Page 80 of Broken
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, without moving.
“To see a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Yeah,” he says it like I’m simple, or hard of hearing.
“You’re infuriating,” I mutter.
“Trust me, I’ve heard that a lot.”
Rolling my eyes, I follow him along the street. There are no cars allowed down here so we walk on the cobblestones. It’scharming, with old lampposts and flowers in baskets. Apartment doors are interspersed between the stores, and I can’t help looking up at the surrounding buildings.
It would be lovely to live here. Being surrounded by all this history and beautiful architecture. Even if I am a little pissed at Garrett for springing this on me, I’m also happy. He doesn’t need to know that.
Most of the stores are closed but there are few still open. A little bistro draws my attention, then an art store and coffee shop/bar.
Garrett doesn’t stop at any of them, he keeps heading for the street at the end of the block. The sound of a lot of voices becomes more prevalent.
As we round out of the street onto a long road, I let out a gasp. It reminds me of the festival a few weeks ago. There are tents set up along the pathway, with various vendors selling their wares.
I’ve never been to a place that has so many outdoor markets. This is less manic than the Harbor Festival, there is no music but there are food stalls to choose from different cuisines.
We walk along together, Garrett pausing when I do, to look at things that interest me.
“You hungry?” he asks after a while.
“I’m good for now but would like to try some of these dishes, they all look amazing.”
He nods and puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. We carry on walking. This is so surreal. I mean, he’s being his usual closed off self, but there is a different air about him. Like he’s not annoyed about being here, or in my company. It’s nice, despite him not being forthcoming.
I’m not sure what to call what we’re doing. Sure, we’ve had sex twice but there is no talking between those moments. And both times it’s not been planned.
Now he’s taking me to meet a friend of his, and I’m curious about who it could be or why he wants me to meet them. When he veers off the path between two stalls I pause a moment, wondering what he is up to.
An older woman sits on a chair surrounded by canvases and is currently holding a sketch pad, fully focused on what she is doing. He heads toward her as I take in the paintings. They’re all for sale and are beautiful.
Now I know why we’re here. They’re all the local buildings. I can’t be angry because these are stunning. They’re fine line black pen drawings, but they have pretty watercolor washes over them. The splashes don’t follow the lines. They’re giving the impression of the canvas being wet and rainbow-like, but the actual image is crisp and architecturally correct.
Garrett leans down to kiss the woman’s cheek. I’m sure had she not been well into her sixties, with snow white hair, I might have gotten jealous.
“This is Ziva,” Garrett tells me. “She’s been painting around Baltimore for nearly thirty years.”
Ziva pokes him with her brush. “You make me sound old,” she jokes, then turns to face me.
“Calli,” I smile at her.
Of all the friends I imagined being introduced to, this was nowhere near the top of my list.
We chat for a while about the market and how long she has lived in the city. Garrett doesn’t intervene much and when he eventually says he is going to go grab a drink, offering us both one, he disappears into the crowd. Ziva offers me a seat beside her and draws while we talk.
He’s sneakier than I thought because after a while, Ziva offers me a fresh pad. I haven’t told her my history but have mentioned my love of drawing.
“Art saved my life,” Ziva tells me, as I look from the building before me to the pad and start sweeping pencil lines across the blank page.
“Really?”
