by Sarah Smith
But this time is different—it’s personal in the worst possible way.
So personal is what I go with.
Wes, watercolor
Wes, black and white
The truth and nothing more.
I grab two large envelopes from my stash and shove the drawings inside of them. Judging by how quickly my other work has been selling, these two will go quickly. But I don’t want to accidentally catch glimpses of them in the meantime.
I stack the envelopes in an empty box and sit at my desk once more. With my heartbeat and breath finally steady, I pick up a pencil and my new pad. Just the graphite tip hitting paper focuses my mind. The texture, the soft sound, the blank space filling with lines. Such a simple movement, but it gives me so much. It centers me and cleanses me all at once.
And right now, at this moment, I need that more than anything.
If I had Mari Dash’s phone number, I’d call her so I could tell her thank you over and over. Because of her, I’m spending twelve hours a day painting, sketching, filling orders, mailing orders, designing and selling prints, taking on more commissions than I ever thought I would—and I couldn’t be happier.
Every day since she posted my painting on her Instagram account two months ago, my phone has been dinging nonstop with alerts. It sounds every time someone on Twitter or Instagram tags me in a photo with whatever art piece of mine they’ve just purchased. Other famous influencers that are connected with Mari online have been buying my work and posting photos online, which has cascaded into even more sales.
I move from the cross-legged sitting position on the floor and sprawl flat on my back to stretch. I should go for a run or do some yoga on the floor right now, but I’m not even close to interested. I scan the floor, smiling at the pile of cardboard boxes and packing materials that surround me. Around my make-shift studio space lies a dozen canvases swathed in paint or charcoal, drying before I pack them up and mail them.
I’ve been up since six this morning; it’s currently just past noon, and this is the first break I’ve taken. I’m sore, exhausted, sleep-deprived, and deliriously happy. Because finally, my dream is coming true. I’m a full-time artist who can pay my bills with just the income from my artwork.
My phone blaring yanks me out of my bliss bubble. I crawl to my phone, which sits on my desk chair and answer.
“Hi, is this Shay Alexander?” A female voice says.
“Yes, this is Shay. Who’s calling?” I reach for the glass of water on my desk to sip while answering the call.
“This is Mari Dash.”
I promptly spit up the water I was sipping, then spend a good thirty seconds hacking up one of my lungs.
“Are you okay?” Mari asks in her trademark sing-song voice.
Automatically I nod, but then remember she can’t see me. I clear my throat. “Y-yeah. Sorry…uh, down the wrong pipe.”
“Oh, I hate when that happens.” She chuckles. “So! I know this is last minute, but I figured that Bend is only a few hours from Portland and it never hurts to ask. Are you free this Saturday night? I’m performing at Portis, this new club on Glisan Street, and I want you to come.”
This time when I choke, it’s on the air I’m swallowing. It’s a struggle just to process the words coming from her mouth. Mari Dash is personally inviting me to her concert? How the hell did she even get my phone number?
Another few seconds of coughing commences until I’m able to speak again. When I do, it’s to ask her the second question I’m wondering.
“Your website.” She laughs. And then I remember that I listed my phone number on it when I first designed it—it’s just that most people these days would prefer to interact online instead of calling.
Except for Mari, apparently.
“You’re such an inspiring artist—your artwork inspired me to change the entire aesthetic of my home decor. And I would love to meet you in person.”
I bite my bottom lip as I struggle to process the fact that Mari Dash wants to meet me.
“Please say you’re free! I want you to sign the prints of yours I just ordered too!”
I take a breath, heart racing, my own smile threatening to split my face in half. “I’d love to.”
Chapter Eleven
Standing at the far edge of the stage at the Portis venue, I do another slow scan of the scene around me. I can see everything perfectly from here. I can see Mari as she grooves from behind her turntable, jumping up and down to the thudding beat of her EDM song. I can see the crowd as they jump in unison with her. I can see the light tech all the way at the top balcony on the opposite side of the venue. The exposed brick walls and industrial ceiling beams give the venue a stripped-down look that’s perfect for this kind of concert. As people sing and dance along to her music, it’s clear they don’t care about anything other than being in Mari’s presence.
Even though it’s a chilly and rainy Saturday evening in Portland, it’s all heat in here. The sheer number of bodies combined with the near-constant jumping has upped the temperature inside the venue to at least twenty degrees warmer than outside.
But even as sweat beads across my skin, I can’t help but smile and sway along to the beat. This night has been a life highlight for me. As soon as I arrived at Portis and gave my name to the security guy standing in front of the door, I was ushered inside and down a long hallway to a closed door at the end. When the door opened, there was Mari Dash, standing in a glittery white bodysuit and black leather stiletto boots that ran all the way to the middle of her thighs. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a loose chignon. Even though she was standing right in front of me, she looked too perfect to be human.
I suddenly felt unglamorous in the flowy top, dark skinny leggings, and boots I was sporting.
But before I could stutter a “hello,” she pulled me into a hug.
“You’re here! Finally!”
She popped a bottle of champagne before shooing the security guy away and shutting the door to her dressing room. She poured two glasses, handed me one, then gestured for me to take a seat on one end of the plush couch.
“So!” She plopped on the other end. “How do you feel about signing some swag for me?” She pointed to a stack of portrait-sized prints on her vanity. “I’m giving them as gifts for people for Christmas. Can you believe it’s almost December? This year is just flying by.”
Speechless, I nodded. Sitting on Mari’s vanity was three months’ worth of income for me.
She leaned over, patting my hand with hers. “I’m a huge fan of yours. Something about your artwork speaks to me. I grew up in a small town in the mountains of Montana, surrounded by the kind of scenes you paint. When I read your bio on your website, about how you were the only mixed-race Filipino kid and how people gave you a hard time about it, it hit home.”
Her eyes fell to her lap. Even though she didn’t say anything, I knew she was thinking back to a time in her past when someone made fun of her for what she looked like—for being different from everyone around her. Just like me.
She cleared her throat, a sad smile playing on her lips. “It’s cool to see another half-Filipino kid from the mountains kicking ass. I just want to support that.”
Her words immediately eased the wave of nerves hitting my stomach. Mari Dash may be a celebrity DJ, but she also comes from the same background as me and struggled with the same issues. I was definitely still starstruck by her, but it was easier to see how human and relatable she was.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said. “It means everything. And it means even more to know that you want to support me.”
A thunderous beat drop shakes my whole body, pulling me back to the present. I look up and see Mari wink at me as she dances to the frenzied beat of this new song.
“Shay?” A voice calls from behind me.
I spin around and see Colin standing several feet away, eye wide, smiling.
“Holy shit, it is you!” He walks over to me and pulls me into a hug.
&n
bsp; When we break apart, he shakes his head, still beaming.
“Colin! What are you doing here?”
He glances over at Mari. “I’m a huge fan.” His eyes practically dazzle as he stares at her. “My company opened an office in Portland and we renovated this building before they sold it to the concert venue. They gave us free backstage tickets as a thank you for all the work we did. How did you get back here?”
I explain how Mari bought one of my paintings, Instagrammed a photo of it, and how that kicked my art business into fifth gear. He offers a heartfelt congratulations.
“Damn, I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair short now. Looks nice.”
I run a finger along the ends, my face heating when I recall how I decided to chop off most of my hair in a post-breakup stupor.
“I just…needed a change,” I say, my eyes falling to the ground. When I look back up at Colin, I notice he’s gotten a haircut too. “No more shaggy hair?”
“Gotta look more professional now that I’m taking more client meetings at work. I used to get away with looking as shaggy as Bigfoot. That’s what Wes used to say—”
Just the mention of his name sends a lightning bolt to my chest. I try to swallow.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Shay.” He squints with embarrassment. “I wasn’t even thinking—”
“It’s okay. He’s your friend. You can talk about him.”
Colin shakes his head before tugging on the white button-down he’s wearing. “He hasn’t been much of one ever since he took off.”
I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to ask every question that’s been swirling inside of me since the day Wes walked out my door.
Where is he? Does he talk about me? Does he miss me half as much as I miss him? Is he with someone new?
Judging by the pained glance Colin gives me, he can tell exactly what I’m aching to ask.
“I don’t know what got into him, Shay. Honestly.”
“I don’t expect anyone other than him to justify his actions.”
He runs a hand through his cropped sandy brown waves. “I just don’t know what happened to make him bolt like that.”
I contemplate staying silent but talk myself out of it. Colin is Wes’s best friend. He deserves to know what happened with him.
I give him a quick summary of how meeting my entire family spooked Wes into a breakup. When I finish, I take a breath, thankful that I didn’t get emotional. I haven’t spoken about that day in August since sobbing about it to Remy all those months ago.
Colin’s response is a wide-eyed stare. “Damn. It all makes sense now.”
My chest crushes into itself at what he says. But then he reins in his expression and pats my arm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It doesn’t excuse how he left. You were the best thing that ever happened to him. He told me so.”
My heart leaps from my chest to my throat. The need to hear what other lovely things Wes said about me is instinctual. But then I remember where I am.
I’m nearly four months past our breakup. Reminiscing about the good old days won’t do me any good. It will just drive the knife in my heart deeper.
I shove aside every urge to ask and shake my head when he tries to speak again.
“None of that matters anymore,” I say. “Can you just tell me one thing?”
Colin’s face twists in hesitation, but he nods anyway.
“Is he okay? Like, I know he’s not my business anymore, but…if you’ve heard from him, it would just be nice to know that he’s, you know…not dead.”
I hate how meek and pathetic my shaky voice sounds, but it’s the best I can do while battling this wave of nostalgia and emotion.
Colin sighs. “I’ve spoken to him on the phone. He’s doing fine.”
Relief courses through me. Wes may have hurt me, but I still care about him as a human being. I still want him to be okay.
“Good.” When I say it, I truly mean it. But this one thought, this one mention of Wes is all I’ll allow myself. I need to keep focusing on moving forward, on continuing to be the driven, career-focused person I’m working so hard to be.
Colin and I turn back to watch Mari work her magic on her turntable, her hands moving in a graceful symphony.
“Damn, she’s something,” Colin says. “The way she moves, the kind of music she’s making, the way she works a crowd…it’s incredible.”
I pivot to him, noticing something extra in his gaze. He’s not looking at her in awe like the rest of the concert-goers. His stare is of pure admiration. And I recognize it immediately—it’s the same way Wes used to look at me.
Colin is more than just a hardcore fanboy of Mari. Something about Mari Dash sets him off in the best way.
An idea pops in my head. “How would you like me to put in a good word for you to Mari?”
Colin’s eyes light up as he seems to understand exactly what I’m saying. Pink colors his cheeks, and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers in an adorably bashful move.
“I don’t know if I’m her type. She’s a celebrity. I’m just a guy who rehabs crumbling buildings.”
I smile at him. “She appreciates a down-to-earth mentality more than you’d think. How about I give her your number?”
A wide grin splits his face. “Seriously?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Chapter Twelve
I hunch over on my knees on the floor of my apartment, laying out a handful of paintings so they can dry. A loud knock at my door jerks me into a sitting-up position.
“Shay! You in there?” Remy booms.
I stand up and answer the door. He stands, takeout bag in hand. “You didn’t answer my text, so surprise lunch delivery it is.”
“Sorry, I’ve been slammed. I haven’t had a chance to look at my phone all day.”
We side-step around random piles of boxes and paintings until we’re at my couch, and plop down.
Remy crinkles his nose. “Have you had a chance to take an honest look at your apartment at all?”
I shove his shoulder, then swipe the food container from his hand. The sweet and savory smell of pad thai hits my nose. My stomach grumbles.
Remy stands up and walks the few feet to the kitchen for two glasses of water. “Damn. I can hear that all the way up here. Have you eaten at all since I saw you last week?”
“Of course I’ve been eating.” I rip open a pair of chopsticks and dig into the noodles. “Just not regularly.”
Ever since Mari’s concert, I’ve been busier than before. She took a photo of me signing my artwork in her dressing room, then we took a selfie together after her concert. When she posted those photos on her social media accounts, my orders flew through the roof once more. I spent all of December and January working twelve-hour days to keep up with the orders, only taking Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve off to visit my family for a few hours.
“You’re looking a bit scrawny these days.” Remy settles back next to me and places the glasses on my coffee table.
I roll my eyes while chewing.
“I’m serious,” Remy says, digging into his own noodles. “Look, there’s no one who’s more excited than me about your business taking off. But you can’t neglect yourself. Remember what happened last time?”
I direct my dagger-stare from Remy to my pad thai. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. You and I both know that post-breakup Shay is not the Shay we want.”
Dropping my container on the coffee table, I reach for a glass and down some water, hoping my silence conveys that I don’t want to talk about my sorry post-breakup state, especially when I feel so good about where I’m at now.
Remy leans over, taking a whiff of my hair. “You smell like coconut and verbena, not BO, so at least you’re bathing regularly again.”
I elbow his arm, but all he does is chuckle.
“How are things at Dandy Lime?” I ask.
He takes my cue to move on. “Busy. We miss you w
orking there, but seeing you live out your dreams makes me all sorts of happy.”
The knot inside of me eases at Remy’s kind words. “I’m sorry I haven’t worked a shift lately, but I had to devote all my time to this.”
Remy nods and we finish our last few bites. He collects our empty containers and tosses them in the trash, then stands in front of me, hands on his hips.
I frown up at him. “What?”
“We both know what day is coming up.”
I say nothing, choosing to ignore that in a few days it will be Valentine’s Day—the day that I met Wes almost a year ago.
Remy sighs, his expression turning tender. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting down about it.”
“I’m not. I’m fine.”
It’s a half-lie. When I’m distracted with work, I do feel fine. But when I think about how happy I was a year ago—and how it all came crashing down—I can’t help but feel sad.
“I get what you’re doing,” Remy says. “You’re distracting yourself with work. But you have to be more than just a workaholic, Shay. Work-life balance is important. You’ll drive yourself into the ground if you’re not careful.”
I open my mouth to object, but I come up with nothing. He’s right.
“You should go out more, run errands, have a drink at your handsome cousin’s bar, flirt—”
“Really, Remy? Flirt?”
A soft smile tugs at Remy’s lips and he pats my leg. “Yes, even flirting.”
I bite back a groan, but the annoyed sound still seeps out. “If I promise to get out of the apartment, will you stop giving me unsolicited life advice?”
“I make no guarantees, but I’ll do my best.”
I laugh. “Fine.”
When I pop into the bookstore down the street from Remy’s bar, I’m greeted with an instrumental rendition of an old Michael Bolton hit. I chuckle as I slowly trot through the stacks, stopping whenever I see a book that catches my eye.
It’s strange being out in the middle of the day like this when I’ve got a mountain of projects to finish, but I promised Remy I’d get out for a least a little while today.