Chapter Sixteen

”They don”t go easy on cops in juvie,” Maggie”s voice called out from somewhere behind me. Flashes of a dozen memories hit me at once, and the green can slipped from my palm to clatter at my feet.

Sali”s cackling laughter followed. ”Your vans are piss-yellow now. Nice.”

”Shut up, Sali,” I said through a round of grumbles while staring at the mess.

”What”s got your boxers in a bundle, Jagzzz with a Z?” She poked her finger into the paint beside my tag, and bits of the rundown cement from the wall of the long-abandoned baseball dugout crumbled to the ground.

”Nothing. Making shit pretty.”

”I mean, kinda obviously since half the city can see you from the sidewalk.” She motioned behind her. ”Case got you fucked? First run at a self-checkout?”

”Sali.” Maggie grabbed her by the hood of her jacket. ”Go over there.”

”Fuck off me.” She attempted to swat Maggie”s arm. ”Where?”

”Anywhere that isn”t over here.” Again, she shoved her. ”Shoo fly.”

I smirked at their ridiculousness, but instead of being annoyed at it this time, I found them slightly endearing.

”I literally always get kicked out of everything.” Sali scoffed, then sliced her finger across the blob of yellow paint that made up the middle of the rainbow I had yet to finish painting.

”Because you”re literally annoying,” Maggie called after her as we watched her stomp off.

”Is she always like that?” I asked once she was out of earshot.

”Only in public. Or when she”s showing off.” She paused for a beat then finished, ”Or trying to make someone feel better.”

”Kinda works.”

”Kinda.” Maggie motioned toward the rusted-out bench between us. ”Cop a squat.”

”Tetanus be damned.” I dropped down to sit with her, but her eyes never left my half mural.

”Is this what you do? When things go south, you paint a north star?”

”Huh?”

She pointed to the half-done rainbow then wiggled her fingers at the black outline of a person that hadn”t made it to fruition yet. ”Something to move toward. Some sprinkling of joy to focus on.”

”I guess so?” I thought about it. ”Yeah maybe.”

”Seems so.” She straddled the bench to face me with her hands braced on her knees. ”Walsh told us this morning. That you asked to return to patrol.”

”Yeah.” I flipped the pain can in my hand before sitting it properly in the crate with the others. ”Cold cases are a little too cold for me.”

”It takes a type…”

”Yeah.” I glanced in the direction that Sali walked then back to her. ”I guess so.”

”What type are you?”

”Warmer.” I flicked at a bit of paint flaking off the bench. ”Walsh said he”d let me know on Monday if he”ll accept my stepping down.”

”He will. How do you feel about it in the aftermath?”

I shrugged, avoiding meeting her gaze. ”Kinda numb. I mean, money is a thing, and so is a career. I might not have either soon.”

”Just because Cold Cases isn”t for you, doesn”t mean something else won”t be. So, give Walsh a minute, and give yourself a chance to find what”s right for you in the way it feels best,” she said, her tone as gentle as it was weeks into the diversion program that she forced me into. I never regretted that decision, as it did was it was supposed to, it turned me around.

”I could”ve turned out to be a little shithead if it wasn”t for you,” I blurted out in a rare moment of sincerity.

”I mean…we”re all little shitheads every now and then.” She glanced over to where Sali now stood in front of a food truck.

”Suppose so.”

”I was a big asshole and then married a bigger one, but underneath it all is something a bit more tender that we don”t let other people see.” She gestured to the half-painted mural. ”As evidenced by such.”

I nodded, my mouth twitching with a threatened smile. ”Yeah.”

”You gonna finish it?”

”You gonna arrest me?”

”Nope.” She shrugged and flopped her hands down in her lap. ”No authority to do so.” Maggie nodded toward the wall. ”Have at it, Jagz.”

I chuckled as I stood, returning to my work in front of her. Admittedly, it felt pretty awkward, but I couldn”t let that stop me.

Maggie sat with me for the completion of the rainbow, but a phone call interrupted the bottom half where I intended to add a few kids gazing at it. I ignored the call as I used the black paint to tag the word hope on top of the vibrant colors. Only that word appeared full-on graffiti style. Again, my pocket buzzed and I answered it as I took a step back.

”Yeah?”

”Is this Jagger Roth?”

”Yes.” My brow furrowed as I turned back toward my voyeurs, both Sali and Maggie now standing a few paces away sharing a hotdog and fries.

”This is Kanika from the gallery. I”m going to need to you come down today if possible.”

”Um… okay. Is Tatiana okay?”

”She”s not here. It”s about your piece. I have a buyer, but I need your consent to move forward with the transaction. Can you make it down? She”s here and wants it pretty quickly.”

”Uh…yeah—yes. I-I can. Sure.”

”Great. See you soon.”

Immediately after the call ended, my shaking thumb called Tati, and texted Clem.

***

”Wow.” I stood outside the gallery, my hands on my hips as I watched Tatiana”s work loaded onto delivery trucks. ”Just wow.”

”You know what”s a bigger wow?” She approached me with an envelope in hand.

”What?”

”Open that,” she said, shoving it against my chest.

”Why? What?” I scrambled to catch the paper before the wind stole it.

”Go on.”

I listened to her and cracked open the torn edge to reveal the check made out to her full legal name Tatiana Isabel Agostinho Silva. It took me a moment, but when I finally computed the number of zeros after the first digit, my stomach lurched with anxiety.

”I can”t hold this!” I thrust it back at her and she laughed.

”Right? Me either. Let”s make Reagan hold it.”

”Are you kidding me?!” I squawked. ”Get real.”

Her grin, nearly ear to ear, met her eyes in a way that set them to twinkling. It wasn”t the same way she looked at Wyatt or Reagan or even me, but the only emotion I could read was joy. After so many years of struggling to make rent, answering phones at the tattoo shop, of taking half-baked jobs in tiny galleries for short stints, creating work for other artists, surviving on commissions by drawing pet portraits or wedding photos. Her first gallery show brought in more income than three years” worth of work, maybe more, and the realization of such brought both of us to an unusual silence. Tatiana stared down at the envelope in her hands, her expression stunned for a moment.

”Might need a police escort to the bank,” she muttered. ”Did you open yours?”

”No…”

”Go on.” She thwapped my arm and I pulled the folded envelope paper from the front pocket of my shirt.

”I don”t know if I want to right now…”

”You don”t have to.” Tatiana squeezed my shoulder. ”When you”re ready.”

”I am really happy for you though.” I met her gaze then and her eyes brightened. ”I”m proud of you, Tati.”

”I know this is going to sound silly…” She drew in a slow breath. ”But I feel like a real artist now.” She held up her hand to stop me when I made to protest. ”It”s not that I wasn”t before, but now, it feels legit. Validated. In my email this morning, I have two more invitations to participate in gallery shows. One is a group show with two other abstractionists, the other is just for me. At Seattle Center. Can you believe it?”

”Yeah.” I chuckled when I said it. ”Yeah, Tati. I can. You”re incredible.”

She wrapped her arms around me then, and her whole body trembled with excitement. I couldn”t wipe the smile from my face as we celebrated her successes.

”C”mon. Mom is waiting with Reagan at the ice cream shop for a celebratory cone.”

”Can”t think of a better means of spending your first buck.”

Her cackling laughter echoed at the same time as the last wrapped piece of her work was loaded onto the delivery truck. The loud door rolled shut, and with that, the final parting of her work. We stood together, side by side, watching it as it drove away. In a manner of feeling, it didn”t code much different than seeing Reagan off to summer camp, except with her art, we knew it wouldn”t be returning. It was a solemn goodbye, the sweetest of bitterness, but it was well-deserved, and more than earned.

The four of us shared giant ice cream cones, and a short walk back to the tattoo shop to meet up with Wyatt. To Tatiana”s surprise, and no one else”s of course, our friends threw a congratulations party for her, spinning rocking tunes well into the evening. I watched, through squinted eyes which for some reason made the loudness seem less loud, as the room showered Tati with glitter, bubbles, and balloons. Reagan had the time of her life jumping all over the place and giggling her head off while sliding around the soapy floor. Frankie joined her, and the two of them flopped around making glitter angels, which would probably be stuck in their hair for weeks.

From beyond the fray, I noticed a shadowy figure on the sidewalk outside hovering by the window sign. Only when I glimpsed the saddle shoes in the light by the front door did I realize it was Clementine. I dodged the crowd and made my way outside to her. She stood, staring at the giant multicolored neon sign of Frankie”s name in the window.

”Hi,” I said, moving to stand beside her when she didn”t answer me. ”What are we looking at?”

Again, she said nothing for several seconds until, ”How can you stand it?”

”Stand what?”

”The sound.”

”Yeah…the music is kind of loud.”

”No, not that.” She screwed up her face and pointed to the sign. ”I can hear it.”

It took me a moment to understand, a long moment. At first, I didn”t know how to respond. Did I hear it? I mean, most neon signs buzz a little bit at times. I couldn”t hear it right now over the completely aggravating booming base. ”What”s it sound like?” I decided on as a response.

”Electricity. Buzzing crazy electricity.” She covered her ears briefly then paced back and forth twice. ”I need to go in to see Tatiana. I want to congratulate her.”

”Okay. I got this.” When I noted the pacing as I had before, I understood that the sound not only annoyed her but truly got under her skin. I remembered the night at the lab when she needed to leave, and, because of her desire to not leave, as she voiced, my problem-solving brain took action. I swung inside the door, and yanked the sign”s plug from the outlet.

Clem”s pacing stopped immediately, and she slowly uncovered her ears. She gazed at the sign with her lips pursed for a moment, as if holding quite a grudge.

”Better?” I asked.

She nodded with a huff. ”Are there tacos here?”

”Actually…” I fought the smirk that tugged at the corners of my mouth. ”There are.”

A smile met her lips then. ”I was thinking about you today. Someone tagged the wall of the courthouse overnight and it was so good that I thought you might”ve done it.” She narrowed her eyes at me. ”Did you do it?”

”No.” I laughed and held my hand out to her. ”That was not my handiwork. I do, however, approve of the bright pink message celebrating women”s liberty.”

She snickered and accepted my gesture. ”Okay, tacos.”

”You got it.” I grinned when her soft fingers fell comfortably against my palm. ”How was your day?”

”Pretty good until I was assaulted by that wicked sign.” She shrugged, but I noted she didn”t take any steps toward heading inside.

”It”s pretty foul, I agree. I know it”s pretty crowded in there, but if you want to just go and say hi, I can take you to the back room and show you the mural I finished…”

”I remember you mentioning that.” She nodded right away. ”I can handle the noise for that payoff.”

”Okay.” I chuckled and led her inside.

With Clem there, everything felt complete. Our celebration was no rager, particularly with a kid and a grandma there, but it was great, and what Tati deserved. She embraced Clementine and accepted the wrapped trinket she handed her while I looked on. Mrs. Silva met my gaze for a moment, offering me a firm nod, as if she somehow understood and shared my sentiment. I stood there with my friends and family, for once, not feeling like an outsider as much as usual. Perhaps it was just the comfort level, or perhaps it was a result of making stronger decisions about my life and its course, particularly the next one.

Clem accompanied me into the back room, which Frankie had begun turning into an artist”s studio. She wanted her tattoo artists to have a quieter place for designing and working on their preparations for bigger pieces. The mural, depicting the psychedelic landscape with goth and punkish butterflies, made Frankie”s eyes light up when she saw the finished project. I rarely made her happy, or maybe she was rarely happy, but this seemed to do the trick.

”Each butterfly is one of us from our original friend group. We used to call ourselves The Lost Kids.” Echoes of memories played over in my mind. Foster homes, street skating, running from the cops, foraging for food. Hiding from…everything. ”But we”re better for it now.”

”It”s beautiful, Jags.” She smiled while gazing up at it, as if seeing her first ever shooting star. ”You”re this one.” She pointed to the butterfly, a pace behind Tati”s with wings painted in the abstract geometry of her style.

”How can you tell?”

”The wing.” She lifted to her toes to point out the curve of the edge. ”It”s torn, like your jeans, and not smooth like the others around the edges.”

”A little jagged…”

”Yes,” she agreed, nodding as she inspected the others. ”This one is Wyatt, because of the thorax. It”s a skate deck, with a little pink, blue, and white. He likes those colors. They”re important to him.”

I chuckled, nodding. ”Accurate indeed.”

”This is Nikita, because of the bright wings. She always wears the richest burgundy colors.”

”Yup.”

”By process of elimination, this is your friend Thiago, who I don”t know but I know he does the black and white tattoos, so his butterfly reflects that.”

”Only one more big one.”

”And Frankie is the black and red checkered one, because it”s Frankie.”

”Yeah. I gave her a black eye and tiny combat boots on two of the legs, too.”

”Why the black eye?” She leaned in closed to check it out.

”My butterfly punched her because she was being an asshole.”

Clem laughed hard, her twinkling eyes darting in my direction. ”Violent butterflies.”

”That”s kind of a band name.”

”I can see it.”

”Reagan is a tiny chrysalis tucked under Tati”s wing. Can you see?”

She paused to lean in then nodded. ”I would”ve missed that important detail.”

”Clem?” I burst forth before pushing myself up to sit on the edge of the empty in-progress desk that we were building.

”Hmm?” She continued wandering around the room, her attention solely on the mural. I truly adored how she looked at my work. Without the disdain of passersby on the street or scrutiny in style by actual artists. She just…appreciated it.

”Can I show you something?”

She nodded, swinging around to stand in front of me. ”Of course.”

I dug in my pocket to pull out the envelope given to me by Kanika at the gallery. ”My piece from Tatiana”s show sold.”

”I am not surprised at all. You”re very talented,” she said, as straight faced as ever.

”Thanks…”

”What”s the paper?” She tapped the edge of it when I held it between us.

”The check. I haven”t looked.”

”Why not?” Astonishment lifted her brows.

”I”m not sure…”

”People sometimes say that reading something on paper or seeing numbers in a row make things feel more real. Perhaps that”s part of your hesitation.” Clem gave my hands a squeeze, her gaze still on the sights around me for a moment before falling on me. Sometimes I truly appreciated her matter-of-fact delivery.

”Maybe…”

”Right now, you are Schr?dinger.”

”I”m a what now?” I gawked at her. ”Is that like some kind of dummy?”

”No. It”s like the thought experiment in physics.” She spoke faster than usual which made it a little bit more difficult to follow. ”It”s the idea in quantum physics that particles can be in two states at one time until they”re observed. A paradox of sorts.”

”A whatty-what-what now—”

”If you put a cat, a vial of poison, and radioactive material in a sealed box. If the radioactivity escalates to break the poison, it should kill the cat, but until you open the box, you can”t really know if the cat is alive or dead. So essentially, the cat is both alive and dead at the same time until an observer looks in the box.” Again, a matter-of-fact notion that I did not understand one iota of information coming from her mouth.

”So the envelope is both alive and dead?”

”Not quite.” She turned her index finger in the area. ”With the envelope closed, your career as an artist is both simultaneously non-existent and existent. Until you observe it, it is both.”

”Well…” I thought about it. ”I guess I feel kind of torn like that.”

”Exactly. When will your reality collapse into one possibility or another?”

”Huh?” I stared…just stared.

”When are you going to open it?” She bounced on her toes again once, and smiled. ”I can do it. I can”t hardly wait.”

I laughed. ”Maybe you should collapse my reality then.”

”Okay, give it to me.” She grinned and snatched it from my hands.

My amusement soared, and all the anxiety of it seemed suddenly ridiculous. ”Go for it.”

She wore the most mischievous smile while carefully peeling open the envelope. The extraction of the check followed. She looked up at me and said, ”I have collapsed reality.”

”You have. Am I alive or dead?”

”Oh, I think you will agree you are very much alive.” She turned the check around to show me, and, my eyes widened.

”Well…” I gulped. ”Guess I can afford the down payment and Tati can afford the house.”

”Yep.” She snickered and set everything down on the table beside me. ”You know, money doesn”t make an artist, right? You were an artist way before you observed this check.”

”Technically I was a criminal before I was an artist—”

”An artistic criminal that dropped the second title.” She pressed her stomach against my knees and my hands fell to her waist. ”Right?”

”Maybe. It still doesn”t feel real.”

”Okay. But how about this?” She drew in a slow, thoughtful breath before saying. ”How would you feel if another person bought a piece of your street art that just happened to end up on a canvas. And their reason for buying it is because it had meaning to them.”

”I think…” I allowed myself a moment, then said, ”If it means something to them… I guess that was the point all along.”

”First it starts out with you making things that mean something to you, and then it becomes how that meaning also translates to others.”

”Right.” I nodded my agreement.

”So, if you can get behind that, there might be something there for you to explore.”

Her words hit me heavily, and I allowed them to wrap around me while processing the possibilities. Did I want to? Was I anything like Tatiana? I wasn”t sure. Thing is…I probably wouldn”t ever be sure.

”What are you thinking?” she asked.

”I”m thinking…that I have to make decisions.”

”About what?”

”Everything. Instead of just sitting back and letting things happen, letting others lead, then getting upset about it, I have to start deciding. About what”s right for me and what isn”t, what I like and what I don”t. Not choosing, not being firm in a decision, no matter the outcome, is making a choice to fail. Every time I let things pass by or let options sail away, I”m actively choosing to not find out where things could go.” I dropped my hands down in my lap as the passion of the moment caught me in an unusual way. ”Does it make sense?”

”Yes. Not deciding is choosing to fail. I understand that,” she agreed, nodding. ”I guess that”s why people call me opinionated. I know what I like and what I want, and I take what I need. Sometimes I”m not mindful of others…but that”s my work.”

”Yeah. I think I”m the opposite. Too mindful of others.”

”That”s very insightful.”

”Finally, I guess.”

”What”s the first decision you”re going to make?”

”Well, I would like to bravely ask you to be my girlfriend. What would you think of that?”

She paused for a moment, her finger pressed against her bottom lip. ”We”re not already girlfriends?”

”I mean…” I chuckled while brushing my thumb over the hem of her blazer. ”We act like girlfriends, we”re committed like girlfriends, we”ve shared family events like girlfriends. We”ve just never actively said we were.”

”Oh.” She perked up suddenly, her eyes a light with amusement. ”Good decision. I accept it.”

I cracked up and pulled her into a hug. She giggled against my shoulder, offering me a firm squeeze.

”But we have to decide together,” I said, kissing her cheek. ”Would you also like to decide to be girlfriends?”

”Yes, I would.” She grinned while leaning back again. ”Especially since I”d already decided without you but I”m glad you caught up.”

”Clem!”

”Now, let”s go explore my fifth favorite thing,” she chirped amidst a broad grin. ”With my sixth favorite thing.”

”Hmm…” I leaned into her hug with our stomachs pressed together. ”And what would those be?”

She held up four fingers, then popped up the fifth. ”Sex,” she said, then closed her hand to extend only index finger. ”You.”

Our laughter rang out, despite the noise in the building around us. Our embrace lasted longer than any other I”d allowed, besides Tati, in my life. We rocked together, and I buried my face against her shoulder. I took solace in Clem, confiding in her in a way I wasn”t used to in new relationships. For my entire life, it”d only been The Lost Kids, our ragtag crew trying to survive. But now, things were changing, and it was up to me to embrace it. Up to me to make the choices that best served me and the people I cared about. Maybe I would be an artist, maybe I wouldn”t. Perhaps I”d stay a cop, or turn my experience into something else. I couldn”t know for sure, but what I did know, is a life without risk isn”t a life at all. Without risk, how could I grow to appreciate anything ever? What stories would I tell beyond how many food trucks I”d visited in a single day? Decide, I reminded myself, choose. Tonight, I chose Clem and family, the way they”d always chosen me. And for that, I allowed gratitude to flow through me and perhaps the idea for my next mural.

On canvas.