The Girl in the Painting

by Monroe, Max

  Everything these days is breaking news.

  Internet scams, church scandals, the bitter cold of New York in January. It’s fucking winter. If you don’t expect it to be cold when you go outside, you might be a moron.

  Sometimes, I wonder if this twenty-four-hour, every day, constant access to news and social media is going to make us all lose our minds one day. Or, at the very least, develop a chronic case of anxiety.

  The urge to bitch about the TV is damn near overwhelming, but instead of taking out my testy mood on Matt or my favorite Zero Fox Given mug, I bite my tongue and focus on finishing up this lesson plan for my first-graders. This week, we’ll be working on keeping the beat with little drums and animal sounds.

  It doesn’t take long, though, before Alisyn Camerota, the annoyingly perky news anchor is back on the screen rambling about some famous artist.

  You guessed it—more breaking news.

  “The art world is buzzing today, Phil. It’s been nearly five years since we’ve heard from world-renowned painter Ansel Bray, but his long period of silence has been broken, and the world is mesmerized again.”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  “And now,” the male news anchor continues the story, “everyone is wondering about the inspiration behind his paintings. While his signature style used to be that of a muted, melancholy palette, Alistair Frank, the curator at the Met, is calling Ansel Bray’s newest works highly romantic and tender.”

  I know absolutely nothing about art, nor have I ever heard of this artist, but yet, here I am, listening to this boring report.

  Probably because you’re avoiding lesson plans…

  “His works will be showcased in an exhibition at Aquavella Gallery in New York,” the male anchor updates. “And tonight will be the first official showing. Although, we’ve been told tickets are nearly impossible to get.”

  “Shit,” Matt mutters and glances over his shoulder to meet my eyes. “I forgot.”

  Oh God. I hate that tone. I can almost guarantee he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.

  “What?” I ask timidly.

  “We need to change the plans tonight, babe.”

  I scrunch up my nose at him. “Why?”

  He nods toward the screen. “Because I forgot one of my clients gave us tickets to this art exhibition.”

  I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. My stomach was already preparing for tacos!

  “Can’t you just act like you’re sick or something?”

  He grimaces. “I’d feel like an asshole if we didn’t use them.”

  “An art exhibition? Really?” I whine. I want to stuff my face with guac.

  “I know.” He shrugs one meaty shoulder. “But he gave us four tickets, Indy. We have to, at the very least, use two of them.”

  “You do realize you’ve already promised me tacos, right?”

  A laugh escapes his throat. “I promise we’ll still get the tacos. We just need to go to the gallery first.”

  Even with the taco addendum, I almost refute that option, but an idea pops into my head and reverts my mind-set.

  “How many tickets did you say you have?”

  “Four.”

  “If you keep the taco plans and let me bring my sister, we have a deal.”

  “That works.” Matt smirks. “You and Lily can meet me at the gallery. I have a late meeting, and it’ll be easier to come straight from work. Is that okay?”

  “I think we can manage,” I say and grab my phone to shoot my sister a text.

  Me: You’re going to an art exhibition with me and Matt tonight.

  A minute later, she responds.

  Lily: What art exhibition?

  “What’s the artist’s name?” I call toward Matt, who is now heading toward my bathroom to take a shower.

  “Ansel Bray.”

  Me: For an artist named Ansel Bray. Meet me at my apartment around 7.

  Lily: HOW DID YOU GET TICKETS TO ANSEL BRAY’S SHOW?? ON OPENING NIGHT, NO LESS!

  I blink at her overexcited text. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s had too much coffee this morning?

  Me: One of Matt’s clients.

  Lily: Well, that was FUCKING GENEROUS. I write an arts and entertainment column for the New York Press, and I couldn’t get tickets.

  Me: I’m not really seeing what all the excitement is about.

  Lily: Seriously, Indy? He’s a HUGE deal. And now, thanks to Matt, I get to write my next column about Ansel Bray’s FIRST SHOW BACK!!!

  Me: So, it’s a yes?

  Lily: SAVE A TICKET FOR ME OR DIE.

  Ah, sibling love.

  Me: Fine. Also, we’re getting tacos afterward at El Torro.

  Lily: WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT TACOS RIGHT NOW? WE’RE GOING TO ANSEL BRAY’S SHOW!

  Me. I care about tacos.

  Not even a minute later, my phone starts vibrating across the kitchen counter with Incoming Call Lily flashing across the screen.

  “Hey, Lil,” I greet, but she’s already off to the races.

  “Oh. My. God!” she shouts so loudly, I have to pull the device away from my ear. “Indy! You have no idea how excited I am now! I can’t believe we’re going to this show tonight!”

  I swear, sometimes Lily is like a little Chihuahua all hopped up on speed.

  She’s only eighteen months older than me, but it’s almost as if we have completely different DNA. She’s boisterous, super outgoing, insanely chatty, and I’m mellow, a little bit introverted, and prefer to keep my emotions close to the vest.

  Obviously, our parents didn’t mix at all. They split chromosomal donation cleanly by alternating children. Lily is Holly Davis to a T, and I’m one hundred percent Mac Davis’s daughter.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re excited.”

  “Excited?” she shouts. “I’m over the fucking moon!”

  I grimace. Her current mood is a bit too much for me this morning.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you tonight…” I attempt to end the call, but she doesn’t let me off the hook that easy.

  “Wait a minute…are you okay?” she asks. “You sound off…”

  “It’s nothing.” I shrug and pick at a piece of invisible lint on my pants. “I’m fine.” There’s no way I’m going to drudge up old demons right now. I’ve done pretty well this morning, and after this many years, you’d think I’d at least be moving in the direction of getting over it.

  “Well, then liven up, buttercup,” she commands. “We’ve got tickets to the hottest show in town, and there’s no way I’m going to let you ruin it by moping before eight a.m.”

  I swallow against the pull of melancholy and take her advice. The day hasn’t even started yet, and at least I’ll get to spend the evening with my sister. “You’re right.”

  She groans. “Of course, I am.”

  “And so humble.”

  “Who needs to be humble when they’ve got tickets to see Ansel Bray’s long-anticipated collection?”

  “Not you.”

  “Fucking right.”

  I roll my eyes and, despite myself, even manage a little laugh. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “That’s right,” she says, and her voice jumps in octaves. “You’ll see me tonight at Ansel Bray’s show!”

  At seven on the dot, my always on-time sister shows up at my apartment, dressed in a sleek white pantsuit and tapping her watch impatiently at my lack of readiness.

  It takes me another fifteen or so minutes to fix my long dark locks into somewhat manageable waves down my back and decide on my outfit of choice—a simple blush shift dress, heels, and a vintage cape with gold buttons.

  My sister bitches at my lack of timeliness for most of the Uber ride to the gallery, but once we pull up in front of the building, she drops the attitude and goes straight into journalist mode.

  I, on the other hand, take a weird nose dive into anxiety.

  I have no idea what has me so on edge. Maybe it’s the crowd? The day? Because I’m already hungry
for tacos?

  Who knows, but I breathe through it and show the tickets Matt had couriered from his office to my classroom this afternoon to the security guard at the entrance.

  We’re barely five feet inside the front doors when Lily is stopped by a gray-haired gentleman holding a complimentary glass of wine. He animatedly asks her about a recent column she published about the Guggenheim, and my sister goes into her full smiley, outgoing, extrovert mode.

  As their conversation barrels into journalist mumbo jumbo, my phone buzzes inside my purse with a text.

  Matt: Sorry I’m running late, babe. I’m still stuck in the meeting, but trying to leave as soon as I can.

  Internally, I groan. The only reason I’m here is because Matt said we had to make an appearance. And yet, here I am, without him.

  But when I glance back at my sister and find her totally in her element, chatting it up and smiling at her number one fan, I realize the evening isn’t entirely lost. At least someone is gaining something from this boring art exhibition.

  Me: It’s okay. Just let me know when you’re headed here.

  I hit send on my text to Matt, and when I see my sister is still balls deep in a conversation I know nothing about, I quietly shuffle away and walk around the gallery by myself.

  Ironically, it’s so crowded and stuffy that it takes an insane amount of jockeying and work just to stand in front of one of Ansel Bray’s infamous paintings.

  Good thing, as Matt once pointed out to me, I have extra pointy elbows.

  Starting at the front, I work my way toward the back of the gallery, standing in front of each painting and trying to figure out what all the hype is about.

  The first is of a window that frames the outside of the canvas, and the almost heavenly beyond that lies within it. I notice the attention to detail is intense, but none of the objects look like anything I’ve ever seen before. There are no roses or lilies in the garden; there are only vibrant flowers I’m almost positive couldn’t exist in nature.

  The second is much less abstract. An image of a tattered woman lying at the base of a fountain. The water spills over her body and soaks the rags she has for clothes.

  The third is a complex swirl of color only, dying in the center and fading into what seems to be a pit of darkness.

  There’s an ease in the strokes of each painting, but the colors are complex. It’s like he’s layered a mix to make the end result, instead of just using the color in the first place.

  I’ve never really understood this kind of art, though. It’s pretty, I admit. Pretty enough to validate the fact that my sister nearly comes in her pants every time she hears the artist’s name? I’m not convinced.

  With each step I take deeper into the space, the whispered conversations get louder. The artist’s tragic absence from the art scene when a car accident turned him blind. His miraculous recovery.

  And, every once in a while, a poetic rave about the art. Brilliant. Fragile. A beautiful mélange of softness and story.

  The crowd in the back space is different, though—more intense—and I have to wait in line for a few minutes to see the painting.

  At last, the crowd in front of me clears and reveals the canvas framed in gold. And this time, the illustration before me reaches out and grabs me by the throat. Three abrupt coughs come out unbidden, and I have to cover my mouth with my hand to prevent my saliva from spraying the expensive art.

  Long brown hair with ribbons of gold, blue eyes, and two dimples pressed into the center of her cheeks, she’s nearly the spitting image of me.

  Dear God, I feel like I’m looking in the mirror.

  Jesus.

  I blink my eyes several times to refocus.

  Surely, the lack of sleep and the six cups of coffee I drank today have affected my eyes…

  But the more I stare at the painting—a delicate visual of what looks like me from behind while I glance over my shoulder, bare skin all the way to the curve of my left hip—the harder it gets to breathe, and my heart all but hurtles out of my chest and onto the gallery floor. It’s so fragile and tender, and so goddamn distantly familiar that my hands begin to shake against my legs.

  I can almost remember when I last looked this carefree.

  I’ve never met Ansel Bray.

  Never even heard of him until today.

  So why does the girl in his painting look so much like me?

  Seeing this woman…seeing so much of my old self in her today…it’s nearly too much to bear.

  A young guy wearing a fedora bumps my hip as he tries to shuffle through the crowd behind me, and I’m stunned out of my silence.

  “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes as I meet his eyes.

  My voice—my very being—feels trapped in the tight hold of my chest, but somehow, someway, I manage to push out the words, “It’s okay.”

  “It’s too crowded,” he says, but then pauses. His gaze shifts between me and the painting hanging in front of us. “Wait…” Excitement lights his eyes. “Is that you?”

  My heart all but collapses in on itself at his words.

  “No!” I snap with something that was meant to be a laugh. It sounds more like a small animal in distress. It may not be what I’m going for, but it perfectly embodies what I’m feeling.

  “Are you sure?” he asks and keeps alternating between examining the painting and my face. “Because it sure looks like you.”

  “I’m sure. I don’t even know the artist. Hell, I don’t even really like art.”

  A wrinkle forms between his brows, and I realize my hysteria may have loosened my lips just a little too much.

  “I mean…the paintings are great, but this is my first time at a show. It’s not me.”

  The scrutiny of his gaze makes my chest grow tight with anxiety. I feel vulnerable. Exposed. Like I’m having that awful dream where I’m standing completely naked in the middle of my high school, except replace the school with this gallery. I rub my now sweaty palms across the material of my dress.

  He grins, and I take it as my cue that I need to get the fuck out of there. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my sister.” I don’t give him time to respond and push through the crowd, paying absolutely no attention to the rest of the paintings, until I reach the rear of the gallery.

  I rest my hip against an empty wall which is connected to a long back hall with a small sign that says restrooms resting above its archway and try to get myself together.

  My chest is tight and my head feels fuzzy, and I don’t know how much longer I can stay here while my mind races with confusing thoughts and questions and memories I’d much prefer not to think about right now.

  I stare at the tops of my nude pumps and force myself to take slow, deep breaths.

  There has to be an explanation for this, I tell myself. It’s probably just some sort of weird coincidence.

  And then I start to question the likeness of it all. Does that painting really look like me? Isn’t that kind of a narcissistic thing to think, Indy? That a beautiful painting looks like you?

  Surely, I’m mistaken…right?

  That guy in the fedora didn’t seem mistaken…

  “Where did you go?” Lily asks, bumping me with a playful hip. I look up from my shoes to meet her eyes, and I find Matt standing beside her.

  Looks like he finally arrived.

  “We were looking everywhere for you.”

  “Sorry, I was late, baby.” Matt grins and steps forward to plant a soft kiss to my lips. I feel oddly annoyed by it, but I swallow down the feeling with the rest of the intense emotions running through my veins.

  “I thought you were going to text me when you were on your way?” I ask, and he wraps his arm around my shoulder, tucking me into his side.

  “I did, but I guess you didn’t see it.”

  Oh. Whoops.

  “I guess so,” I mutter, but my mind is mostly just thinking that his body is too warm and I am too warm and, goddammit, is this gallery on the surface of the sun?


  “You feeling okay?” Lily asks, and she scrutinizes my face.

  “Yeah, it’s just a little crowded in here,” I say with a little shrug and a tug on the material of my dress. “I might need to step out and get some fresh air soon. I’m feeling overheated.”

  “Well, if you can hang in there for a little longer, I just need to see a few more paintings. Maybe then I can walk outside with you while Matt finishes making his rounds?”

  I want to tell them I’m ready to go right the fuck now, but I bite my tongue.

  Matt wants to be here and Lily is here for work, and I want to respect that. I don’t want to be the emotional asshole who wrecks everyone’s evening.

  So, I suck it up.

  “Okay.”

  Lily smiles and leads the way, with Matt and me in tow behind her.

  All is well, until she leads us right back to that fucking painting.

  Instantly, my heart flutters and flips beneath my rib cage, stealing the breath from my lungs.

  Maybe they won’t notice.

  “Holy shit,” Lily mutters, and she glances back and forth between me and the painting. “Indy, she looks like you!”

  “Yeah.” Matt grins and squeezes my shoulder. “She really does look like you, baby.”

  I try to shrug it off, but on the inside, I’m dying.

  “You don’t see it?” Lily asks and I shrug again.

  “Maybe a little,” I force out a lie.

  “A little?” my sister questions on a laugh. “If I didn’t know you better, I might ask if you were Ansel Bray’s secret mystery muse or something.”

  My heart drops to my stomach, and I think the words I am no one’s muse in my head. No one’s.

  Matt grimaces but laughs at the same time. “Well, fuck. I don’t think I’d be too happy with that scenario.”

  “I’m kidding!” Lily says and gives him a teasing pat to the shoulder. He takes it all in good humor. All in all, really, he’s happy.