Every Time

by Lexy Timms

  “Mmm, what an image,” I said.

  “Down boy. I still need to talk to Anna about it. When were we thinking?” she asked. “This weekend?” “I could do this weekend. Saturday night?” “Aren’t you doing your art therapy classes Saturday night since the showcase was such a hit?” I asked. “I’ve only begun to advertise them. I still need to get people to sign up before I declare a start date,” she said. “Then this Saturday it is.” “I’ll give Anna a call and see what she’s doing, though I have a feeling she’ll be free, even if she has to call out of work.” “Then I’m looking forward to our fun little evening,” I said. “Me too,” she said. And had I not known any better, I could’ve sworn I heard a smile in Hailey’s voice. “You know I love you, right?” I asked. “And there’s nothing that could ever change that?” A silence fell on the conversation, and for a second, I thought she’d hung up the phone. “I know,” she said lightly. “And I love you too. No matter what.” Though for whatever reason, I didn’t feel like my stating that was going to change anything. “I’ll let you know what Anna says,” Hailey said. “I’ll be awaiting your phone call. I love you, Hailey.” “Love you, too, Bryan.”

  Chapter 8

  Hailey

  I placed a call to Anna immediately after I hung up with Bryan, but I couldn’t get the sound of his voice out of my head. He knew something was up. I was sure of it. Even while Anna screamed in my ear and kept telling me she was more than free Saturday night, my mind was elsewhere. Bryan’s voice had been so full of life and happiness when he had first picked up the phone, and the moment his love for me was declared, it felt as if his entire emotional state had fallen. The very idea of destroying his happiness with my illness rocked my world, and I had to sit down on the chair behind my register while Anna continued to rattle on in my ear. She kept asking me what she should wear and making suggestions for food. She kept throwing out times that would be good for her, but I was only half-present for the conversation. We set a time for seven in the evening for this Saturday, and then I shot a text message to Bryan about the confirmed time. I knew I told him I’d call him back, but I wasn’t willing to listen to his emotional shifts every time something about me was brought up. Just as I hung up the phone with my sister, a familiar face walked into the gallery. I had a headache that was steadily growing, but I tried my best not to focus on it. Ramon, with his steely gray eyes and his tanned skin that seemed even darker than when we’d met at the gallery, came strutting up to me with his hand in his suit pocket. His hair was impeccably swooped back, shining with a light placement of gel while his goatee still boasted of a salt and pepper color. He’d shaved his beard off, revealing the sharp jawline underneath, and I greeted him with a smile as he approached my register. “And here the beautiful cyan angel sits,” he said. “Mr. Escalante. The pleasure’s all mine. What brings you around here?” “Please, call me Ramon.” The way he rolled his ‘R’ garnered my attention in a very weary sort of way. “You look a little downtrodden. What can a man do to pull that luxurious smile you have across your cheeks?” he asked. “I’m just a bit tired is all. The showcase you attended has drawn more attention than I was prepared for,” I said. “Attention is only for those who deserve it, and you, my dear, most certainly do.” He was a flirter, that was for sure. But I was getting used to men in the artistic community coming in here and trying to charm their way into my world. Max had attempted to do it as well as a couple of reporters, so I was getting very good at standing my immovable ground. “That gallery exhibition was astounding,” he said. “Where in the world did you find such a talented artist?” “On the street selling his artwork for ten bucks,” I said. “Such breathtaking and heart-wrenching talent. Are any of the artist’s pieces still around?” he asked. “That entire wall over there is lined with them,” I said. “They’re the ones from the exhibition that didn’t sell for various reasons.” I saw him nod as he strode over to look at them. In truth, they were paintings I had actually refused to sell. The fox painting was on the wall, a constant reminder of the fact that John’s presence was still with us, even now. The inverse paintings from the LAB Gallery were back in their rightful place, and there were abstract pictures with geometric patterns that were very reminiscent of

  the things Bryan sketched. I had a feeling John was thinking about his brother when he was painting and planning those canvases, and I just didn’t have the heart to sell them.

  It’s why I was loaning out all his paintings to other places in San Diego.

  “Are they for sale?” Ramon asked.

  “No, sir. They are not.”

  “But you said they did not sell. I do not understand why. The brushstrokes and the emotion. The way these geometric patterns seem to stand out like a three-dimensional structure. This pair of inverse paintings is incredible. I’d be willing to offer you one million for the lot of them.”

  “They aren’t for sale,” I said.

  “You’re right. Much too paltry a price. One and a half.”

  “No.”

  “Two million,” he said.

  “I believe you have not heard me,” I said. “Those paintings are not for sale.”

  “Miss Ryan, this artwork should be shared with the world. I know so many people who would pay egregious amounts of money to own an original piece of modern work such as these. Two and a half million dollars for the lot of them.”

  “And just like I said a few seconds before, they are not for sale.”

  Finally, I saw the man relent. His back relaxed and he shook his head, conceding defeat while people began to trickle in off the street. My headache was now pounding my vision, no doubt from the stress this man had just blown into my world, and instantly, I wanted him out of here.

  I wanted all of them out of here.

  He continued to walk around the room, looking at other paintings on the wall. He stopped to admire a few of mine before his eyes bounced around to other artists I featured. His shoes clopped along the tile floor of the gallery, and I could see people eyeing him closely while they took in the artwork along the walls. In a place like San Diego, Ramon stood out. He wore his wealth on his body, making sure people understood how much money he had at his disposal. People like that only thought they understood art, and if I was going to sell John’s paintings to anyone, it would be someone who truly understood and appreciated them. But then he surprised me with the question he eventually asked. “This artist. Who is it?” he asked. “A woman who paints out of her home. She’s a hit around here too.” “Very reminiscent of Michelangelo, don’t you think?” he asked. “How so?” “Well, all the brushstrokes are so thin even in the background where large brushstrokes are usually used to paint in the canvas faster. The artist has used various small, wispy strokes throughout the entire thing. It’s almost like they wanted to conceal the fact that it was painted.” I stared at him with unwavering eyes as he tilted his head. “Is the artist working on photorealism?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, nodding. “She’s trying to dabble in it.” “She’s got a keen eye for detail. I mean, look at the expressions on these children’s faces. Michelangelo was an expert at painting facial expressions for his time, but even his got muddled. Every single expression can be read on these faces. Almost like she used a—” “Hairpin brush,” we said together. In an instant, I suddenly couldn’t take my eyes off him. “You know how I knew this wasn’t yours?” he asked. “How?” “Because it portrays real life. Your paintings don’t do that. You portray real emotions.” “You just said that the emotions of the people in this painting were

  “For detail’s sake, yes. Not for emotion’s sake. The point of this photo was to portray a scenario the artist probably came across, a scenario that was imprinted on her mind. It tells more about the artist and what she deems important more than it tells about her emotional disposition and how the artist is feeling. Your artwork is a mirror into your soul, whereas this picture is a mirror into a mind.”

  I was blown away by the fact that someone was able to nail
that down about my paintings.

  “Have you ever thought about spending time in Europe?” he asked.

  “What?” I asked breathlessly

  “Europe. You know, London. Paris. Germany. Have you ever considered it?’

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s a shame. Artwork that peers into the soul of an artist is devoured there. You could garner quite the international following. I’ve got numerous contacts if you would like to set up a traveling exhibition.”

  “A traveling exhibition. Throughout Europe.”

  “Oh, yes. It would make you a very hot commodity.”

  The way his eyes raked over my body prompted me to swallow my tongue.

  “And it would raise the value of your art by thousands.”

  “You would just help me put together a traveling exhibition,” I said.

  “I help artists who have true, unadulterated talent. Part of that is gauged by the quality of their work, but the other part of that is them being able to communicate that talent to their community. You have this rare ability to do both, Hailey. Most artists you revere isolated their communities by the thousands of people during their lifetime. It wasn’t until most of them died that their artwork became consumable by the masses. A traveling exhibition would set you up to be one of the most

  prized artists in this generation, and whenever you pass, your artwork would hang on people’s walls for millions. Your legacy would be cemented.” I couldn’t help but think about the cancer growing within me. How it would consume me and kill me off, which would oddly enough render my art more valuable than ever. No one gave a shit about my art right now. They’d pay decent sums of money for them, but it wouldn’t be until I could no longer flood the market with my artwork that people would suddenly want to pay for it. They didn’t want to make my life comfortable now. They only wanted to talk about my struggles while showing off my artwork to clueless billionaires as I rolled over in my grave. “Well, I can’t honestly say I’m interested in something like that at the moment,” I said. “Oh, Hailey. I would really rethink that decision if I were you,” he said. “I have, and I still decline.” “Every contact I have would be at your disposal. I would work tirelessly to make sure you had everything you could ever want.” “At this present moment, I have everything I could ever want,” I said. Though I wouldn’t once I told Bryan about how I was dying. Maybe I could do the traveling exhibition thing then. Maybe once I broke the news to Bryan and he left me again, I could call up Ramon and whisk myself away to Europe, sell my paintings, live lavishly, and then die with the Italian sunset against my face. “I can see the look of adventure in your eye, Hailey. Please, contact me if you change your mind. An adventurous and independent soul like yours deserves to travel the world doing what she loves. The beauty this world has to offer would be lucky to view yours.” “You’re very kind, Ramon,” I said, grinning. “I have your contact information, and I will keep your proposal in mind.” “Would you still allow me to purchase some paintings?” he asked.

  “As long as they don’t line that wall over there, help yourself.” He still made an extravagant offer on my paintings. He took four of my own as well as two of the woman’s whose artwork I was still featuring. He wrote me a check for two hundred thousand dollars and slid it my way, not giving me a chance to protest before he turned his back and headed for the door. “You are drastically underselling your talent, Hailey. I’ll have someone come by to pick up the paintings.” And with that, he was gone. In any other world, I would’ve gawked at the check. I would’ve cashed it right then and there before calling Bryan and telling him the good news. I would’ve closed the gallery early and treated him to a wonderful evening out, paying him back for all the times he treated me to lavish evenings and romantic gifts. But all I did was open my register and slide it in with the rest of the checks. I walked around the gallery and took the artwork he’d purchased off the walls. I slid them all behind the counter before I went back out to the storage shed. Then I pulled out some new paintings to hang up. If there was one thing I hated, it was blank space in a gallery. It was why I kept painting and trying to feature local artists. Blank spaces screamed of failure, in my opinion, and as I hoisted the paintings onto the wall, I could feel my breath coming in short pants. I was weakening, and my body was alerting me to it. As I stood back and looked at the paintings, trying to level them while people came and went, I wondered if I could help Bryan with money. I mean, I guessed he was doing all right for himself, but his sketches and designs were outstanding. I could get him some canvases, and he could sketch and blend. Then I could hang them here and see if they would sell. Maybe I could gather enough artists from the community to keep this gallery stocked with their art, selling it right out of the shop I’d built. It’d be the perfect legacy, using this space as a community gallery

  for artists wanting to sell their artwork. Bryan could hang his and con

  tinue loaning out John’s paintings. The woman from her home could

  run the register and hang up her artwork. Drew could pepper the walls

  with his tattoos to push some business his way, and my art therapy class

  es could continue even as I was turning cold in the ground. It was worth a shot.

  It’s not like I had anything to lose anyway.

  Chapter 9

  Bryan

  I finally got to ordering the electronic system I was going to use for this business to automate all this fucking paperwork. I could set up a system that could hook up each of the main offices on our work sites and filter them into a system on my computer. The foremen could enter the necessary information at the end of their day into the computer system, which meant I didn’t have to carry paperwork around with me to sites. Whenever I stepped foot on a site, I could spend my time working and making sure they had everything they needed instead of jotting down shit on paper that was flying everywhere. It would put more work on the foremen’s shoulders, which meant raises would have to be instilled, but it would make things a lot easier for me since I was now a one-man show.

  I finished ordering the system as a light knock came at my door.

  “Come on in,” I said.

  I looked up and saw a beautiful woman coming into my office. She was elegant and graceful like she was hovering on air instead of walking in the heels she wore. She was obviously wealthy and woefully delicate, with slender fingers and wispy hair that couldn’t be pinned back with the multiple bobby pins she was using. Her body was slim and her stature tall. Her hips sashayed lightly as she walked toward the chair that faced my desk, her eyes connecting with mine as she sat down on the cushions.