The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  “I’m guessing that didn’t go down too well?”

  “My dad thought I’d joined a gang of drug dealing hippies. I still have no idea where he got that one from. Emily didn’t get it at all, but thought it was just a minor freak-out I’d get over once we got back to Harvard. The thought of going back to that place and conforming like I’d always done just suffocated me. I felt like I had to leave or I’d just fade away into nothingness.”

  “So you ran away?”

  “See, Marina,” he says, smiling gently. “We do have some things in common. I spent about six months on this shit stained farm with some artists trying to figure out who I wanted to be. When I came back, I told my dad he could either support me or never see me again. Luckily, he said yes to art school and helped me pay for it. We’re still frosty, but he’d rather have me in his life than out of it. I think Victoria’s decision to go and finish what I started at Harvard helped his ego a lot.”

  “How nice of him to pay for everything,” I say, sounding far crueler than originally intended, but Viridian’s studio and mounting pile of bills are fresh in my mind and hearing how even the cost of Fitz’s early life crisis was dealt with so quickly makes me think that he really doesn’t realize how much he’s had handed to him without question.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” He says sadly. “I rebel to live my life the way I want to, but I still need everything that my name provides to get it. I’ll take the money, even though it kills me, because I know I need it. Selling out by another name.”

  The enigma that is Fitz, the beautiful and charming and incredibly pretentious artist, is unfolding before my eyes. He’s letting down his defenses in an almost brutal manner, being honest in a way I doubt he’s ever been with someone else outside of Viridian and Derek. There’s such a thin layer separating his enviable confidence and dizzying self-doubts. Maybe we do have more in common than I thought.

  “Sometimes,” Fitz sighs. “I’m getting ready for a show or working out, and I catch a glimpse of myself, and all I can think is ‘Who the hell is that conceited, posing little shit? Who the fuck does he think he is?’ I’m the sort of person that I just hated at seventeen.”

  “You’re allowed to change things about yourself. It doesn’t make you a bad person,” I say, realizing how hypocritical it makes me. I’ve been tormenting myself with those exact feelings for weeks now, and shudder to imagine continuing the charade indefinitely.

  “The first time I saw you, you looked so lost and scared. Actually, you looked lost for days afterwards. All I could think of was how I’d been through all that and didn’t want to see someone else go through it alone. You had to go through all these huge changes so quickly and you were afraid. I don’t blame you, because I was too.”

  “Fitz, I’m not sure you and I are exactly the same on this.”

  “I know. But I think you deserve to know all this, because I really like you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I like you,” he repeats. “I like you enough to want to learn more about you. I honestly didn’t think I’d miss you as much as I have. Have you missed me?”

  He pushes aside his glass and takes my hand, cradling my fingers gently in his palm. Part of me knows it would be more sensible for me to pull away, but truthfully, I have missed him and his touch. His feather light caresses across my hand still make my heart leap, but I no longer babble or lose control of everything else. I can see clearly without the fog of lust clouding over my thoughts.

  “Fitz...” I start.

  “Yes?”

  “You should take off the tie. It looks ridiculous on you.”

  His face creases into a large smile.

  “I think they might kick us out if I take it off,” he replies.

  “Don’t care.” Now I’m grinning stupidly. “Take it off.”

  “As you wish.”

  With a dramatic flourish, he pulls off the tie over his head and lets it drop to the floor. Already he looks more comfortable and more like himself. I lean across the table and mess up his hair with my fingers until his chestnut locks have returned to their normal untamed state.

  “Should I take off the shirt as well?” He asks suggestively.

  “Hey, I’d like to finish my meal, thanks.”

  “Fine,” he pouts but can’t conceal his smile. “But I’m undoing at least one button. I haven’t worn this suit in years. Can you tell?”

  “At least one button” turns into three, enough to reveal his tattoos across his collarbone. The dress code is most definitely being defied tonight.

  “If you get us kicked out or arrested, then I will never forgive you,” I warn him, still grinning.

  “Ah, now there are a few stories I’ll need to share with you some time.”

  The comforting warmth between us has returned so effortlessly, making me wish we’d had this conversation at the very beginning. He’s been so honest with me, and if we are to move on together, then he deserves that same level of stripped down truth from me.

  “Fitz. I’m still confused and worried about everything going on in my life. I don’t know if I’ll be able to give you everything you need. I don’t know if I’m even capable of that.”

  His smile drops and he leans over to say something.

  “However,” I say before he can speak. “I think I should at least give it a shot.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “I don’t want to run away from anything anymore.”

  When his smile returns, I know I’ve made the right decision. It could go terribly, and I can still hear Viridian and Derek’s protests in my mind, but after weeks of tip-toeing and confusion, I have to grab this moment of certainty and hold onto it tightly. I, whoever I am, want this. That much I am sure of.

  “Thank you,” Fitz whispers. “Can I kiss you?”

  “Not right now. Let’s just take it slowly.”

  “Right, let’s do this the normal way.”

  “I don’t think either of us knows how to be normal.”

  “I told you normal was boring!”

  We laugh and dive into our food, sharing stories from the past two weeks we’ve been apart. Maybe this is a date now, I think. Candles, wine, good conversation, and irrepressible smiles. What more could you ask for? This is certainly far easier for me to deal with than public nudity and whatever else Fitz considered a good night out. I may have escaped to New York to find a secret normal life for myself, but having stumbled into a group of loud and proud nonconformists, I couldn’t imagine changing that for anything in the world.

  As Fitz pours me a glass of wine, his eyes flicker toward the door and widen with fear.

  “Oh shit,” he groans. “Please not now.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”

  I turn to see a well dressed older man with a far younger blonde woman on his arm, the pair of them being fawned over by the maître d'. It takes me awhile to recognize the man, but even with the rounder face, wrinkles and salt and pepper beard, the family resemblance is uncanny. Fitz tries to keep his head down but knows that we’ve already been spotted by the pair heading straight toward us.

  “It’s my dad.”

  CHAPTER 22.

  Maybe if I were drinking at the moment, I’d have spit it out and shot liquid through my nose. The shock of the moment overwhelms me. My first reaction - and only reaction - is to sit stiffly in my seat, staring ahead at nothing while praying that his father actually notices someone beyond us and not the most conspicuous woman in the restaurant (also known as me) sticking out like a sore thumb thanks to her outlandish hair.

  “What are we supposed to do?” I say tensely through my clenched teeth.

  Fitz seems dumbfounded while trying to bury his head unsuccessfully in the wine list.

  “Fitz, what do we do?” I say again.

  “Fitzroy,” a voice booms beside me.

  We’re already too late. My body goes limp in one deft motion, the wind beneath my w
ings disappearing in the space of an instant.

  “Hello, Father,” Fitz says with little conviction or emotion. “Such a surprise seeing you on the Lower East Side.”

  “Your mother and I were at a fundraiser on Rivington,” the man says with equal, uninspiring force.

  Fitz looks up, eyes darting between his father and the perky blonde woman on his arm. “No offense to Cecelia, but she is not my mother. You’ve only been married for three years and I’m a grown man.”

  “You’re twenty four acting like you’re four. I think that begs for me to question if you’re a grown man or just a petulant child in a man’s clothing,” his father says. “And I would hope you would be nice to my wife. You can be rude and spiteful to me all you want, but you’re crossing the line.”

  “Honey, he didn’t say anything that offended me,” the blonde murmurs.

  But the man’s attention is already on me. “Who is your little date here? Another one of your art friends?”

  It only takes a few moments for the conviction and strength Fitz might have displayed to disappear. In its place is a scorned, scolded little boy who doesn’t know what to say or do. He looks at me sadly and tells his father, “This is my new assistant, Mary.”

  “Are you two fucking?”

  “Roy!” Cecelia coughs under her breath. “This is not the place for obscene language.”

  I finally look up at the man, getting a full look at the new object of my utter fear. Fitzroy the Elder is tall and lanky, his hair cut short where the dark brown locks had begun to gray at his temples. Where I look nothing like my father, a short, overweight, and balding man, Fitz is the spitting image of his father. Fitzroy the Elder is the Fitz I know except thirty, maybe thirty five years older.

  Putting on the best smile I can muster, I stick out my hand and say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Mary Fenton.”

  He returns the gesture with the weakest handshake I’ve ever received in my life. It’s the type of handshake reserved for people who are sick or people you dislike, and I know what it is in my case. The sneer of resentment is evident.

  “Do you really need an assistant to help you wave your wing wang around like some cheap stripper shilling for dollar bills? Come on,” his father asks callously.

  “Fitzroy, please stop this and let’s eat our dinner,” Cecelia murmurs, flushing with embarrassment. “This is not the place to make a scene.”

  Fitz’s father turns to his current wife and tells her, “Why don’t you go sit down and wait for me? Order whatever you want.”

  Cecelia reluctantly does as asked, pulling her shawl tight over her shoulders before she marches off like a good little servant. She takes a seat across the room while keeping her eyes and attention firmly on the events happening at our small table.

  “Father, really, now is not the time to remind me of how much I’ve disappointed and betrayed you,” Fitz says, raising his voice the barest of margins. “Mary and I are celebrating my latest show, which I’m sure you’ve heard about. You’re still on the board at the modern art museum, I suppose?”

  Fitzroy the Elder snorts, tilting his head back to let the sound carry. By now, people are starting to look at us, noticing the rising tension between our little group. The waitress stands nearby, staring, while at the ready to move in the event punches are thrown. It’s like everyone has seen this before, like they’re ready and waiting for fisticuffs to happen.

  “Yeah, I heard about that,” his father says, sounding highly amused. “So what will you be doing this time? Hanging from your balls? Why not just throw all pretences of art aside and just go straight to public fucking? That’s why everyone comes to see you, isn’t it?”

  I’ve never seen Fitz looked embarrassed before, but now he looks positively humiliated, every inch the little boy who hasn’t angered his father, but left him very disappointed. That’s always far worse. I know that feeling all too well.

  “Father,” Fitz mumbles. “Can we talk some other time? You don’t want to leave Cecelia waiting.”

  “I heard your agent dropped you and you lost your grant.”

  Fitz’s gaze shoots up toward his dad’s in bemusement. How on earth could he know about that? I want nothing more than to grab Fitz and run out of this restaurant before either of us says something stupid. Fitzroy the Third is making it increasingly difficult for me to keep my mouth shut.

  “I didn’t get dropped,” Fitz replies, gritting his teeth. “I quit.”

  “Not your smartest move.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t like to associate with people who sexually harass my assistant.”

  “Sandel called me to inform me of the news. It was nice to get a call from someone. He says you’re looking for new funding. How’s that going?”

  “Brilliantly, thanks.”

  “Not what Sandel said.”

  “Sandel doesn’t know shit.”

  Being the third wheel in this exchange makes me shuffle in my chair in discomfort. While my stomach cries out against it, I take a few more bites out of my pasta just to have something to do. I look over at the table where Fitz’s stepmom sits and we exchange sympathetic glances. The latest Mrs. Cottrell-Iver can’t be that much older than Fitz himself. She looks as embarrassed by the whole situation as Fitz and I do. I wonder how often she has had to put up with father-son feuds like this.

  “Come on, kid,” Fitz’s father says, reaching out a hand toward his son’s shoulder. “You know how this conversation’s going to end, don’t you? Just ask and I’ll say yes. I always do.”

  Fitz shrugs away his father’s touch.

  “Dad,” Fitz whimpers. “Can we please discuss this another time?”

  “Let’s discuss it now. How much do you need?”

  “I know you’re a big fan of making me feel like a child, but can we not do this here and now?”

  “Fitzroy, I can get my checkbook out right now and write down as many zeros as you need. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bailed you out of trouble.”

  Fitz’s pained expression says it all. I know he needs the funding to continue his work and that it would be so easy for him to just take his father’s check. After all, he let his father pay for his education and he lives in his father’s home free of charge. Even he himself admitted that he benefited from this position of privilege. While his best friend struggles to pay the bills, Fitz lives a pretty easy life. Surely he knows how unusual that is? Millions of people in this city would kill for what he has.

  “Please don’t do this to me,” Fitz murmurs, completely zapped of his confidence and charm.

  “What are you trying to prove with this, kid? This... lifestyle that you’ve chosen for yourself is completely ridiculous in every possible way and it’ll ruin your future, but you know I’ll support it. Hey, everyone needs a hobby, right? A few crazy years they need to get out of their system before their real life begins? Vicky’s going to spend the Summer teaching English to kids in Korea. We’ve all got outlets for that kind of crap. You just picked... Whatever it is that you do.”

  Fitz’s father pulls something from his jacket pocket - a checkbook and pen. He waves it in his hand like a fan, making sure Fitz - and everyone still watching the carnage unfold - can see exactly what he’s holding.

  “You’re a smart kid,” Fitz’s father continues. “It’s such a waste to see all your hard work be tossed aside. All that potential. Does your lovely assistant know about Harvard? Top 5% of his class, dear Mary.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, ready for the ground to swallow me whole. Even with my eyes focused on the remnants of my dinner, I can tell Fitz’s father is staring at me. It almost physically hurts to be scrutinized like this while the people around us watch. Eventually, I can’t stand the silence that has fallen across the entire restaurant and look up at him. “Sir, with all due respect, Fitz and I have work to do tonight. If you’ll excuse us...”

  “You’re very striking, Miss... What was it again? He asks me.

&nbs
p; “Fenton.”

  “Yes, Miss Fenton. Interesting haircut. Are you from New York?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “May I ask where you’re from?”

  “Oregon. I’m here to work on my art. With Fitz.”

  “Oregon? That’s a long way to come from to be an artist. Did you study there as well?”

  “Yes,” I say, not bothering to hide my irritation as I try to attract a waiter’s attention.

  “Where did my son find you?”

  “I’m sorry?” I say incredulously. This interrogation is making me supremely nervous as well as annoyed. I had prepared some vague answers in case people asked me about my life, but now I had no idea what to say. “He... What? We... We met at one of his shows.”

  “When? Which show?”

  “Um...” My mind struggles to find the answer. All sense of time has abandoned me since I arrived in the city. “I can’t remember. It was a few weeks ago, I think.”

  “Leave her alone, dad,” Fitz says, clearly at the end of his tether. “Your problem’s with me, not her.”

  “I’m just surprised that you took on an assistant. Sandel was surprised as well. She’s very... interesting. A nice new project for you.”

  Fitz leaps from his chair, sending cutlery and plates clattering against the table as he does so. He looks ready to fight. I jump to my feet with him and lean across to him, resting my hand on his shoulder, gently.

  “Fitz, let’s go now,” I say, forcing myself to keep a calm tone. It takes a few agonizing moments for Fitz’s fists to unfurl and for his shoulders to slump from a fighting stance, but when he finally does I let out a gasping breath. He nods and lays some cash out on the table before we pick up our things. I feel the heat rush to my face as the tables of diners around us whisper and laugh not so discreetly in our direction.

  “Nice to see you again, Cecelia,” Fitz calls out, deliberately avoiding meeting his father’s gaze. His stepmom nods and bites her lip. She looks as much like a scolded child as the pair of us does.

  “Another time, Fitzroy?” His father asks, not receiving a reply. I let Fitz take my hand and we march out of Whiteread’s together, keeping our heads down. “I’ll put the money in your account.”