to track down one of America’s most wanted? Just tell her he’s “hot as all get-out” and wearing tight pants. She’ll track him down.
By the time she runs out of things to say, our paintings are done, dry, and we’re ready to go.
Michelle climbs into a ride-share to get home to her rambunctious three-year-old girl, while I climb into Rene’s car to hitch a ride. She didn’t drink because she has to work tomorrow—boring—but at least I don’t have to walk home in the freezing cold.
We pull up in front of my building and my best friend reaches over to grab my hand before I jump out.
“I’ll never tell you to dismiss your instincts, but don’t forget to live a little too.”
It might be a common saying, but I can’t help but think about Archie saying the same thing before our ride in the Centennial Wheel. And maybe it’s time I throw caution to the wind.