Say Yes by Kandi Steiner
The Art of a Dying Planet
Three Months Earlier
Everything felt alive and fragile that summer, like a bomb humming just under the surface of an unsuspecting crowd.
Our planet was getting warmer, all thanks to us, and we were seeing first-hand the damage we had done. Blizzards wreaked havoc on the northeast, hurricanes rocked the southeast coasts, fires burned and the earth quaked in the west. There were planes crashing and missiles being tested in China, and oil spilling into our oceans and all the while, our eyes were focused on the remarkable Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls as they chased their fourth championship.
We cheered on our Olympians as they prepared for the summer, sang every word to every Spice Girls song, and watched trailers for movies like Twister and Independence Day as if those disasters were a far-off dystopian fantasy, as opposed to the very reality we lived in.
I felt the buzz of it flowing through me like a current from the very moment my plane touched down in Rome, Italy. I felt it swirl and rush inside me on the train out to Florence, and as I settled in for a summer studying abroad, I swore just one wrong step — or perhaps, one right step — would trigger the explosion.
My sling-back Mary Janes made a plunk sound each time I took a step on the cobble streets that made up the historic little town of Florence, or Firenze, as the Italians called it. My brushes were wrapped in a leather satchel against my hip, the strap crossing my body, and I held two giant textbooks on Florentine art against my chest.
It was the summer of 1996, and I was twenty-two years old.
I left America on a rainy night in May, waving farewell to my parents and the Atlanta airport with excitement bubbling in my belly. I woke groggy halfway around the world to a sunny and warm Italian morning.
Three months in Florence to study art.
Three months to hone my craft.
Three months to make something of myself or surrender to my parents’ wishes for me to use my accounting degree rather than my art one.
Just the thought of it sent a chill down my spine.
It was a pleasantly warm morning as I walked the short distance from my dorm room to the cluster of buildings that made up our campus in the middle of Florence. My blonde hair was in its usual state of natural waves, tucked behind both ears, strands of it getting stuck on my yin & yang earrings. My makeup was made up of warm and neutral, lips painted a matte brick red, and lashes painted long with my favorite mascara. The black choker my best friend gave me before I left the States hugged my neck, and I wore my favorite pair of paint-splattered overalls over a simple white spaghetti strap top. A forest green and navy blue plaid, long-sleeve shirt tied around my waist completed the look, along with my dark, round sunglasses.
One hand held my textbooks against my chest, the other was tucked inside my right pocket, as it usually was.
I’d always hidden it, ever since I was a child.
The study abroad program I’d enrolled in was a ninety-day intensive, complete with five days of being in the classroom from nine-to-noon and an internship at the museum from one-to-four. If I wasn’t studying art, I was attempting to make it. And when that failed, I walked the halls of the Uffizi and marveled at those who had left their permanent mark on the world, praying I could do the same.
The first two weeks had blown by in a blur, mostly consisting of me working on our first real assignment. It was an oil painting, and since I’d worked on mine late into the night last night, I prayed it would be somewhat dry on my easel this morning, ready for the professor’s eyes.
Professor Beneventi was a stern man in his late fifties, with ink-black hair and weathered, tan skin that rarely ever crinkled at the edges of his eyes, due to his lack of ability to smile. Still, his work was impressive, and he had a lifetime of achievement under his belt that made me feel honored to learn from him.
The man had a PhD, which was impressive in and of itself, but I was more moved by the dozens of frescoes, paintings, and sculptures he’d been commissioned to create over the years — the first of which he was hired for when he was just thirteen years old. An expert in traditional Renaissance drawing, painting, and sculpting techniques, his work could be seen all over Florence, of course, but he wasn’t too modest to remind us that he had works displayed in museums and city centers as far away as China and all the way to America.
He was a brilliant old man.
And he was also very difficult to impress.
Our assignment had been to paint our first week in Florence, and I’d sat on the stone wall along the river with the sun on my face and done just that. I let the inspiration flow from the city directly into my heart. It was as strong as the pulse in my neck, that realization that I was here, in the birthplace of the Renaissance, in the city that brought some of the world’s most renowned artists to life.
I worked on my painting every evening after my internship for a week straight, and I knew without having laid eyes on any of the other students’ work that mine was pristine, an alla prima masterpiece with the bright colors of an Italian sunset, and the perfect brushstroke blends to bring the river and bridge above it to life.
I couldn’t wait to show Professor Beneventi.
The classroom was buzzing with conversation when I ducked inside, everyone sitting at their easels and anxiously awaiting the professor. A gentle breeze rolled through the open windows of the room, white curtains flowing in its wake, and that draft was our only relief from the heat that would grow throughout the day. I didn’t realize how dependent I was on air conditioning in Georgia until I came to Florence where an air conditioner was as rare as eggs were for breakfast.
The pastries I’d grown accustomed to.
The sweating, I had not.
I was anxious until the moment I slung my bag off my shoulder next to my barstool and took in the sight of my mostly dried painting that I’d last seen around midnight. The colors were just as bright as I remembered, the brushstrokes impeccable.
I smiled as I took my seat, confidence filling me like helium.
I looked around, making sure everyone was occupied with their own work before I removed my right hand from my pocket. The last piece I’d left for this morning was my signature in the lower right-hand corner, and I always signed with my small hand.
I was born with symbrachydactyly, a rare birth defect where my right hand didn’t fully develop the way my left hand did. I had a fully formed pinky and thumb, but the other three fingers were bubble-like and small, “nubbins,” as my doctors called them.
I didn’t like that my instinct was to hide my hand, but I disliked looks of pity from strangers even more so.
Sure, I had two fully formed fingers where most people had five. And sure, it was a little unsightly, a little odd if you weren’t used to it.
But that hand still helped me do amazing things.
And I was on a mission to prove that I could do anything I wanted to despite it.
I could still remember how difficult it had been to take a brush in that hand the first time, how unbalanced and clumsy I’d been with the strokes. Now, I signed my name in tiny script without a single tremble.
Harley Chambers.
I smiled at the sight of the white paint against the deep blue of the river, and as I did, a tingle spread down my spine.
I could sense someone’s eyes on me.
I glanced up and to my left, but no one was looking at me. A glance to the right confirmed the same. But when I cast my gaze across the small room, I found a pair of dark eyes under thick lashes watching me from behind a canvas I could only see the back of.
It was a boy, though I supposed calling him a boy was somewhat silly, considering he was easily the oldest in the class. I couldn’t be sure of his exact age, but I knew he was closer to thirty than he was to twenty, and that just one look into his eyes confirmed he’d lived more life than I had.
I’d seen him last night, coming into the classroom as I was leaving it. He’d sat down at a blank canvas and I remembered shaking my head at the procrastination.
An entire oil painting in one night?
Even if he did wet on wet, there was no way the professor wouldn’t be able to spot that it was a last-minute painting.
A closer look told me he likely hadn’t slept at all, and though I couldn’t remember what he’d been wearing last night, I was almost sure it was the same black Pearl Jam t-shirt he wore now.
He had dark, hickory brown hair, lush and unruly, and an inch too long by my mother’s standards. A scruffy beard of the same color peppered his jaw and upper lip, scraggly and unkept, and again I could hear my mom’s voice in my head making a comment under her breath that he should trim it.
I kind of liked it, though.
I kind of liked the way it made him look older than he was, but how the boyish gleam in his eyes gave him away. I kind of liked that he looked grumpy but curious all at once.
I kind of liked the way he didn’t look away when I caught him staring, and how one corner of his lips ticked up just a notch when I didn’t look away, either.
“Okay, class,” a voice boomed from the door, and then Professor Beneventi shut it behind him, waving his hand impatiently with a frown etched deep into his brows. “Per favore, sistemati.”
Those who weren’t already in their seats found them quickly, a quiet shuffling of feet and books and paper until a complete silence fell over us all. The eyes that had been watching me disappeared from view, hidden behind canvas now, and I shook off the remnants of that gaze as I put my paint brush aside and turned my focus to the professor.
Professor Beneventi barely sat his own things down before he was pacing the room, his eyes roaming each canvas, and it was easy to tell by his reaction, or lack thereof, what he was thinking. He might frown or shake his head, stare for a long while with a thoughtful pause, or skim so fast you couldn’t be sure he really looked at all.
And we just sat there as quiet as we could, watching and waiting, hoping like hell he wouldn’t pass over ours as quickly as he had the one before us.
My throat was thick with a swallow I couldn’t manage by the time he made it to me, and I felt him hovering over my shoulder, though I wasn’t bold enough to turn and watch his face. I focused on breathing, on the inhale and exhale, and waited for him to speak.
Brilliant, Miss Chambers, I imagined him saying.
The colors!
The composition!
Instead, I heard a long sigh leave his chest, followed by a mumbled, “Prevedibile.”
I didn’t need to know Italian to know that didn’t translate to brilliant.
I finally turned to meet his disappointed eyes, and he clicked his tongue, nodding to my piece before he looked down at me. “You have talent, Miss Chambers. Why do you waste it?”
I didn’t miss the subdued noises around the room, a chorus of soft shifts and exhaled breaths that sounded like a loud ouch to my ears.
“I’m sorry, Professor, I’m not sure I—”
“What are you trying to tell me with this piece?” he asked, cutting me off.
I swallowed. “Well, the assignment was—”
“I know what the assignment was. But what did you do with it?”
My neck flamed, embarrassment building in my throat and threatening to form as tears in my eyes. It took everything I had to fight it and hold it down. And whereas every other student had his or her head down focused on their art, the boy across from me was watching me again, something of a challenge in his eyes.
I didn’t know if it was for me or the professor.
“I want you to look at what you created,” Professor Beneventi said. His hand gestured to the river, to the sunset I’d worked so hard on, that I’d been so proud of. “Yes, the colors are beautiful. Yes, you have captured light in a dramatic and beautiful way. But when I look at this, I feel nothing.”
Those words were still stinging like a hot iron had been pressed against my chest as the professor stepped between me and the canvas, bending a little so that his eyes were level with mine.
“Next time, release this fixation you have with creating something perfect, and try to create something real.”
He said the words with a little wiggle of his eyebrows, as if he were saying something like keep your head up, kid! as opposed to the truth, which was that he was denouncing the painting I’d worked all week long on.
I managed a small smile and nodded, and as soon as he turned and made his way to the next student, my shoulders deflated like a leaky balloon.
I kept my eyes on the oil brushstrokes on my canvas as the professor continued around the room, staring so long the river and buildings and green hillsides began to fade and blur until they no longer made sense.
I kept that focused non-focus until Professor Beneventi was standing behind the boy with the dark eyes.
He paused, crossing his arms over his chest before he propped one hand over his mouth. He rubbed his lips absentmindedly with his fingertips, his eyes roaming the canvas, and where I had been too scared to look when the professor was appraising my work, this boy had positioned his barstool so that he was staring at him straight on.
There were so many emotions that passed over the professor’s face as he looked at the painting, and after what felt like the longest pause he’d given to any of us, he cleared his throat, blinking incessantly as if he’d just woken from a dream. His eyes found the boys then, but he didn’t say a word. He just gave something short of a smile and nodded.
The boy nodded back.
And it was like watching two strangers have an hour-long conversation with just one exchanged glance.
When the professor walked away, on to the next student, the boy looked directly at me again.
And this time, that little curl of a smile on his lips was smug as hell.
I narrowed my eyes and fought against the scoff I wanted to give him, crossing my arms and tearing my gaze from his like I couldn’t care less.
That was my first interaction with Liam Benson.
One day, I’d wish it had been my last.
The growl that escaped my throat when I made it back to my dorm room that night must have been a deep and ugly thing.
I heaved my bag across the room, leaning against the door I’d just shut and wishing I wasn’t still fuming over my assignment.
Or rather, the professor’s reaction to my assignment.
“Ah, someone who needs wine as badly as I do,” my roommate, Angela, said with a chuckle from the kitchen. Our dorm was suite-style, with two separate bedrooms but a shared bathroom and petite kitchen. In fact, kitchen was an understatement, considering it was nothing more than a small counter, a sink, an electric kettle, and a mini-fridge.
Angela carefully pulled a second wine glass from the rack and filled it halfway with whatever her red wine of the evening was. Then, with both glasses in hand, she met me at the door.
“Here,” she said, handing me one glass while she tilted the other into the air. “To your good day.”
I grumbled, lifting the glass in her honor before I took the first sip.
Angela picked up my bag from where I’d tossed it, hanging it by the door before she plopped down on the old, smelly sofa that the university provided in our common room. It had to be from the sixties or seventies, orange and brown and faded, the cushions warped from the weight of countless bottoms. That and our beds were about the only furniture, but at least they had the decency to supply us with wine glasses.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked as she took another sip, tucking her feet up under her hips.
Angela was the kind of beautiful that spanned centuries. She had dark black skin and long black hair that she wore in hundreds of tiny braids, some with gold rings and some without, and she had mesmerizing, honey-gold eyes that rendered me speechless the first time we met. I’d never seen her wear a stitch of makeup, but her lashes were still somehow always black and long and curled, her lips a perfect dusty rose.
She practically lived in baggy sweatpants and Tommy Hilfiger tube tops, which was exactly what she was wearing now, and if I had a lean, toned stomach like hers I would show it off every chance I got, too.
And though I’d only known her a couple weeks now, I knew the three things she loved more than anything else in the world: Italian wine, Italian architecture, and Italian women.
Not necessarily in that order.
I sighed, plopping down next to her. “I know we don’t get grades until the end of the summer, but if today is any indication, I’m leaving here with a big fat F,” I said, pausing to take a sip of wine before I pointed at her with my pinky. “And I don’t mean F for Florence.”
“Then you must mean F for fantastic!”
I tried to smile but fell short, settling on a huff of annoyance, instead. “He hated it. I worked all week long on that painting and he hated it. He called it… ugh, what was the word.” I strained to remember. “Prevedibile?”
Angela winced. “Ouch.”
“You know what that means?”
She nodded with a grimace that told me she didn’t want to translate, but reluctantly she said, “Predictable.”
I sighed, letting my head hit the back of the musty orange couch. “Sounds about right. He went on to lecture me on how he didn’t feel anything when he looked at it. Just what every artist wants to hear.” I shook my head, heart kicking in my chest with the next part of my memory. “And then this stupid boy across the room from me practically moves him to tears. And he didn’t even start his painting until last night!”
“Hey, I told you procrastination pays off,” Angela said, tilting her glass toward me before she took a drink.
“It’s infuriating. I walk the halls of the Uffizi every day. I’ve been studying Michelangelo and Botticelli and Angelico since I was too young to even pronounce their names correctly. I know for a fact that I worked three times as hard on my painting, but this guy just waltzes in eight hours before the assignment is due and blows me out of the water.” I huffed. “Sexism.”
Angela laughed at that. “Okay, you know I’m the first to call out patriarchy, but I don’t think that’s what this is.” She shrugged. “Maybe he got lucky. Or, maybe he’s really talented. Did you see the painting?”
I grumbled. “No.”
“See?” Angela took another sip and waved me off. “So what. The professor liked that guy’s painting and not yours. That’s bound to happen. You’re not going to be everyone’s cup of tea.”
“But I need to be his, or I’m going to fail out of this program and be stuck behind a desk crunching numbers for the rest of my life.”
“It was one assignment,” Angela insisted, reaching over into my lap and covering my small hand, which made me flinch a little, the instinct to pull away automatic. But Angela just gave my hand a gentle squeeze as her smile spread. “You’ll have plenty more to prove him wrong. For now, take whatever lesson you can from his critique and forge ahead.”
“Forge ahead,” I repeated on a mumble when Angela pulled away. “Right off the edge of a cliff.”
“You’re so dramatic,” she said with a laugh. Then, she downed what was left of her wine and popped off the couch. “Come on. Let’s go out.”
I shook my head. “I just want a shower and my bed.”
“Too bad. We’re going out for dinner and more of this,” she said, shaking her now-empty glass.
“It’s a school night.”
“It’s a school night,” she mocked. “Come on, Harley. You’re twenty-two years old. Your body is in its prime and you’ve still got youthful, wrinkle-free skin and the ability to bounce back from a night out without a raging hangover. And you’re in Florence, Italy, for Pete’s sake.” She reached down for my hand, wiggling her fingers. “Come on. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
I looked at her hand, then at the wine left in my glass, and then up at her bright, expectant, honey eyes.
She was right.
I hated it, but she was right.
So, I followed her lead, knocking back the rest of my wine before I let her peel me off the couch and drag me out into the bustling Florence streets.