Train Wreck

by T Gephart

  “Baby, it’s been over three weeks.” The concern in my mother’s voice unmistakable.

  “I needed to prove to myself that I could sort out my own mess. I didn’t want either of you to feel you had to fix me, or to fix the situation.”

  “Eve, you know we’d do anything for you, sweetheart.” My mom gently stroked my hair. It was something she used to do when I was younger and having a crisis. When I fell and grazed my knees, had my first heartbreak, when I’d underperformed in my first year of Yale. “You’re stubborn just like your father, so we gave you your space. But you don’t have to do everything by yourself.”

  God, I loved them. They were such wonderful people and I wanted to make them proud. Because despite the money, and the privilege, I had been raised with a lot of love.

  “You have done so much for me already.” It was hard not to get emotional. “But I have learned so much about myself in the past few weeks. I used to think I was brave, independent and strong, but I’ve been playing it safe this whole time. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Sweetheart, you have been strong. Doing what you do takes a lot of guts, putting yourself out there.” My mom was the eternal optimist. No matter how badly one of us screwed up, she would always see the glass half full.

  “I know you think that, and I love you for it.” I guess this is why I had avoided them for so long, having to confront them and admit I hadn’t done my best. “But I’ve been skating through for too long. I have some ideas, and I am going to do better.”

  My dad handed me a glass of wine he’d poured and then sat down on the big armchair opposite. It didn’t matter it was early in the day, he had rightly guessed the conversation would be easier with a drink. He’d also poured himself one so I wouldn’t feel lonely. “So what did you have in mind?”

  My dad, while affectionate, was less emotional than my mother. He’d had to be, his success in business demanded he make decisions with facts and figures and not with his heart.

  “I’m not going back to work at the gallery,” I said cautiously, not having told them about my recent resignation. “Or any other gallery either.”

  “Good.” My father casually took a sip of his wine. “Rob Ashton is a slimy prick, I couldn’t stand shaking the bastard’s hand.”

  “What?” I almost spat out my wine, my mother not blinking an eye to my dad’s apparent strong feelings toward my ex-boss. I mean, he was a slimy prick, but my dad had never said anything.

  “Eve, we were polite to him while you worked there. But make no mistake, we never liked him.” This time, from my mother.

  It was like I was in the twilight zone.

  “You both hated him, but you told me nothing?” I looked at them blankly, like maybe I hadn’t heard them right. “You both seemed so excited when I got a job there.”

  “What were we supposed to tell you?” my dad weighed in. “Not to do it? You were so determined to do it your way, to show everyone what you were made of. I’d have preferred you not to work at all, if he had been the only choice. But I promised your mom I wouldn’t interfere. And I didn’t.” He nodded to her, looking for recognition that he had done well in keeping his mouth shut.

  My mother shook her head, mildly amused. “You really are stubborn like your father.”

  “I prefer the term driven.”

  “Wait!” I held up my hands, still reeling from the revelation. “What else haven’t you told me?”

  “I just don’t understand, Eve.” He seemed frustrated, like maybe he’d wanted to ask me in the past but hadn’t. Probably my mom’s doing. “Why you put yourself through it.”

  “Because I love it, Dad.” I took a deep breath, ready to defend my choices even though neither of them had ever challenged me before. It was a new era in the Thorton household. “The art—”

  “No, I get that.” He cut me off, waving his glass in the air. “You have a talent, you’re good at it. Lord knows we had enough trouble keeping your original works off the walls when you were younger.” He chuckled, the warmth in his voice wrapping me up like a blanket. “But you have a trust fund, why the hell would you waste your time and your talent working for someone else?”

  “Dad, I’ve told you. I’m not going to buy my way in.” Like I hadn’t enough of a hard time with the socialite tag, I wasn’t going to add more fuel to the fire by perpetuating the stereotype. “I wanted to be respected.”

  “You earn respect by doing good work, Eve,” my dad snapped. “Not by pulling out your wallet. You do good work and no one cares how you got there.” He put down his glass of wine and leaned forward in his chair. “Your problem was you focused too much on what other people thought. Why the hell would you apologize for an advantage?”

  “It just feels like cheating,” I conceded, desperately wanting to prove I could do it without my last name or my dad’s name.

  “So do you feel guilty about walking because you have two good legs and someone else doesn’t?”

  “Well, no.” I laughed at his ridiculous comparison. “But that is different.”

  “No, it is the same,” he dismissed with a headshake. “Money might open doors but that’s all it will do. What you do with them once they’re open is what counts. You going to walk through the doorway? Or worry about what someone said about your hand on the handle?”

  He was right.

  Money could get me where I needed to be but it wouldn’t keep me there. Only my talent could do that. And why wouldn’t I use everything in my arsenal to succeed. It would be like limiting myself to only the primitive tools because, well, that’s all Da Vinci had.

  “I’m going to walk through the doorway.”

  I was done tying one hand behind my back.

  I was done being afraid.

  I was done making excuses.

  My dad gave me a smile of pride that made my heart want to burst. “Now, that’s my girl.”

  I didn’t need a gallery—Lenore West, or any other substitute. Fuck them and their bullshit rules, regulations and their invite-only policies.

  All I had to do was pull out my checkbook and DIY. Because while the gallery had sponsored my first exhibit, this one would be completely bankrolled by myself.

  Everything from renting the space to how the pieces would be mounted. Time, place, location, theme—every tiny detail would be mine to decide, and if I once again went down in flames, I would know I had absolutely given it my all.

  With an old legal pad and pen, I sat on the floor and brainstormed ideas. Lists were created of possible venues, timelines, supplies—contacts I’d made while working at the gallery, were now being put to good use. My time there hadn’t been a total waste it seemed.

  Like a mad scientist I worked through the rest of the day. Despite my assurances I was okay and not wanting to stop for meals, my parents brought in food and drinks. So I didn’t die from malnourishment or dehydration or collapse from low blood sugar, my mom had insisted.

  “How are we doing?” My dad came in late, my mom already in bed hours ago, in his hand a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  “Good.” I happily accepted the glass of red he’d just poured, the caffeine wearing off hours ago. Step aside coffee; this is a job for wine. “Almost every gallery in the city is available for the right price, but I’ve decided to be more unconventional.”

  “Sounds interesting, like a warehouse?” my dad asked, taking a sip from his glass as he looked over my notes.

  “Nah, too cliché. Fashion houses do that all the time. I was thinking a hotel.” I grabbed my phone and showed my dad a listing for an old hotel that was being sold. It was in Queens—ironically not too far from where Josh lived—and while the structure was rock solid, the interior was seriously decaying. Walls needed painting, fixtures replacing and it looked more like a haunted house than a place you would want to spend the night.

  “Baby, you know I always think property is a worthy investment, but this would take months to renovate. Is this something you are willing to wait th
at long for?”

  “I would wait if I had to, but I don’t.” I smiled, excited to share my ideas with him. “My pieces read more like dreams, memories.” I flipped onto the photo reel on my phone and showed him one of my pictures. “I thought it would be cool to display them in a place that had a story of its own. The dilapidated walls, the wonky fixtures, the scuffed floors, it makes you feel like you are actually in the dream. And even though the pieces are connected by a common thread; each one should be viewed on its own. People can go up and down the stairs, and depending on what order they see what in, they build their own story in their head. Each person will have their own unique experience.”

  “That’s brilliant, Eve.” His hand landed on my shoulder with a big smile spreading across his lips. “I’m really proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” While I loved the admiration, for the first time in possibly my life, I wasn’t doing it for that. “I was able to speak to the agent—amazing how they’ll take your call even though it’s a Saturday when you tell them you are interested in buying—but it looks like the soonest I could get my hands on it is ninety days. She’s going to talk to the seller and see if they can make an exception so I can get it in thirty.”

  “So, not to be a downer but you know I have to play devil’s advocate here. What are going to do with the real estate once you’re done?”

  My dad was typically cautious, and I knew he would be concerned about the investment possibilities. A hotel wasn’t something you could easily flip for a profit. Not in the real world, anyway.

  “I thought about that too.” I twisted my body around to face him. “I want to set it up as a venue. There can be a bar in the basement, and we can run exhibits at night. Have more of a club feel to it rather than a gallery. It would not only give exposure to more urban unconventional artists, but hopefully get more people excited and interested in art.”

  My excitement spiked as I flipped over the pages on the legal pad, showing him my rough sketches.

  “I want one of the upper floors for consignment pieces. We can rotate work in and out to give as many local artists a chance, and the other three floors can be used for exhibition space. It doesn’t only have to be static art either, we can have dance recitals, plays, spoken word nights. It will be a way to keep it fresh. And because it will only be open for a few hours at night, it will give me time during the day to create. I can do two things at once, do what I love and actively do something to give back as well.”

  My heart was racing. Never had I wanted to be a business owner, I didn’t even own the apartment that I lived in, but the idea of making this a reality made me giddy. It was possible because I had money, but it would succeed because I had talent. “And I’m going to make sure I have some of the best people in the business working for me. So, whatever I don’t know, they will be able to help me with.

  “This is a real smart business idea. Are you looking for investors?” He gave me a smile and I knew exactly who he had in mind.

  “Nope, I’m going to use my trust fund and do this all without a safety net. Besides, if it all goes down in a ball of flames, at least I’ll have a place to live. I’m going to convert the top floor into a residence.”

  “I have a hunch you won’t need to worry.” He squeezed my shoulder tightly. “But if anything happened, you know that your mother and I—”

  “I know. I know.” My hand rested on his, their support never something I’d ever question. “But I can do this and I’m not scared anymore.”

  “Good.” My dad took a breath before looking at my pile of papers scattered on the coffee table and floor. “Tomorrow morning we’ll call my lawyers and get things moving.” He held out his hand to stop the protest he knew was coming. “And before you argue with me Eve, I said I would call them. You are the one who is going to pay their bills, so let your old man lend a hand.”

  “Okay, Dad, thank you.” Warmth spread through my chest. “Maybe you could help me with the business side of things. I know nothing about applying for permits and stuff like that.”

  “It would be an honor to work with you, sweetheart. Now, are you going to tell me about this new guy you’ve been seeing?”

  When I’d call to tell my parents I was coming home, I had casually mentioned to Mom I had been seeing someone. It was a detail I hoped would be lost in a sea of other important stuff, like telling my old boss to go fuck himself and the scene with Oliver at the gallery. But apparently while she’d given me some space, nothing had been forgotten. And she’d told my dad, which meant I was going to have to spill.

  “Well . . . he’s different. He’s a tattoo artist.” I waited for the reaction, the shock, the horror—the judgment.

  It didn’t come.

  “And?” my father asked, his hand rolling indicating for me to go on.

  Where did I even start? How could any words I used be enough to tell them all the amazing things that he was?

  “And, he’s a good man. He treats me like a queen, he has given me time and space even though he probably doesn’t understand why. He’s kind, and he’s so good to me.”

  My dad sighed. “It’s all we’ve ever wanted for you and your brother. We weren’t thrilled with his decision to move away, hell, your mother cried for a week. But we would never stop you kids from being happy.”

  I felt the lump form in my throat. My emotions so frayed that even if he’d only said half of it, I would have cried.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was just . . .” I didn’t even know what to say.

  “Well, you’ve told me now and that’s what’s important. Make sure you talk to your mother tomorrow, you know she’ll want to hear. It looks like you’re going to be here awhile, so I’m going up to bed. I love you, sweetheart.” He kissed me lightly on the top of my head and said good night.

  Eve

  I WOKE UP ON THE FLOOR SURROUNDED by a sea of notes and sketches. Obviously at some point I’d fallen asleep, not that I’d remembered. My mouth was dry and my neck hurt from lying on the floor in a weird angle, but other than that I felt amazing.

  A lot had been worked through during the night and I’d felt more positive about things, especially since I’d come clean about Josh.

  “Good, you’re awake.” My dad handed me a mug of freshly brewed coffee, not even questioning I had obviously slept on the floor. “I’ve got George coming around this morning.” He took a seat on the same sofa he’d sat on last night as he relayed the conversation he’d already had with his lawyer. “He’s almost positive we can get you into this hotel within thirty days. He also said you can apply for temporary permits for the event until you have something more long term in place. It’s easier to get permission for a special event, rather than an ongoing business. He plays golf with someone from the City Hall, so he’ll help us with that as well.”

  I laughed as I took a sip of the hot, caffeinated goodness. “Wow, you’ve been busy. I knew it would take a little more time for the long-term goal. I thought I could have my showing in a month and then slowly work on the rest. The construction will take a bit of time too, but I’m fine with that.”

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He gave me a warm smile and a wink. “He’ll be over in about an hour so you might want to get yourself cleaned up.”

  “What?” I stretched out my hands in front of me. “Didn’t you say I always looked good?” I laughed.

  “I’m pleading the fifth.” He wisely remained tightlipped.

  I didn’t need a mirror to know I looked a mess. Crumpled clothes, messed up hair—I probably smelled terrible too. So I scooted my ass up the stairs and into the shower and got dressed.

  Mom appeared in my bedroom with coffee and some bagels while I finished getting ready, using the excuse of breakfast to hear about Josh. She listened as I applied my makeup, smiling as I told her how wonderful he was. Naturally she’d been just as supportive as Dad and we’d just wrapped her thirty thousand questions when George arrived.

  W
hile I had enjoyed being dressed down while I worked with Josh, dresses, skirts and heels were definitely more my style. And I wasn’t going to feel bad about that either. If I wanted to wear a pair of six-inch spike heels and red lipstick, that didn’t make me superficial. I was empowered, and I would dress how I wanted to dress and fuck what anyone thought about it.

  “Someone grew up.” George nodded to my father as I walked into the room. “I’m glad we’re playing this deal from the same side of the table, Eve. You look like you could eat us for breakfast.”

  “I know what I want.” I nodded my hello and took my seat at the head of the dining room table, the venue for our meeting. “Gentlemen, let’s get started.”

  To his credit, my dad sat in on the meeting but made minimal contributions. I knew it was a conscious effort, both supporting my independence and believing that he knew what I was doing. I asked George lots of questions, which he answered, and both he and my father made a few suggestions of their own.

  The realtor called and gave us the go ahead to inspect the property, and also miraculously—money really does talk—pending the report from the building inspector I had managed to hire that morning, the hotel would be mine in thirty days.

  The rest of the day was spent with a phone glued to my ear as I put all the gears in motion. George and Dad also pitched in, either on the phone or calling in favors to ensure everything would go to plan. Assuming everything was okay with the building—gut instinct told me it would be—I was taking a massive leap of faith and planning my new show, thirty-one days from today.

  It was going to be a tight turn around, probably insane to even attempt, but it was go hard or go home time, and I wasn’t about to quit.

  And I also had another project I wanted to work on. This time something special for Josh—

  Josh.

  “Shit.” My dad and George jerked their heads around to look at me, my random outburst catching them by surprise. “Ahhh, I’ve got to make a private call.” I held up my phone, the one I should have used to text or call Josh and tell him I’d arrived safely yesterday.