by Monroe, Max
And Lily’s happy.
Everyone’s just having the fucking time of their lives.
Everyone but me.
I try to laugh along with them, but I’m almost certain all I’ve managed is a silent grimace that has all the feminine appeal of Voldemort.
While my sister takes notes and pulls her camera out of her purse to take a photo, I stare at that damn painting, picking it apart for all the details I surely don’t share.
“Look, babe,” Matt says and points toward the painting, “she even has dimples and that little beauty mark on your cheek.”
“That’s crazy,” Lily chimes in just before she lifts her camera in front of her face to snap a photo.
I couldn’t respond if I wanted to. My lungs are too tight with shock, and my heart has migrated its way into my throat. So, all I do is nod, but on the inside, I’m rocks and dirt and dust crumbling to the ground.
Vivid memories assail me, and I grab at my chest to find what surely must be a knife. And closer and closer the walls of the gallery come, suffocating me until I can’t breathe.
My fingers tremble, and my flight response kicks in.
“I think I’m g-gonna walk outside,” I say through the tightness in my throat.
“What?” Matt asks, but when his eyes lock on to my face, his gaze goes wide. “Indy? You okay, babe?”
I shake my head. “I don’t feel so well.”
I turn on my heels and push through the crowd until I reach the long white hall that leads to the bathrooms.
I’m in the stall and barely getting the door shut when a rush of nausea overwhelms me, and I almost don’t make it to the toilet in time.
Fucking hell. What just happened out there?
What did I just see?
By the time I get myself together enough to step out of the stall, my sister is standing beside the sink with concerned eyes.
“Are you okay?” she asks and hands me a wet paper towel to wipe my mouth.
I nod and take in my pale and clammy reflection in the mirror as I move the towel across my forehead and lips.
“What happened?”
That fucking painting happened.
“I don’t know.” I shrug and throw the towel into the wastebasket beneath the sink. “All of a sudden, I just felt nauseous.”
It’s at least partially the truth.
The rest, I can’t even understand myself, much less try to explain it to someone else.
“Wait…” Her eyes go wide. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I roll my eyes and turn on the faucet. “You have to have sex to get pregnant.”
“You have a boyfriend, Indigo Davis,” she retorts with a furrowed brow. And I know when she uses my full name, she means business. “A boyfriend whom you’ve been with for over a year, by the way. I sure as fuck hope you’re having sex. One of us should be.”
“Well, he travels a lot,” I retort, trying to cover over my embarrassing truth. “And, plus, I’m on the pill.”
To be honest, I can’t even remember the last time Matt and I had sex.
Has it really been that long since we’ve had sex?
I try to count the days in my head, but when I reach three weeks, I stop altogether and choose to explore that shocking realization another time. Preferably one that doesn’t involve me puking in a public restroom.
“Well, if you’re not pregnant, then what’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug and wash my hands. “I think it was just a bad combination of it being too hot and crowded inside this gallery and the fact that I ate tuna salad for lunch.”
“Ew.” She grimaces. “I can’t even think about tuna fish after hearing you hurl into the toilet.”
“How do you think I feel?” I question on a laugh. “I was the one hanging over said toilet, doing all of the hurling.”
Lily’s bright-red lips crest up into a smile. “What do you say we head out of here and get you home? Pretty sure your stomach isn’t going to be able to tolerate tacos right now.”
For once in my life, I can agree that tacos are a bad idea.
“Definitely not.” I dry my hands with a paper towel and turn off the faucet. “Let’s head home.”
When we leave the bathroom, I find Matt standing at the end of the hall, worry written all over his face.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say and force a reassuring smile to my lips. “I think I just got overheated, and the tuna fish I ate for lunch didn’t respond too well to that.”
“You sure that’s all it is?”
“Positive.” I nod. “But I am sure I want to go home now.”
Thankfully, Matt doesn’t give any pushback, and it doesn’t take long before we’re heading toward the front doors of the gallery. But this time, I’m smart enough to keep my eyes toward the ground as we pass through the exhibition. Avoiding everything and everyone inside the building.
My heart has had enough for the day.
Tomorrow, I’ll try to wrap my head around the girl in Ansel Bray’s painting.
Ansel
“First, I want to thank you for taking the time to chat with me this morning,” Just Debra, as she’s introduced herself, with the Los Angeles Times says, and I rein in my inner asshole and focus on remaining cordial.
She’s just doing her job, I remind myself.
“Sure,” I respond in the friendliest voice I can manage. It sounds a little too much like I’m imitating Clark Griswold, but at least it’s devoid of irritation and annoyance.
I run my free hand across the leather of my favorite chair and stare lazily at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my living room. The bright morning sun magnifies the specks of dust floating in the air, and I think briefly about hiring a housekeeper.
It’s barely ten, this is already my fourth phone interview of the day, and my mind has started to wander.
I make a mental note to threaten Nigel’s life if he ever does this to me again. There’s already a sticky note filed in the back of my brain with that exact message on it, crinkled from overuse. I add an asterisk and date it for today, bringing it back to current.
No doubt, this is his version of payback for my refusing to attend the exhibition opening the other night.
I used to have a publicist who handled this kind of shit, but he quit. There was “nothing a publicist can do for an angry blind man who doesn’t want to speak with anyone,” and he wasn’t thrilled with the “working conditions.”
Apparently, my good friend Nigel thinks he can stick his big fucking nose into the empty publicity role, and I either won’t notice or won’t say anything.
The bastard.
His gallery may be running my show, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to roll over and let him feed me to the media wolves.
“Last night was the first official opening of your exhibition at Aquavella,” the reporter informs me—as though she’s telling me something I don’t know.
Thank you, Mrs. Obvious.
“It was.”
“Early reviews from the opening are absolutely phenomenal, with the one complaint seemingly about the space. Why is that you’ve chosen to hold the exhibition in such a small space and for such a short amount of time? You could have sold out MoMA, yet you chose Aquavella.”
“Because the paintings in this exhibition aren’t meant to be showcased in a large empty room with fluorescent lights glaring down on them. They’re too vulnerable, and their scale is too small. They needed a space that was intimate.”
“An intimate space. It’s interesting that you use that word.”
I roll my eyes and lean back in my leather chair. “And why is that, Debra?”
There’s one question I’ve been asked in every single interview, and Debra’s version of it is circling, readying itself to make a landing.
“One painting seemed to fit that bill in particular.”
I hum.
“The girl in the painting
, Ansel. Who is she?”
“She’s simply a girl in a painting.”
She laughs, as if she can’t believe I’m being this obtuse. As if I’m fucking feeding her lines.
“Her phenomenal presence in your show has raised a lot of questions and curiosities. That painting seems to be the one that is drawing the most attention out of all of your works.”
“Interesting observation,” I muse.
Her incredulous laugh fills my ears. She’s done with our dance around the bush. “Is she real?”
“She’s as real as any of my other works. I take little parts of my life and put them into everything I paint.”
What I don’t say is how big of a part this particular mirage has had. After being locked inside the black abyss, she is what guided me back to the light. Back to painting again.
“Somehow, you’ve given me an answer that only raises more questions,” she responds, and it’s my turn to laugh. I haven’t made a point to be cryptic, but apparently, I’ve played right into the curious mass’s hands.
“My brother would have a field day with this right now.”
“Is that so?”
I swipe off a piece of lint from my jeans. “It’s a certainty.”
“Speaking of your brother, what does he think of your exhibition?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a cheeky smile. “You’d have to ask him yourself.”
“I’d love to do just that, but I’ll have to pull a few strings before I can get an interview with Bram Bray on the books.”
Instantly, I get an idea.
“How about I pull those strings for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit tight for a minute, Debra,” I instruct, and already, I’m pulling the phone away from my face to prepare to dial the number I know by heart with a smile on my face. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t give her time to respond, and a minute or two later, I have my brother on one line, while Debra is on hold on the other.
“What’s up?” Bram asks by way of greeting.
I make the conscious decision not to explain. It’ll really be better if this is a surprise. Well…better for me, anyway.
“Hold on, Bram,” I say and tap the screen to merge the calls together.
“Debra? You still there?”
“Uh…yes,” she responds immediately.
“Bram?”
“What’s going on, Ans?” he asks, but I ignore him.
“Debra, this is my brother. Bram, this is Debra, an interviewer from the LA Times. She has a few questions for you.”
“Wait…what—?”
“Looks like we’re all set here.” I cut my brother off, my grin so big now it’s a second away from being a full-blown smile. “It was great talking to you, Deb. Have a lovely day.”
I remove myself from the call before my brother can protest, and I shout victory into the crisp emptiness of my brownstone.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly how you end an interview early.
By the time I’m almost ready to head into my personal studio on the second level of my house, my phone vibrates with a text message.
Bram: You’re such a dick.
I chuckle and type out a quick response.
Me: Consider it payback for that time you sent a car full of your groupies to my house at three in the morning.
Bram: But they wanted to meet the illustrious Ansel Bray. Who was I to say no?
That fucking night. It took me nearly an hour to get the drunk, extremely loud, and scantily clad ladies inside my driver Hank’s Escalade and on their way home.
Me: Well, Mr. Accommodating, I’ll keep that in my mind the next time someone stops me on the street to tell me how much they love New Rules…
Next time that happens, I’ll personally escort them to his fucking house.
Bram: And I’ll be sure to get you on the line every time someone asks me about the girl in your painting…
I cringe. The one painting I didn’t want to put in the show, the one painting I hoped would fly under the radar, is the one painting everyone appears to be fixated on.
Me: People are asking you about her too?
Bram: Apparently my publicist is up to her ears today with calls about the girl in your painting.
I click my phone to sleep and walk into the bathroom to take a shower and get ready to head to my studio.
I’ve got more visions of her to paint.
But before I hop in the shower, my phone pings with another text.
Fully prepared to see Bram’s name, I tilt my head to the side when I read the name Lennon Quill on the screen.
Fucking hell. I groan, already annoyed.
Lennon Quill is a guy I’ve known since I was in my early twenties and is a complete fucking mess.
A cocaine-dabbling, fedora-wearing, self-proclaimed hipster who tries to chase other people’s fame because he can’t find an artistic voice of his own.
The only reason his number is programmed into my phone is to ensure I avoid his toxicity. Because that’s exactly what he is—toxic.
Unfortunately, given the amount of time that’s passed since I last heard from him, I’m too damn curious not to open his message.
Lennon Quill: Great show, dude. Truly impressed with the new works. And it was clever to have her at the opening, but not admitting she’s the inspiration.
What is he talking about?
I shake my head as I read the message again. When it still doesn’t make sense, I have to assume it’s being brought to me courtesy of a bender.
It’s an easy decision.
Ignore. Delete. And go on about my day.
Indy
Two hours ago, I gave Matt a kiss goodbye and watched him hop into a black town car and head for the airport. He’s on his way to another business trip that includes big European companies and the installation of some sort of high-tech computer program.
Considering my knowledge of computers revolves around how to find Microsoft Word and my iTunes library, it’s all a bit over my head.
He will be gone for twenty-one days, and his itinerary will take him through several stops in Europe—France, Italy, Germany, and a few other countries I don’t even remember.
No doubt, it’s a long time to be away from my boyfriend, but I’m used to it.
My phone vibrates across the coffee table, and I pause my mindless search for something to watch on television and check the screen.
Sally. Again. This is the second call in the last three weeks. It’s way more than her usual twice a year, but not enough to make me hit accept. I’m not ready, and something emergent would surely warrant more calls than this.
I slide my phone back onto the table, and it vibrates again immediately. I’m almost scared to look, but something about being in my thirties means I’m not allowed to be a total baby anymore.
This time, it’s a text from Matt.
Matt: Getting ready to board now. Here’s to hoping these next three weeks fly by. Miss you already, baby.
Baby. My lips turn down at the corners.
Terms of endearment have never really been my thing, but they’re sort of Matt’s thing, so I try to oblige.
But I can’t deny it grates on my nerves a bit. Or a lot, if I’m really being honest with myself.
Me: Have a safe trip and let me know when you land. XOXO.
Matt: I will. Promise if you start feeling bad again, you’ll go to the doctor?
After my abrupt departure from the gallery the other night, he’s been urging me to get checked out.
It’s been a long forty-eight hours of reassuring him I’m fine and him obsessing over stomach viruses and weird diseases.
In his defense, when it comes to illness, he’s biologically prone to worrying too much, courtesy of his hypochondriac mother. And, well, he doesn’t know the real reason I ended up puking in the bathroom at Aquavella.
I mean, how do you tell your boyfriend you got sick because of the painting y
ou saw? In hindsight, even I feel like I overreacted. Seeing myself in one random painting that some guy painted shouldn’t produce such a physical reaction.
It’s just a coincidence. Nothing more.
Me: I’m fine, Matt. It was just a weird blip of nausea. Nothing to be concerned about.
Matt: Okay, sweetheart. Getting ready for takeoff now. Talk soon.
I toss my phone back onto the coffee table and scroll through the channels for another few minutes before I set down the remote and get off the couch.
It’s Saturday. I should be doing something fun. Something that gets me out of my house. Something, anything, besides sitting on my couch.
I think about calling Lily or my mom or even a few of my girlfriends from work, but being with people seems like too much work.
Instead, I decide to go it alone, take a little walk, and see where the day takes me.
Maybe I’ll grab some lunch at my favorite diner up the street. Or maybe I’ll be adventurous and take the subway toward the city for a stroll through Washington Square Park. The day is an untraveled road, and I get to choose the destination.
Before I talk myself out of it, I get dressed, put on a little makeup, fix my long locks into a ponytail, and bundle up in my favorite pea coat, scarf, and boots.
I tap on one of my favorite playlists, put my earbuds in my ears and my phone in my back pocket, and head out the door. With Camila Cabello serenading me, I step outside, and the frigid February air punches me right in the face. If the bitter wind had a fist, I’d officially have a black eye. I adjust my cream scarf to cover my mouth and nose and force my feet to move across the sidewalk.
Shit. Maybe I should’ve just stuck with Netflix?
It doesn’t take long for me to realize the subway station is closer than the diner, and I let the harsh winter weather lead my way down the stairs to the waiting platform and onto the next train.