Work of Art

by Monica Alexander

  “She didn’t really want to see me, though,” I pondered out loud.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She puked into the trashcan when she turned around and saw me standing in her doorway.”

  Brandon laughed. “Holy shit! That’s hilarious. She really puked? I’m so gonna give her shit for that when I talk to her.”

  “What do you mean? When are you talking to her? Are you going to see her again while you’re out here?”

  I was well-aware of the excitement suddenly in my voice, and I hoped Brandon couldn’t hear it.

  “Dude, you’re eyes just lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. You’ve still got feelings for this girl.”

  “I do not,” I said, turning back to face front. I saw him watching me out of the corner of my eye. “I sort of want to know how she is, though, just to make sure she’s good.”

  “She’s good,” he told me. “She’s got a successful business, she’s ridiculously talented, and she’s got good friends.”

  I looked at him in confusion. “How do you know all of that?”

  He shrugged. “We spent five hours on a plane together and got a little drunk. We talked. By the way, I sort of told her about you.”

  “What do you mean you told her about me? She had no idea we were friends.”

  He grinned. “I told her about my buddy I was going to see who was marrying this chick who tries to control his life and has taken all the joy out of it.”

  I cringed. He was repeating my words from the night before when I’d been drunk, out of my mind, and half stupid. “Fuck you, dude. You didn’t tell her that.”

  He laughed. “Actually, I did. And then last night you just repeated what I’ve always thought. It was pretty fucking hilarious if you ask me.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I deadpanned, wondering why he disliked Trish so much.

  She really was a sweet girl, and she took care of me, and my family loved her. But I knew Brandon hated how she was always interjecting her views into how I should live my life, how she made me eat healthy and how she controlled how I spent my time, and who I hung out with. Then again, had Brandon ever actually complained about those things? He made fun of me, but weren’t those the things that had started to bug me in the past few months? Wasn’t I the one going off last night about how much I felt like she stifled me?

  Okay, no. We were not even talking about my relationship with Trish. We were talking about Harper and how she and Brandon were apparently friends now.

  “Dude, listen, Harper’s a cool girl, and I don’t have many friends who are girls. I think I’ll call her from time to time when I need a cool girl’s opinion about my life. Besides, it’s pretty awesome to be able to tell people I’m friends with Harper Connelly.”

  “Who, besides me, might care about that?”

  He looked at me like I was insane again. “Everyone who’s into body art. She was named as one of the top female artists in the country last year, and she’s done ink for Garrett Lewis and Dustin Craig.”

  “Who are they?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Dude, live a little. When was the last time you saw a movie? You have that big-ass TV. What do you watch on it?”

  “Sports. And I have a job and a life. Trish and I have things we do together. We have obligations in the community.”

  He rolled his eyes at the mention of my ‘obligations’. “Well, they’re actors, and they’ve come to Harper for ink. Plus, she owns Art Studio. You knew that right?”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah. She’s a pretty big deal.”

  “Good for her.”

  I knew she was a tattoo artist, but I didn’t know she owned the place. It was a far cry from going to Yale which was what she’d set out to do, but I knew she was smart, so I was glad to see she’d done something with her life.

  I smiled to myself, remembering the first time she’d set foot inside a tattoo parlor. I’d been with her on her eighteenth birthday and had held her hand while she’d gotten that cupcake tattooed on her lower back. I’d thought it was so hot at the time, and it was the reason I’d known it was her when I’d walked into the room earlier tonight. As she’d had her back to me, her tank top had risen just enough to show me a tattoo that I’d recognize anywhere.

  “She’s also an artist,” Brandon continued. “All that art you saw in the front room of her parlor was hers, and her work’s displayed in a few galleries around town, and she does regular shows of her photography. That’s actually how she made most of her money. Her art sells really well.”

  “Seriously?”

  I was impressed. Harper had always been drawing and sketching and painting. She was really talented, but back in high school she knew her ticket to freedom wasn’t through her art. It was getting a college degree and a good job. But apparently she’d proven herself – and me for that matter – wrong.

  “Yeah. She wrote down the galleries where her work’s displayed so I could check it out if I wanted.”

  “I want to go to one,” I said automatically.

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

  For some reason I needed to see her art. I needed to see what she’d created, and I didn’t want to go back to her tattoo parlor when she definitely didn’t want to see me. I was kicking myself for not noticing it earlier, but I’d been more nervous about getting a tattoo. And then on the way out, I’d been so consumed with the fact that I’d seen her that I hadn’t glanced around at anything.

  But I needed to feel connected to her again, and I had no idea why I felt that way. It wasn’t right. I was getting married in a month. I didn’t need to be screwing around with someone I hadn’t seen in over a decade, but I was intrigued. She’d lived an entire life since we’d been apart, and I had to know what that life entailed. I had to know her again.

  “Give me the list of galleries,” I demanded, holding my hand out.

  “Whoa, slow your roll. I’m sure they’re not open. It’s Saturday evening.”

  “I don’t care. Just give it to me.” I was sure my eyes were wild. I was like a crazy person on a mission, and I couldn’t turn it off.

  He laid his phone down on the bar and let me read the names listed. I was familiar with a few of them, but I chose the first name on the list and dialed it as Brandon shook his head and mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

  “They’re not going to be open,” he sung, as he swallowed the last drink of his beer and signaled the bartender for another one.

  “Hello, Elizabeth Danville Gallery. Cora speaking. How may I help you.”

  “Oh, uh, hi. This is Ryan Carson.”

  “Mr. Carson, how are you this evening?”

  “Fine thanks. Listen–”

  “Is there a problem with the painting?” she interrupted.

  “What? What painting?”

  “The one your fiancé, Trisha Spencer purchased last month. The Harper Connelly.”

  Excuse me?

  Trish had purchased a painting that Harper had done? No way. No fucking way.

  “Oh, uh, no. No problem. Wait, how do you know who I am?”

  “Well, Mr. Carson, Trisha has purchased several paintings from our gallery, and she made sure we knew who you were in case there was an issue. She’s actually one of our best customers. Do give her our best, won’t you?”

  I was dumbstruck. “Uh, yeah. I’ll do that.”

  “Fantastic. Now what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, uh, I just wanted to know your hours.”

  “We’re open seven days a week at 10 am, and our closing hours vary, but we do stay open later on Friday and Saturday night for events and viewings.”

  “And do you have any more paintings by Harper Connelly at your gallery at the moment.”

  “We do have several on display, but they’ve all been sold I’m afraid. Ms. Connelly committed to getting us additional work, but it won’t be available until the end of the month.”

  “Thank you,” I said and prompt
ly hung up the phone.

  “What?” Brandon asked, rapt from what he’d heard. “What’d she say?”

  I scrubbed my face with my hand. “Um, well, they have some of her work on display, but apparently I already have one of her paintings hanging in my condo.”

  “No shit!”

  “Yeah, Trish gave me one for my birthday last month, and I didn’t even pay attention to who the artist was. It’s the large painting in the dining room, the one of downtown Carmel at night?” Brandon shrugged like he couldn’t remember. “We went there for the weekend when I asked her to marry me, so she bought me a painting to commemorate the day.”

  Brandon started laughing. “That’s classic, dude.”

  I turned to glare at him. “No it isn’t. Shut up.”

  I felt like my head was spinning, and I needed to get my bearings. Things were happening too fast. Harper hadn’t been a factor for me in years, and suddenly she was everywhere. I felt my head drop onto the bar.

  “Hey, can I get this guy a shot?” Brandon asked then. I looked up to see him signaling the bartender. “Tequila. Stat.”

  “No, I don’t need tequila,” I argued.

  He gave me a look that told me he disagreed. “Yeah, you do. Better make it two,” he said to the bartender. “Sit back, relax, have some shots, and I’ll tell you all about my plans to buy a winery.”

  “You’re buying a winery? What?”

  I knew he was just trying to distract me, but it was working, so I was grateful.

  “Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “I’m getting the fuck out of the firm so I can actually have a life.”

  I sighed. Damn, that sounded appealing as hell. I missed having a life.

  Chapter Ten

  Harper

  “Kel, he was out of my life for eleven years! And then he just walked into my parlor last night, and it’s like everything that happened came flooding back. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  She smiled at me, as she stirred her coffee. “Yes, I’m well aware of how you feel since you kept me up talking about it until three in the morning. But, I’m your friend, and that’s what friends do.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m obsessing, and it isn’t like me, but this is huge!”

  “You’re right. It’s not like you. The Harper I know would say ‘fuck it’ and hole up in her studio for a few hours while she processed everything, painted something fabulous and angst-ridden, and then she’d call me, we’d go out for tequila shots and forget the guy ever existed.”

  And I really, really wished I could do just that. I’d honestly hoped I would wake up in the morning with no feelings whatsoever toward the whole situation, but instead of that happening, my first thought upon opening my eyes had been of Ryan. And I was not happy about it.

  “He’s a jerk, Kelly. He emailed me to break up with me and to tell me he wanted nothing to do with the baby we’d decided to raise together. He was a chicken shit.”

  “He was eighteen.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. It was a dick move.”

  “He was eighteen,” she repeated.

  I supposed she was right. And I wasn’t so sure his parents hadn’t influenced his decision. They’d always hated me, so I’m sure they were all too happy to jump at the chance to break us up.

  “Well, what do I do now? He lives here!”

  “So do millions of other people. You’ll probably never see him.”

  I took a sip of my strong coffee and stared off into the distance. “I suppose.”

  “Unless you want to see him. Do you?” she asked, as she leaned back against the counter and appraised me.

  I blew out a huge puff of air. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Then you should call him.”

  “I can’t do that. Shit. This is so ridiculous. I hate this guy. He was so awful to me. I should not want to see him. I shouldn’t even be wasting one thought on him.”

  “But you are.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said, thoroughly annoyed with myself.

  I’d vowed years ago to let Ryan go and never let him disrupt my happiness again – and now he’d gone and shown up after so much had happened and so much time had passed. I was freaking out just a bit.

  “I know. Hey, you know what’s really crazy?” she asked then.

  “What?”

  “If you would have stayed with him, we never would have met, and your life wouldn’t be nearly amazing as it is, because, well, I wouldn’t be in it, but aside from that, you never would have realized your true talents. You never would have become a tattoo artist, you wouldn’t have opened Art Studio, and you never would have had the nerve to go to galleries with your paintings. And you’re so talented. What did your last painting sell for again?”

  She knew the answer, but she was goading me in an effort to make me feel better.

  “Five thousand,” I mumbled.

  “That’s right. Five thousand freaking dollars. Do you know how long I have to work before I make five thousand dollars? I’ll tell you. It’s five weeks. You made that in a day! One day!”

  I rolled my eyes. I hated when she talked about money. It wasn’t important in the grand scheme of things. Sure, I was glad to have it and didn’t complain when someone gave me a check, but it wasn’t the end all, be all of happiness, and I knew that because I’d experienced true happiness at one point.

  “Thank you again, Trisha Spencer,” I said, recalling the name of the woman who’d bought one of my paintings. She’d bought a total of three in the past six months, so I was sort of a big fan of her.

  “Yes, thank you, Trisha Spencer,” Kelly repeated, since apparently she was on a roll now. “In fact, you should track that woman down and give her a big, fat hug.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”

  * * *

  I was agitated when I got home, so I did what I always did when that happened. I cranked up some Linkin Park in my studio and threw paint around. I’d always retreated inside my art when things got too confusing or too much to handle, and I had produced some of my best pieces when I was raging mad, but first I had to get the anger out, and that meant being extremely counterproductive for a while.

  I bought thick white sheets in bulk, so I pulled one from my stash in the hall closet and hung it from the hooks on either corner of one wall in my studio, closed the door, turned the volume way up and started attacking the sheet with a brush and a bucket of cheap red wall paint.

  I painted a big heart, and then I traded my red paint for black and slashed right through the heart. And then I just kept slashing.

  Ryan Fucking Carson. Of all the goddamn people from my former life I thought I’d never see again, he was definitely one of them. Especially since I always thought I would be fairly inclined to punch him when I saw him. And I hadn’t. I’d puked, and now I was having all sorts of really unacceptable thoughts about him. I was seriously pissed at myself.

  I paused to take a breath, noticing the black was almost entirely covering the bright red of the heart. And that was exactly how I’d felt when Ryan had ripped my heart out when I was eighteen.

  I leaned back against the opposite wall and slid down to the floor, my eyes locked on the black and red explosion, feeling more confused than ever.

  He was a jerk.

  But before he’d been a jerk, he’d been everything to me, and that was what had me so conflicted.

  Thirteen Years Earlier

  I sat outside the dining hall at school, far enough away from anyone who thought it considerate to throw jabs my way. I was tired of it. School should have been a welcome escape for me from what I was dealing with at home, but it wasn’t.

  Everything had come crashing down three weeks earlier. My father, George, had been arrested on multiple counts of grand larceny, embezzlement and fraud for stealing money from his clients – most of who lived in our town and whose children I went to school with. My mother had flipped out, and then she’d unceremoniously told me in a fit of rage
that George actually wasn’t my father. Then, just when I needed them the most, my friends turned on me when they learned what George had done, and they’d cast me out the very next day. I was a social pariah, and school was miserable for me.

  But at home it was ten times worse. My mother was an absolute train wreck. She cried non-stop, and when she wasn’t crying, she was storming around the house throwing things – mostly George’s things – but that only led to more crying. It was a vicious cycle. I was pretty sure she wasn’t eating anything, and she’d completely stopped paying attention to me. She also spent hours on end ranting to her friends about what a sham her marriage was and asking what she was supposed to do now that all of our assets had been frozen. The only reprieve was when she took the maximum amount of sleeping pills she could and passed out at night.

  I’d taken to spending as much time as I could away from home, not that she noticed, but it really was the last place I wanted to be.

  I sighed as I looked down at the sketch I was halfway finished with. It was just of an old, knotted oak tree on campus, but I’d noticed the way the angle of the sun was hitting the leaves when I’d walked outside and knew I had to capture it on paper. I wished I had my camera, but in my haste to leave the house that morning, I’d forgotten it, so I was relegated to my pencils and paper.

  “What are you drawing?” a deep voice asked, causing me to look up.

  My breath caught as I noticed Ryan Carson standing almost on top of me, staring at my sketchbook. I turned it over on the grass next to me.

  I hadn’t really spoken to Ryan in the two years we’d been at Andover together. We’d been on one class project team, but then we’d only met with other group members and talked about the assignment. We’d never had a conversation outside of the classroom. But he was one of the best looking guys in school, so I’d noticed him from day one. I just never thought he’d noticed me.

  Now I was suddenly afraid his jock friends had sent him over to pick on me. I couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d be talking to me.

  “It’s nothing,” I said quickly.