The Girl in the Painting

by Monroe, Max

  “I think we both know you’re going to tell me no matter what I say.”

  She snorts and shakes her head. “Can you drop the sarcasm act for one minute?”

  “Fine. I’ll shut up.” I make a show of acting like I’m zipping my mouth shut with my index finger and thumb.

  Her responding smile is contagious, but it doesn’t take long for her eyes to turn serious.

  “Relationships are hard, and marriages are even harder. But I can tell you, whoever this girl is, if she’s the one for you, if she’s meant to be an important part of your life, there won’t be any question. You’ll be able to feel it.” She gently taps the palm of her hand to the center of my chest. “Right here.”

  The soft seriousness of her tone makes me keep my mouth shut and listen.

  “When it came to your father and me, I thought I felt it, but when I look back, I know I never did. It wasn’t until Neil that I really felt it. That I really knew. And when I met Neil, it was awful timing, Ansel. Horrible timing, actually,” she says on a quiet laugh. “He had a girlfriend, and I was in the middle of a divorce and had two young boys. It was a total mess.”

  My eyes go wide with surprise. “Neil had a girlfriend when you two met?”

  She nods. “Like I said, horrible, awful timing.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, you and Bram were just kids at the time, and I was trying like hell to keep you guys out of all the drama. And trust me, there was some drama. There were a hundred different reasons why Neil and I shouldn’t have been together.

  “But I felt it, Ansel. And he felt it. And now, here we are, over twenty years later. Together. Happy. Still feeling it. All I’m saying is, sometimes, it’s not black-and-white. Sometimes, things are very, very gray. And all you can do is lead with the best intentions, and then it’s up to fate to decide.”

  “This feels like horrible advice for a mother to give her son about cheating.”

  She smacks me. “I said to lead with the best of intentions. I just know…sometimes, you can’t control the rest.”

  “Why did you tell me all of this?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just felt like you needed to hear it.”

  I let her words soak in, and I stare out through the windows and up at the sky.

  I don’t know why Indy is the girl in my paintings, the girl inside my mind.

  And I sure as fuck don’t know why I’m so drawn to her, why I can never seem to stop thinking about her. Why being with her feels like my own personal slice of heaven.

  But I guess all I can do right now is what my mother said.

  Lead with the best intentions.

  Fuck, I hope I’m doing this.

  If Indy’s in a relationship with Matt, that’s her choice. I can’t rob her of the one she would have to make to be with me.

  And with the way her face crumpled at the idea of being together the other night, it doesn’t seem like she’s ready to make it.

  That’s why I kept the truth about the kiss to myself.

  “Now, if you don’t mind,” my mom says and stands up from the couch. “I’d like for you to come inside with me so we can eat some dessert, okay?”

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that one never keeps Della from her dessert.

  “Okay.” I grin without hesitation and take her outstretched hand. And as we walk into the house, I remind myself of her last piece of advice.

  Let fate decide.

  Indy

  At a little after six, I trudge up the steps inside my building, and even my bones ache with how damn tired I am. The day was a blur of crazy kids excited about Valentine’s Day and crazy adults feeling the exact opposite.

  Mary, my newly single coworker, is having a Single Girls party tonight, and at least ten percent of the female faculty is going.

  She tried to wrangle me into coming to the thing, but I reminded her—and myself a little bit—that I have a boyfriend.

  And the three music lessons I had after school proved to be just as difficult.

  From here on out, I’m going to make it a rule that I call out of work on any and all holidays that don’t result in a day off already.

  When I reach the front door of my apartment, I find a large bouquet of beautiful flowers sitting on my doorstep. Shades of reds and pinks and whites fill my eyes, and I reach down to run my index finger over the petals of the roses inside the vase. A small white note sticks out from the top, and my heart pounds wildly inside my chest as I pull it into my hand and read the printed text.

  Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.

  Sorry I couldn’t be there, but just know I’m thinking about you.

  And I hope these flowers put a smile on my pretty valentine’s face.

  Love, Matt

  The rhythm inside my chest skips a beat before returning to a rapid pace—this time, for an entirely different reason.

  Sweet, thoughtful, thousands of miles away Matt.

  The flowers were a caring gesture, but my heart hurts at the oftentimes long-distance reality of our relationship. We’ve been together for over a year, and I can count on one finger how many holidays we’ve spent together—not this past Christmas, but the previous one.

  This overwhelming feeling of disappointment overcomes me, and I hate my mind for turning something like flowers from my boyfriend into something bad.

  Why am I disappointed? Why am I feeling this enduring melancholy?

  Because your boyfriend is so far away, I force myself to think. Any other reason I could come up with—any other person I could think about—is unwarranted and inappropriate.

  I nod, convinced I have myself under control, and grab the bouquet. I carry the flowers into my apartment and set them on the kitchen island. Once my jacket is off and my keys and purse are on the counter, I grab the takeout menu from the pizzeria up the street and call in an order for delivery.

  I’m too damn tired to cook, and pizza seems like the perfect kind of meal to eat when it’s Valentine’s Day and you have no place to go and no one to see.

  After a quick wardrobe change into my favorite flannel pajamas, I send Matt a brief text thanking him for the flowers. Then I grab my laptop, flip on the television, and make myself comfortable on the couch while a rerun of The Office plays in the background.

  Not even five minutes later, my phone vibrates with a call.

  Incoming FaceTime Call Matt

  My thumb hovers over the screen before tapping accept. When I finally do, his hazel eyes and jovial smile light up the screen.

  “Hey, baby,” he greets.

  Baby.

  I rub at my cheeks and lift my mouth into a smile. “I’m surprised you’re awake.”

  He offers a little shrug, and I force myself to focus on the way the fabric of his shirt forms to his muscled shoulder as he moves—as opposed to the way he would look without it. The image is blurry and half-formed because I can’t remember the last time I saw him without a shirt. “I just wanted to make sure I got to wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day before I went to bed.”

  “That’s sweet.” I point the camera of the phone toward the bouquet of flowers in the kitchen. “Thank you for the pretty flowers.”

  “I’m glad you got them,” he answers, and I put my face back in front of the camera to meet his eyes. “Sorry I’m not there to celebrate with you, but just know I miss you like crazy, baby.”

  “That’s okay,” I respond easily. Perhaps too easily.

  I’m not sure when I got so okay with him being gone. “I doubt I would’ve been much fun today anyway. I had one hell of a long day with the kids. I ordered a pizza, and I’m settled in for the night.”

  “Pizza? That’s kind of sad, baby.”

  “Meh.” I shrug. “I think I’ll live.”

  “I would expect someone with your status to be out and about, schmoozing the town,” he says.

  I tilt my head to the side.

  “What do you mean by that?”r />
  “I hear you’ve been outed as the muse of a certain famous artist.”

  “W-what?” I stutter, and the hand holding my phone begins to shake of its own accord. Why is he bringing this up?

  I’ve told Matt exactly nothing about Ansel or the time I’ve spent with him. I haven’t told anyone.

  And the painting? Jesus. I thought the media had moved on.

  It takes everything inside me to keep my face neutral.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw Lily’s article.” Matt’s smile is nothing more than a soft crest of his lips.

  What is he talking about?

  “What article?”

  “You didn’t see her article, baby?” he asks, and his eyes crease with incredulity. “It published this morning.”

  My God. The press did die down. It’s my sister who didn’t.

  “I didn’t,” I answer truthfully. Because, yeah, honestly, I haven’t seen or heard a thing about this supposed article. “But I was pretty busy today with classes and music lessons…” I can barely get the lame excuse past my lips because the guilt that’s starting to migrate up my throat is almost too much to bear.

  The fact that I haven’t told Matt anything about the time I’ve spent with Ansel is starting to feel like a thousand tons on my shoulders. I know I should, but I can’t find the words. I don’t know what I would say or where I would begin.

  I don’t understand any of it myself.

  It’s not like you’ve cheated on Matt, I try to reassure myself. You just spent time with him. That’s it.

  “You look like you’re exhausted,” Matt says and pulls me from my scattered, racing thoughts. “I hope you’re planning on calling it an early night.”

  “Pretty sure you should be the exhausted one,” I retort, trying to make him feel that way with subliminal nudging at this point. I can’t keep my freak-out inside much longer. I need to get off the phone. “I mean, it’s what, after midnight your time?”

  “Yeah.” A yawn escapes his lips, and he grins. “And I have to get an early start to prepare for a breakfast meeting. Mind if I let you go now?”

  “Of course.”

  Thank God.

  “Well, I’m glad I got to see you today,” he says with a sweet smile. “Miss you, baby. And Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  We say our goodbyes, and when I tap end on the call, the very first thing I do is snag my laptop from the couch cushion beside me and go to the New York Press’s website.

  My sister’s article is the first thing to pop up in the arts and leisure section.

  Ansel Bray Accidentally Painted My Sister: An Exclusive Interview

  Just the fucking title of it makes my heart take a nose dive into my stomach.

  Oh. My. God. What was she thinking?

  I click the link, and my jaw goes slack when I see side-by-side pictures in the center of the article—Ansel’s painting and a picture of me that was taken for the school website last year.

  I kind of want to vomit, and I can’t even get through the whole article before I’m grabbing my phone and calling my sister.

  “Hey, buttercup,” she greets on the second ring. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Lily,” I ignore her greeting altogether. “What is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you write that Ansel Bray article?” I question, and my words come out harsh and rigid around the edges. “I mean, why was I even mentioned, Lil?”

  “I told you I was going to write a column on him,” she responds without hesitation. “You were at the interview with me. I figured you at least had an idea of what I was going to write about.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I snap. “You really think I had an idea that you were going to include me, your sister, in the article? I feel completely blindsided by this!”

  “Whoa,” Lily mutters, and surprise raises her voice. “You’re, like, insanely upset right now.”

  “Of course, I’m upset!” I shout. “You put my picture in your column and didn’t give me any sort of heads-up,” I retort and stand up from the couch to start pacing the floor of my living room. “I mean, isn’t there some kind of code of ethics where you have to ask for permission to use someone’s photo before you publish it in the newspaper?”

  “But you’re my sister,” she says like it’s some sort of excuse. “And it’s not like I said anything bad about you, Indy. I said all good things. I mean, I compared you to this amazing, gorgeous, stunning painting that people are raving about,” she continues, and it only makes me cringe more. “I’m a little confused on why you’re so mad about this… If anything, the article debunks the assumption that you’re the girl in the painting…”

  Why am I mad?

  Because…because I am!

  You’re mad because this is going to make it harder to spend time with him.

  Is that why I’m mad? Because Ansel is involved? Because I can’t seem to stop spending time with him, and this article is going to get in the way of our friendship?

  My subconscious laughs at the use of the last word, but I tell it to fuck off.

  I’m confused enough as it is without its two cents.

  “Indy?” My sister’s voice fills my ear. “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter and run a hand through my hair. “I’m just… I’m sorry I freaked out… I just… I guess I was just a little surprised.”

  “It’s okay.” Lily lets out a deep exhale. “And I’m sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up. When I think about it, and hear your side of things, I guess I can understand why it might have upset you a little.”

  “It’s fine, Lil.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks with concern.

  “I’m fine. Promise.”

  It’s a blatant lie, but I just can’t find the strength to pull her into my muddled web of feelings.

  “We good, then?”

  “Yeah.” I nod even though she can’t see me. “We’re good.”

  “You’re not going to come over here and strangle me in my sleep or anything, right?” she jokes, and my laugh almost seems natural.

  Ansel

  “The buyer still wants to remain anonymous,” Nigel responds, and I roll my eyes. “But they’ve increased the offer.”

  This is the third call I’ve received today about selling one of my paintings from the show in his gallery, and I was done with the conversation before the first call came through.

  “I don’t really give a shit, Nigel.”

  The first offer was $200,000.

  The second offer was $250,000.

  The third offer? Who fucking cares.

  His soft chuckles fill my ears. “You don’t even want to hear the offer?”

  “I’ll listen to the offer when this mysterious buyer tells me who they are.”

  I’m not a fan of this smoke-and-mirrors approach. And, if I’m being honest, I’ll probably never sell the painting he’s after.

  Fuck if I’m going to let some pretentious art collector store a painting I consider priceless in some secret art room where only wealthy friends and fellow investors can stare at it.

  I’d rather cut off my dick than do that.

  “I liked you a lot better when you were poor and desperate for money.” Nigel laughs again. “But I’ll let them know.”

  “I liked you better when we were younger too.”

  Nye mutters a selection of choice words, and a few moments later, we end the call.

  Fifteen years ago, when I first jumped into the art scene, I was desperate. Desperate to make a name for myself and to make a living off my art.

  My first big paycheck was for $1500, and you would’ve thought I’d won the goddamn lottery back then.

  Obviously, times have changed. And as my success has grown and my bank account has thrived and my paintings have flourished in popularity and value, I’ve turned protective of my work.

  Money only gets you so
far in life.

  Sure, it can provide stability and allow you the comforts and luxuries that most could only dream of. But it can never replace the fact that a good life is one lived with meaning. A life lived with passion. A life lived with love and adoration and human connection.

  I’ve had the success.

  I’ve had the emotionless fucks and one-night stands that come from the popularity.

  I currently have the money.

  And none of those are the things that bring me true joy.

  It’s important people. True connection. Beauty and agony and cherishing the health in my body.

  Without thought, I pick up my phone and type out a message to Indy. It’s only been a few days since I last saw her, but after avoiding contacting her at all yesterday—Valentine’s Day—out of some pseudo-respect for her relationship, I’m jonesing for another fix.

  Me: Something has been bothering me, and I want to fix it.

  Indy: That’s cryptic…

  Me: When are you done for the day?

  Indy: 2:30ish, why?

  I glance at the clock and see it’s already nearing one.

  Perfect.

  Me: I’ll meet you at your school at 2:30.

  Indy: Um…do I even get a say in this?

  Me: Do you want a say in this?

  Indy: Bring fresh coffee, and you have a deal.

  My responding smile could probably light up my whole fucking studio.

  Me: I’ll see you at 2:30.

  It doesn’t take long before I’m shutting off the lights of my studio and walking into Luce’s office to let her know I’m leaving for the day.

  “It’s, like, one,” she says and raises an eyebrow in my direction. “I mean, I know it’s Friday, but you never leave this early…”

  “Well, today, I am.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” She searches my face. “You don’t look like yourself.”

  “What do you mean? I feel fine.”