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Snow Tart
270774
“Hang on.” I pull the phone away from my ear and snap a picture of the drawing, then text it to Bronsted. “That mean anything to you? Sweat called it Ophelia.”
“Sweat did,” Bronsted repeats, flatly. “You’re with it. Right now.”
“Well, that’s not the point-”
“This early in the morning.”
“I stayed over at its place-”
“Lowry, it’s wrong.” He sounds frustrated again, but I’m getting frustrated, too. At least I can still feel that. “We weren’t raised to behave like this! Angels belong in Heaven, and if they’re here, they’ve done something wrong, and even if they haven’t you shouldn’t touch them, let alone-”
“Bronsted, I don’t really care, okay? I’m not - I don’t care about that stuff anymore. I know that pisses you off, but it’s how things are right now.” I take a breath, trying to chill out. This conversation is supposed to be about mending bridges, not rehashing the same old fights over and over again. “The drawing. Ophelia.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Lowry. All your paintings looked like this. Women and water, women and water. Sometimes pretty, mostly morbid. Drowned women, over and over and over again.”
“Are any of them still at home?” I ask.
“No, you kept everything with you - but I don’t remember you saying anything about needing help moving them when you dropped out. Some of your paintings were very large, the kind of thing you’d need a truck for. You may have left them all at the school.”
“Can you give me the name of the school, and what I majored in - I don’t know, just all the relevant information?”
“I have to leave for work, now,” Bronsted says, “but I’ll text all of it to you. Everything I know, at least.”
“Okay.” There’s a long pause, and as I struggle to think of something to say, I wonder why he’s not hanging up on me, even though he’s in a rush. Finally, I just blurt out the only thing sitting in my mouth. “I’m glad I didn’t forget about you.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “I am, too,” he says - and Bronsted never really sounds genuine, or warm, but at least that doesn’t sound sarcastic.
“So, um.” God, how does this kind of thing normally go. “Work is, uh, good? How’s - are you still with that same guy -”
“Lowry, we are never going to have that kind of relationship,” Bronsted says. His voice is even flatter than before. I feel like that should sting. “I know you don’t care. And I don’t much care to answer.”
“Well, Christ, fine.”
He inhales, and seems to be holding it for a second. “But it’s - thoughtful of you. To try.” Another beat. “And I love you, in spite of everything.”
“Can you just, like, say it, without having to wrap it up in a hundred layers of hostility?”
“Do you care that I wrap it up in a hundred layers of hostility?”
That gets me to smile. A little bit. “Nah. I don’t give a shit.”
“Well, there you have it.” I hear the rustling of fabric - probably him fixing his cufflinks one more time before he leaves. “Take care of yourself, Lowry. And stay safe. No more playing around with gangs and surgeons.”
“I can’t promise that,” I tell him. But I do relent a bit. “But I’ll try to be as safe as I can.”
“Well, I guess that’s the best I can get out of you.”
And then the line is silent.
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