by Ava Cummings
I take in the comment and move to make more small talk, even though I want nothing more than to fall onto his beautifully sculpted chest and hug again like we did at the Biennial. I feel drawn to him almost physically, wanting to be close. “How’s the Biennial been?”
“Good. Really good. I sold Sweet Muse to a big collector.”
“Congratulations!” I almost jump into him, but hold myself back.
“And I’ve been researching my next show.” Damien takes a sip of his drink, seeming to hesitate before he continues. “Hey, I’ve been wanting to tell you something.”
I look up. I feel an instant bubble of intimacy form around us. My palms start to sweat. And I feel like he might say something that would change everything.
“Well…” He looks down at the floor for a moment before gazing at me again intensely. “I wanted to tell you that Sweet Muse…that…it’s you.”
My mind flies back to the night of the opening, when Cari insisted that it was me. It didn’t make sense rationally, but in my gut I knew she was right.
I look up at him with a questioning smile, as my heart expands, and I take in this beautiful, soulful, complex man standing in front of me.
“You,” he says again, with a tenderness that feels dream-like, even otherworldly. “I’ve been wanting to tell you. That night at the Bubble Lounge when we met…I was researching my next show. It’s a comment on celebrity culture. And I’ve been going out to events almost every night. When you fell into my arms, when we met, you were a light in the darkness. Your face—the light in it, the life, your sweetness. That picture I took of you, the way the light was hitting your face was just so beautiful. The piece was a comment on how, artificial as New York nightlife is, there is also real beauty and sweetness there.”
Gazing at him, I can barely speak.
“I wanted to tell you the moment I saw you, when I met you at the Biennial. But I couldn’t believe it. That it was you. That you were there.”
My head swirls with emotion and jumbled thoughts. He felt it too—the connection. I’m floating. The joy is overpowering, the realization that an emotion like this can exist between two people.
A quiet fear wafts in, too, and my emotional wounds throb with a dull ache—the letdowns bubbling up, from Jesse, from Alec, from my dad.
Words finally come out of my mouth.
“I’ve never been anyone’s inspiration. I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Seeing you at the show, the real sweet muse standing in front of the sculpture, was like fate, the stars aligning. And then talking to you that night was just so…”
“…different.”
“Yeah.”
“I felt it, too.”
“I’d never before met anyone who made me feel such instant intimacy, instant closeness. Like I’d come home.”
He used the word “home,” just like I felt that night.
We stand there at the bar staring into each other’s eyes. Damien slowly leans toward me and places his hand on my waist. My stomach erupts with butterflies, and I close my eyes and smile. I can feel him so close to me—feel his warm breath on my neck and smell his spicy scent. His other arm wraps slowly around me, and I want to fall into him. I feel him leaning closer still, his face near mine. I open my mouth gently, slightly, waiting to feel his lips.
“Damien, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Rocked out of our moment, I open my eyes and see a statuesque blonde sidle up next to Damien. She links her arm through his and begins to gently tug him toward her.
The bubble of bliss we were in explodes and pain comes rushing in with the force of a punch to the gut. He looks surprised, like he’s been caught. I feel like my emotions have been played, again, and tears begin to pool in my eyes. A trapped sensation overwhelms me. I can’t let him see me feel weak, see me so affected by him. With nothing left to say, I turn and bolt out of Julien, leaving Cari, leaving it all.
I burst out of the restaurant and stumble down the sidewalk, trying to hail a cab.
“Anna!” I hear someone yell from behind. “Where are you running off to?”
I turn around and see Jesse coming toward me. His brow is slightly crinkled and he looks…concerned? Seeing him have feelings for someone other than himself gives me pause. Maybe he really is a good friend. I keep walking, though. I need to get home. I want to, need to, fall apart…let myself feel hurt.
“I’m going home,” I say, as I hold my hand up and flag a cab.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” I say, tears running down my face.
“I’m going with you. I’m making sure you get home.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not a negotiation,” he says, elbowing me over and hopping in. We ride in silence. At home, I struggle with my keys but manage to get the door open.
“Are all men liars?” I say, throwing my bag and keys on the table, speaking for the first time since we got in the cab.
“Only when we’re trying to get laid.”
Hearing that comment stings. I don’t understand my feelings for Damien, but they are real. And they are overwhelming.
“There was this guy who I thought was the real thing. But maybe he’s just like everyone else,” I say, as I stumble a bit on my way to the kitchen. Maybe I’ve had more to drink than I thought. Well, there’s no stopping now. After I pour us each a glass of wine, I walk up to Jesse, honest Jesse, and plop myself down on the couch next to him. I lean in and close my eyes, as the room starts to spin. He wraps his arms around me and curls me into him.
“You’re the only honest guy I know,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “You’re a player, but at least you’re honest about it.”
“It’ll be okay, Starr.”
My heart hurts, like it’s been stomped on, and I just want to escape the pain. Without thinking, I climb on top of him. I feel him getting hard, and I start to move.
If I can’t have Damien, I’ll have Jesse. He may have other girls, but at least I know what to expect. It could be worse. It’s not the fairytale, but maybe this is it. This is as good as it gets.
I move down his body and kneel on the floor, unzipping his jeans and pulling out his full, erect glory. I go to take him into my mouth. He’s throbbing and at his full size. I just want to feel wanted, needed.
Suddenly, I feel him pushing my shoulders down and away from him.
“Anna, stop. You don’t want this.”
I pause and look up at him. I can just imagine how I must look: makeup running down my face, eyes red and swollen.
“Even though I’d like nothing more than to throw you on your bed and do you eight ways till Sunday, this isn’t what you want.”
I burst into tears again.
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
He zippers himself back in, picks me up, and brings me to my room.
“You’re a good friend, Jesse, you really are,” I mutter.
18
Reunited
While lumbering through the office distributing Bernie’s out-box, I feel the weight of my fears settling into my mind, my bones, fighting to take up permanent residence. The words desperate and undone sweep through as I grasp the papers in my hand tighter, holding onto them for life, for a shred of control. My heart felt taken and twisted by Damien until all that came out was hurt.
Passing by my desk, I spot a white paper lunch bag with a note attached to its front and a large cup of coffee sitting next to it. Squinting my eyes and rubbing my forehead to dull the throbbing pain of an insistent headache, I pick up the note.
Anna,
We found each other again last night, and I’m not letting you go, not for a third time.I want to take you out and show you my New York—away from the party scene.
You ran out before I could say anything, but the girl who came over was not my girlfriend. She’s my dealer’s daughter. She came to find me because our group was leaving.
Here’s my favorit
e hangover cure: bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll and a cup of New York’s finest watery coffee. I know how those Benny margaritas can feel the next morning .
Meet me at my studio tonight, 67 Lafayette, at 7:00 p.m., sweet m use.
Yours,
Damien
I plunk down in my chair. I could cry with relief…and joy. He is thoughtful. He is perceptive. He does understand exactly where my head is. He even has the same hangover cure I do. With Damien, it feels like serendipity, like there’s something bigger than both of us, a larger force that’s pushing us together. For the first time, I want to lean into the feelings and fall.
I take a large swig of the hot coffee and a massive bite of the medicinal egg and cheese, settling in to beat myself up for getting it so wrong. Then a pang of pain from Alec’s betrayal bubbles up. Like it’s on autopilot, my mind reels back to the deepest, very first hurt, inflicted by my father. And the familiar feeling of fear takes hold.
Then, with another throb of my head, I’m reminded again of Jesse. I wolf down another bite to stuff down the pain. I finally meet someone for whom I have real feelings, and then, as soon as the smallest doubt arises, I run into the arms of the biggest playboy in the city. I look up to the racks of fluorescent lights in the ceiling and silently thank Jesse for being a good guy.
“Where’s my reporting from Julien?” Bernie shouts from her office.
Knocked out of my moment, I drop my sandwich and fire up my computer, the adrenaline coursing through my veins miraculously clearing my head.
“Now, Anna!”
“You’ll have it in five.”
“No, not five—now. And wipe that mooning look off your face. It’s disgusting.”
I attempt to save myself from further wrath by telling her that she’ll be pleased with it. “Got an item on Melodie that I think you’ll love.”
“N-O-W, Anna!”
The scent of creativity fills a second floor hallway laced with exposed pipes—a mix of paint, turpentine, and the metallic smell of machinery. I hesitate, butterflies winging through my stomach and up into my chest. Before knocking on the lovingly worn brick-red door, I take a deep breath and close my eyes, working to calm my nerves and center my mind—an old trick from my mom.
Damien greets me with that sexy half smile of his that I love. I take in his beautiful mouth, the lips forming a rosebud. His jeans hang perfectly on his body, hitting the hard angles of his hips, hugging the crafted muscles in his legs. He looks worked over, sculpted by the effort of creation. His chestnut-brown waves are messed. His eyes look more intense than they did at Julien—like maybe I pulled him away from something.
“You made it.”
I feel the heat of his gaze—the artist’s gaze. I know when people are looking at me, a hyperawareness born of insecurity. But they usually look at clothes or hair, their minds ticking with opinions or criticism. Damien is looking at me. His eyes narrow slightly. I feel my skin tingle, feel myself on edge. Reflexively, I cross my arms in protection.
“Well…I had to come and personally thank you for that egg-and-cheese.”
“I thought you might need it,” he says, reaching out, taking my arms and unwinding them, a smile spreading more broadly across his face.
“I might not have survived without it. You practically read my mind; I get that same thing after a big night out.”
“Good. Come.” He leads me into his studio. As he brushes his fingertips over mine, a jolt of electricity runs through my hand up into my body.
“No more tequila for this girl for the foreseeable future.”
“It happens to the best of us.”
I turn to him and blurt out what’s been on my mind all day. “I’m sorry I overreacted at Julien. I saw that girl come up to you…and we’d just had this incredible conversation. And I felt like I’d been duped.”
Damien pauses and looks intensely into my eyes. I’m not sure whether what I’ve said is wrong or right. I’m overcome by his presence. I want to bite my nails but catch myself and nervously hold my hands together in front of me.
“Things aren’t always what they seem. I wanted you to know the truth.”
We walk farther into his studio, and I gaze around at the huge, open room. I feel overwhelmed. I want to ask him about the New York magazine article. If that girl at Julien wasn’t his girlfriend, then someone else is, but I’m not brave enough to get it out. “It’s so cool in here,” is all I manage to say.
“This way,” he says, switching gears, as he pulls out a Marlboro Red and lights it. “I want to show you around.”
Every surface is covered with a jumble of supplies, old coffee cups, empty beer bottles, and paint. Takeout containers are filled with screws, nails, and paintbrushes. Ashtrays are strewn about, overflowing with butts.
Industrial shelving holds bigger tools and machinery. Damien’s got saws, metal cutters, and a whole suite of machines. The floor, made of wide, unvarnished planks of wood, is uneven. The walls are stark white, and the space is ringed with large, heavy, single-paned windows, through which the fading daylight seeps in.
On one wall, video footage is playing: projections of celebrities at parties overlapping with scenes of animals in the wild. In another corner, in a glass-fronted commercial refrigerator case, there are faces made out of some rubbery white material.
“Those are my celebrity molds. Faces made out of tofu. Got a few B-list stars to let me make molds of their faces.”
I let out a small giggle. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be funny, but the contrast of mushy, flavorless tofu and celebrity faces—juxtaposing the plain reality of human lives and the unattainable ideal we project onto stars—is oddly brilliant…or brilliantly odd.
“How did you do that? Convince them, I mean.”
“They’re fans…and they’re psyched to be in my next show,” he says, quietly, with humility, nodding his head and taking a drag from his cigarette.
“And the video? Pairing celebrities with wild animals is…so good. Only the strong survive. Many meet their demise, getting eaten by Celeb or one of the other predators out there,” I say, marveling at how Damien sees things that others don’t. He makes connections where there were none. He finds things that are hidden. He uncovers what is already there—revealing the truth.
“Means a lot coming from you,” he says as he looks into my eyes, holding his intense gaze again, as if he’s studying me. “These are both for my next show…on our insatiable appetite for celebrity.”
“And I’m a perpetrator of this insatiability.” I leave it open-ended. I’m not sure why I brought it up.
“More like a cog in the machine. Bernie is the perpetrator,” he says, laughing. Then his expression turns serious, thoughtful, as he takes a long drag from his cigarette.
“Don’t sweat it, Anna. Artists see things. Things that others want to keep hidden,” he says, wrapping his arm loosely around my waist. My stomach clenches where he’s touched, a flash of heat strips through me. “You expend too much energy worrying. Give yourself a break. Free yourself from the burden of worry, and you’ll see what’s really there, right in front of you. Celeb’s your stepping stone, a stop along the way. Not your destination. You’ll be moving on to much bigger and better.”
There he goes again. Dropping a laser-focused insight—like he’s known me my whole life. He sees through all my layers of protection. He sees my core. It feels intimate. My heart flutters, yet I’m scared. I’m not ready for this lens, this magnifying glass he uses to peer into my soul.
“I’m fascinated by it. Our celebrity obsession,” he says, deftly switching the subject back, sensing my reaction. “Why is it that we care so deeply for these manufactured personalities—people whose lives are a performance at every moment, choreographed by their managers, agents, and publicists? In the end, their lives are so wildly uninteresting.”
I could literally swoon as Damien talks about his work and his inspirations. It’s the first truly real thing I think I’ve he
ard since being in New York. And it sounds so right, like music—someone finally playing the right notes in the right order after getting it wrong a million times.
“I see it as an anthropological phenomenon. In the future, people will look back on this and scratch their heads.”
“Well, sadly, I understand the inanity of this world all too well. Lying, cheating, stealing, drug abuse…”
“Celebrities embody all the failings and flaws of humankind,” he says, throwing his hands up in an excited way.
“Yeah, it’s like both the highest and lowest urges of mankind. The highest being fame and fortune. Who doesn’t want that?”
“Andy Warhol and his fifteen minutes…”
“I never thought I would end up working at a celebrity magazine. I was a journalism major who dreamed of working at The New York Times or The New Yorker, doing investigative reporting and uncovering corporate wrongdoing. Instead, I’m part of the fame machine.”
“Celeb’s not the end of the road for you. It’s a launchpad for your career. You’ll be able to go anywhere from here—trust me, The New York Times will be calling you one of these days, in the not-too-distant future. You’re building your reputation. It may not feel like it, but you’re becoming who you are going to be. All these experiences form the direction you go and the person you become. You are in exactly the right spot. Don’t fight it. Sit tight and keep pumping out more bylines and stories, and the next opportunity will come calling.”
I smile up at him, feeling an unaccustomed sense of ease. It’s as though I can rest in the calm of his words. No hand flying to my mouth. No picking at my fingers. For what seems like the first time, I feel like everything I’m doing is right; it’s all happening for a reason, and I can go with it.
“And listen, we all have to come down from our idealistic cloud at some point. You just happened to get there a bit more quickly than some others,” says Damien, as he stamps out his cigarette.
He turns to me and places a hand on each cheek, cradling my face and angling it toward him. His hands are burning. His eyes are afire. The mood changes from warm to impassioned.