Emelia wasn’t in the living room or kitchen. I tapped on one of the doors in the back. Was she still sleeping? I wandered into the rest of the house. To the left of the living room was a hallway that led to two other rooms. There was a light coming from the one on the far end. I cracked the door open just to make sure there wasn’t a serial killer who had yet to leave the scene.

Why did the imagination always run wild in this house?

Emelia whirled around and stumbled through boxes near her feet. As she struggled to regain her balance, I couldn’t stop a short burst of laughter. I could feel the self-loathing coming off of her in waves as she covered her eyes with a hand and squeaked. I took pity and asked if she was okay.

She chuckled and dropped her hand. “Yeah.”

She looked past me, to the hallway. Was she looking for Allison? I stepped into the room, onto a plastic sheet covering the floor. This was by far the messiest room I saw in this house. Paintings and sketches lined the walls and made stacks along the floor with random art supplies.

“An art room?” I asked.

“Uh. Yep.” She shifted to block my view of the easel behind her. Her heels bounced a little. If that was supposed to convey nonchalance, she was failing.

“So… What’s that painting behind you?” Look, at this point, it was more awkward not to address it.

“Oh, this?” she asked, as if the thought just occurred to her. “Nothing special. How was your week?”

“You’re chatty when you’re nervous.”

Her left foot took half a step backward. “I assure you, miss, I don’t know what you mean.”

I was surprised by my own full laughter. I stood on my tippy-toes to look around. Her cool act dropped into a full cornered-animal routine as she plastered her back over the canvas, her gangly arms flailing.

“It’s just—it’s not finished,” she said when she finally stepped aside to let me see.

I leaned in to look. There were mostly darker, dull colors that seemed to make random swirls and strokes rather than any real scene—at least as far as I could tell. I knew it was supposed to mean something, but I wasn’t sure what. These things seemed like inside jokes between artists, things only they understood.

As I studied it, Emelia watched me for a reaction. Apparently it did mean something, because she was hunching her shoulders like that would help her disappear. What was she trying to say by painting something like this? “Not sure I love it…” I confessed.

Instead of looking dejected, like I had expected, she smiled like she knew a secret and said, “It is somewhat like life, right? You look at life during an unhappy point in time and all you feel is sadness, darkness and dull melancholy. You look at it at those times and you do not like it, but you never quite know how it will end, or how the finished product will look, do you? Along the way, someone may hurt you, betray you…”

She took a gray color and made another long stroke through the painting. “You can decide that you want to give up there because you do not like how it is going… Or you can keep going and perhaps meet a friend who changes your life for good.” She hesitated toward a bottle of bright orange, which would have been the first color of its kind, but then stopped and put down the paintbrush. “But that’s just my silly mess. What brings you here?”

“Not much…” I trailed off. I was still trying to process her words. I forced my eyes off of the painting and dug in my backpack for the pastries and held them up. “Breakfast—chocolate or birthday cake?”

“Oh, um… Whichever.”

I sighed. It was so hard to get her to be assertive. “What’s your mom’s favorite flavor?”

“Chocolate, definitely. Her favorite day is after Valentine’s, when all the chocolate goes on sale,” she said, oblivious to my tactic.

So that’s probably your favorite, too, huh? I tossed her the chocolate one and she thanked me. We ate on the floor in silence while I looked around the room at the other paintings. These were different somehow. The one Emelia had just shown me was dark, but it also felt calm and unimposing. However, even when brighter colors were used, there was something intimidating about these. I felt a small chill. “These others aren’t yours, are they?”

“No, most of these are my mother’s. She taught me to paint.”

The paintings held no symmetry or organic objects. They offered no hint of meaning. “They’re so… chaotic.”

“I know. Does it not draw you in, though?”

I nodded slowly. She was right, in a way I did not quite understand. Another artist thing?

“We are desperate to put our lives in order and appear composed, but I think the mind is a little attracted to disorder. Some of the most unrestrained, less technical forms of art are able to reflect life more earnestly.”

What were these paintings reflecting? Confusion, Outer Conflict, Strike, Peace—each painting had a label. How much of what she was saying was a direct quote from her mom?

I’d been in rooms where everyone was discussing the economy and taxes and had no idea what anyone was saying. I knew enough to recognize the signs to stay quiet for fear of my ignorance being discovered.

After we finished, I asked to see her bike again. She brought it out of the shed while I pulled the tools I prepared out of my backpack.

“I brought an inner tube that should fit your bike,” I said.

“Oh, thank you. You really did not have to do that. I was not planning to use it.” She started to wring her hands. I felt the familiar beginnings of annoyance. It was my choice to do this. She had no reason to feel guilty. Why was it so hard for her to accept anything without laborious self-loathing?

“Actually, I was hoping that you would come with me to grab some caffeine, since Allison isn't here today.” I don’t care about being alone, but I guess I had to convince her that I did this for me.

She looked conflicted. Before, she said that she left the house now and then, but I wondered if she did not want to allow herself to be caught up in anything that was away from her house. Something like this shouldn’t be a big deal, right?

“I guess. It won’t take long, right?”

I wondered what it would take to make her stop worrying for at least a few minutes. I shrugged. “We can just go to the gas station.”

She went inside to grab a hoodie while I finished changing the tire.

“It has been awhile since I rode a bike. I hope I do not slow you down,” she said when we walked our bikes out to the street.

I waved her concern away. “It’s all right. I’m used to it.”

I wasn’t expecting much from someone locked inside. But she kept up with me. I could tell she was struggling, but she stayed quiet in her determination. I stopped now and then to drink water even though I felt fine.

When we walked into the gas station, Emelia gave a short wave to the man behind the counter and said hello. I was hoping she was just being polite rather than being that much of a regular here. I scanned the refrigerator for the first thing that would deliver a high dose of caffeine through my veins.

“You like coffee?” Emelia asked.

I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that will jumpstart my heart on an early Sunday morning. It’s that or surrender to a TV movie marathon.”

She hummed her acknowledgement. “My mother brags about her coffee. Maybe you can try some when she gets back.”

Always “when,” never “if.” She’s not letting herself be negative, I realized. She’s not naïve. I know enough to see she’s smart. She’s strong enough to be positive. I would’ve called myself a realist, but that’s because I didn’t care much for trying hope.

Our interactions were already at capacity with awkwardness so I opted for nodding while I pulled out my wallet. Emelia followed me to the counter after grabbing a flavored water. I offered to pay for hers, but I let it go after the horror on her face. I couldn’t handle the waves of guilt that would radiate off her if I insisted.

We leaned on the wall outside and drank in silence until Emelia cleared her throat. “I do not know anything about you guys, but I feel like you know a lot about me.”

It didn’t feel like I even scratched the surface of her strange life. “There’s not much to know.”

“I know Allison does not—I mean—do you… Live with your parents?”

As much I wanted to disown them, I wasn’t much for dramatic displays. “Yeah.”

She smiled. Really, there’s no reason to be relieved. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Just Jay.”

“Sometimes I wish I had siblings.”

“Why? That’s just resource competition.”

She giggled and I felt myself relax. “Siblings live the same way. They understand what you are going through by default.”

“That’s why you find friends. They’re like family you choose.”

She looked up from her deep slouch, her expression unreadable. I didn’t really know what I was saying or if I was somehow making a promise I couldn’t guarantee. I shrugged. “At least that’s what people say. Not like I would know.”

We asked a few more random questions to space out the stretches of silence, but we didn't end up with much of a conversation. It started to get warmer and we decided to head back. After she thanked me again, we parted ways at her house.

During that day, I found out that she was an artist, she had never owned a cellphone or a computer, her favorite sport to watch was ice skating, and when I was particularly lost for better conversation material, that her favorite color was sea green.

We knew a few random facts about each other, but still did not really understand each other very well. Was that just because we seemed so different? Was it even necessary to understand? Sure, I had been spending quite a bit of time at her house lately, but I was just hanging out for lack of anything better to do.

Well, if attempted communication fails, there is always trial and error. If you spend enough time with someone, you are bound to discover what upsets them and some of your first misconceptions will be cleared and replaced.

That became apparent to me rather quickly.