Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  And Claire is right. This Alie G person sounds genuinely interested in my posts, and she digs the canvases that have a darker twist to them. Assuming that she’s a woman from her comments is probably far-fetched since there’s no way to tell; her profile pic is some sort of a logo.

  Halfway through dinner, I scroll to the most recent reply that Claire typed on my behalf after Alie commented on my latest post. T. Rex is on.

  Without giving it too much thought, I add a question:

  Tig: Why is Fear your favorite painting of mine?

  I’m about to check her profile when her response pops up. I wasn’t expecting its speed or content, and it intrigues me to no end.

  I fear.

  Chapter Five

  I Was Hoping

  Aliénor

  I can’t help myself from typing my reply on Tig’s thread. My mouth forms an O when it hits me that it’s now public information. Exhaustion is really messing with my head.

  Fuck! What’s wrong with me?

  I wasn’t thinking, and my index finger is already hovering over the comment to swipe and delete it when I’m stopped.

  Tig: I can totally relate.

  My alter ego is left speechless… Trapped is more like it. My online persona, Alie G., cannot erase the evidence.

  I’m unsure whether the man that I despise means it or not, but still, my heart tightens. Part of me is torn between glee—because it’s about time he acknowledged my posts after I’ve basically stalked him for months—and astonishment—because today’s the first time the guy responded using actual words. Not just a like. Not just emojis. Not just his usual answer. Words.

  I wasn’t supposed to be awake, considering that it’s way past midnight. I wasn’t supposed to have my phone nearby or use it in here for that matter. I wasn’t supposed to get an answer from him at all. In truth, I was hoping, but…

  “It’s about time I see a smile on that pretty face.”

  The comment breaks through my thoughts. I rapidly scan my surroundings. Because of the size, excessive A/C, and inability to open the windows, the hospital room reeks of antiseptic… and sickness. I welcome the familiar scent, though. Sadly enough, this place has become my home away from home. It’s impersonal. It’s cold. It’s friendly, nonetheless… I spend way too much time here for my taste. For now, it’s dark outside and way too bright in the room.

  “Was I smiling?” I ask the tall and sturdy Nurse Paul, who’s studying me from a few feet away. His presence is reassuring; I trust him. Thanks to him, I have access to my phone to combat my boredom and loneliness since waking up in the middle of the night and being unable to fall back to sleep.

  “You sure were.” He pauses, then inquires in his high-pitched voice, “Are you ready to give me your phone back?” He takes a few steps towards me. “Nah, I’ll let you keep it a while longer. I can see that it brought you joy, Mademoiselle Godefroy… I mean, Madame.”

  I don’t argue with the first part of his comment; it’s quite accurate. “Nah, don’t bother, please. Addressing me by Miss is perfect, or you can call me by my first name, of course. Madame Godefroy was my mother, and she’s no longer with us.” At the thought, my heart breaks a little, and my eyes travel across the room to settle on the friendly man’s face.

  I miss my mother every single day. After she died, the devoted Catherine tried her best to fill the void left by her absence. I miss the precious confidant that Mother proved to be for me. After Catherine left, it took me a while to allow myself to lean on Sophie, who was in most of my classes. I miss the fighter that Mother was and taught me to be. After Sophie and I became fast friends, I realized how acutely the values that Mother taught me singled me out.

  Fairness proponent. Independent woman. Outspoken person. My sisters don’t follow the trend, but I guess that it runs in the family since my grandmother was one of the first women to earn a PhD from an American university. Add Father’s sense of honor, alpha tendencies, and business drive to the mix and you’ve got me. Tough luck!

  “But isn’t Madame the proper way of addressing women and girls, for equality’s sake?” My mouth feels as dry as the desert due to the treatment, and swallowing is more painful than usual. “I don’t believe in fighting such ridiculous battles. What’s the point of such a meaningless gesture when women still aren’t treated fairly at work, for example?”

  Nurse Paul’s hands fly above his head in surrender.

  “I shouldn’t get all worked up over nothing, Paul.” Yeah, I’m on a first-name basis with most of the staff due to my frequent visits over the last few months, and he still refuses to call me Aliénor. “That won’t help me rest, will it?” He approaches, offers a timid smile, hands me a bottle of water, and checks if the drip is correctly placed. I look at what captures his attention. “I’m really sorry that I made things difficult earlier with being a hard stick.”

  “Don’t be. It’s my job, and you’re my favorite patient. Your nerves were natural. I’m glad to see you happy. It’s a nice change.” Am I always this gloomy girl? I used to smile all the time, didn’t I? Well, that was then, this is now. So I shrug at the man now seated on the edge of my narrow hospital bed. “I’m just glad that I allowed you to check your phone. Now, fill me in. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  With his assumption, my face heats in embarrassment. Instinctively my arms circle my waist, and I brace myself.

  For what?

  Yeah, good question, I tell the little voice inside my head.

  Taking in my reaction, the thirty-something nurse apologizes. I think that he resembles the infamous drag queen RuPaul. Minus the extravagant wig. Minus the outrageous makeup. Minus the fancy get-ups, that is. He and I have this odd relationship where we sometimes confide some of our deepest secrets and other times have a communication roadblock. Granted, the fact that we only see each other in the oncology ward must be increasing my edginess. My curiosity wins over.

  “What made you think a guy was involved?”

  “Well… Your body relaxed. Your eyes widened. Your cheeks reddened. Even I could see all that from where I was standing by the door… Come on, you know that I’ll take your confession to the grave.” He gives me his most genuine smile.

  When I discovered a lump in my breast over the summer and met Paul shortly after—upon my admission to the hospital to get rid of the small tumor that had rapidly grown—we established that joking about death was allowed. I claimed that it was part of life, and no one should mince their words around me. I’m fighting it head on. I’ll be here for the next couple of days to get another post-op check-up; I’ve been feeling completely drained lately.

  I’m trying my best to be brave, I really am. I was told that I was young and had a better chance of recovery. I was told that I was healthy but would have to make some adjustments to ensure that I stay in remission. I was told that I was lucky to have been diagnosed early, unlike Mother.

  How ironic to think that finding breast cancer could be considered lucky!

  I let out a bitter snort as I confirm, “Yeah, there’s a guy.”

  I’m not sure why I said that. It’s not a lie, but it insinuates that there’s more to it than the reality of my non-relationship with Tig de Luca. The man who needs to be taught a lesson because, to me, he represents all the players of the world. The man who ignored the majority of most of my previous posts, despite my dedication. The man who somehow saw through me, although he doesn’t know me from Adam.

  I shiver at that.

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  I nod absentmindedly. “I guess.” My hesitation is evident.

  “You know what? Take your time. Enjoy this moment. I’ll come back in a while.”

  “No, no… I just want to answer this really quick… I just don’t want to interrupt your rounds… I just—”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Godefroy.” He stares at me, and his eyes say everything that his mouth doesn’t. Compassion. Relief. Hope. “You’ve been isolated lately, and having someone
to confide in could be beneficial in your state... especially if that person puts a smile on your face. That’s precious.”

  Could you be right?

  I avert his gaze and let out a heavy sigh. “Thanks for your support.”

  “Anytime… And it might even work to my advantage. If he really helps you relax, your results might be better tomorrow.”

  Riiight!

  He stands up and winks. “I’ll be back in five, okay?” Without waiting for my approval, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Another heavy sigh leaves my chest. My pulse accelerates for some reason.

  Alie G: I’m sorry.

  Warmth permeates my body as I type the words. It’s true; for once in my life, I am sorry. I doubt that the emotion is meant for him because his behavior towards women is pitiful, shameful, and unforgivable, and I blame him for his actions. But, in truth, this comment is directed at myself.

  Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself.

  This sure isn’t how I pictured the months that followed my decision to go after this Tig guy. I did have some fun over the summer—too many men, too little time. None of them were worth the effort that I devoted. Thank God, I found time to upload a couple of videos to my YouTube channel before this whole mess started. Some female empowerment quotes. Some portraits of empowered women. Some book recommendations for self-empowerment.

  If I’d only known that I wouldn’t be able to make it back to school. If I’d only known that I wouldn’t be able to continue with my carefree life. If I’d only known that I wouldn’t be able to travel to the U.S. this year.

  With my mind focused on my own diagnosis, my most recent posts have included health and exercise tips. The doctors ordered me to be fully recovered before attempting to train for a marathon like I joked about. Still, if my body refused to obey me for the time being, I had to find a way to express my new self. My damaged self. My sick self. Through my social media platform, I showed myself as if I were healthy. The fact that I don’t reveal my face helped me to carry on the charade. I became a master at lying by omission. Online and offline.

  Tig’s reply caught me off-guard, but we’re not friends and never will be. He’s a means to an end, and I have nothing better to do with my time than to fulfill my plan. The circumstances changed, not the mission.

  Alie G: All of your paintings express a darkness that appeals to me.

  The corner of my mouth quirks up expectantly.

  Will you take the bait?

  Waiting for his potential answer is utterly frustrating. My butt slides down the cheap sheets, and my upper thighs burn from the friction. Dammit! I breathe deeply and manage to relax a bit. Our conversation was supposed to aid in my relaxation, and it’s doing the opposite. My patience is already wearing thin. (Not that I have much to begin with, but what can I say? As Sybil enjoys reminding me on a regular basis, I’m young and impulsive!) There are no dots to indicate that he’s typing or debating or deleting. If it weren’t so late, I’d view his latest videos on his approaches to painting so I could use his own words and eventually turn them against him.

  Tig: And yet, your comments are anything but dark.

  Are they?

  Without thinking about it, I briefly check what I’ve written on his posts over the past few months.

  Damn, he’s right! But why is he saying that?

  Alie G: Would you like them better dark?

  As for his posts, they’re usually witty and funny. It was easy to comment on them.

  A new notification pops up.

  Mmm… Let’s see…

  I wonder who it could be at this hour, considering that my close family dropped me off and spent the entire afternoon taking turns to entertain me the best they could. Father was even more devastated than I was when the biopsy results from my lump came in… I never thought I’d see the day that he’d become uber-protective. I mean, it makes sense that he lost his wife and realized that he might lose me sooner than later. That thought’s colored my mind and mood from the moment that I was diagnosed. Ironically enough, being here grants me a reprieve from his overbearing self.

  The despicable man manages to surprise me yet again by PMing me.

  Tig: Hi, it’s easier this way. The answer to your question is no. Can’t deny my art has a darkness to it. Do you realize you’re the only person who actually reads my posts?

  I snort at his message, and I hate myself for it. My fingers seem to have a mind of their own while the smirk on my face stays put.

  Alie G: Thanks for the PM. What do you mean “the only person”?

  The once-famous man has less followers than I do, but still, that simply can’t be true. He doesn’t have tons of comments on his posts; flattery won’t get him anywhere with me.

  Tig: Exactly what I just said: nobody reads the captions. Your comments tell me you do. So, thank you. The posts that get the most attention are the tattoos and piercings. Yours are mostly on my paintings and you’re always nice and supportive.

  The frivolous man actually analyzed my interactions while I thought that they had remained unnoticed.

  Alie G: You’re welcome… I guess.

  The foolish man believes that my intentions are good. But then again, why wouldn’t he? I’ve been nothing but nice to him, and I intend to keep it that way, for now. I originally strategized interacting with him earlier. I originally envisioned building a make-believe relationship over a few months. I originally expected to meet him in person over Christmas break and use him like he used all those women… But fate got in the way.

  Tig: Also, I meant to apologize.

  Alie G: What for?

  Tig: Not being responsible 4 the pics & captions that got your attention.

  Alie G: Is the person I’m “talking” to Tig?

  Tig: I am ;-)

  Alie G: You’ve lost me.

  Tig: My admin is to thank. You might be disappointed by my own posts.

  What?

  I actually say that aloud, and Nurse Paul comes running. I offer him an apologetic smile and gesture for him to sit down since I’m almost done. He doesn’t comply and checks my stats instead.

  My attention drifts back to Tig’s last message.

  All this time, I did my best to guarantee he’d notice me, and he wasn’t even on the receiving end. I have no idea how he finally figured me out. But who cares? What matters is that he reached out to me like I had wanted. So, who cares? It took longer than I had hoped. Yet, who cares? It didn’t happen as I had planned… But it just did. There’s no way I’ll be able to see him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s in for a treat!

  Alie G: Try me.

  Why do I picture him with a satisfied smile on his smug face? Why do I hear him chortling at my words across the distance? Why do I feel like I’ve made a pact with the devil?

  Tig: Deal.

  Chapter Six

  Lucid Dreams

  Tig

  As happy as I’d be to slap the woman sitting across the dinner table from me, I behave and plaster a fake smile on my face. I focus on the light jazz that’s playing in the background and cough to give myself time to think of a witty comeback, but I’m delighted when my new favorite person saves me the trouble.

  “We already went over this, Mommy.” Ten-year-old Chloe shoots a murderous glare at Genevieve, who puts her fork down under her daughter’s patronizing tone and eyes her quizzically. Afterwards, she turns her attention to her new husband, Keaton, as if searching for clues. I enjoy that he simply shrugs, which probably means that he doesn’t want to be part of the conversation. That leaves hostile Genevieve, charming Chloe, and bitter me. The rest of the guests are unconcerned by this little exchange that I find utterly tiring, and it has nothing to do with Chloe.

  “Uncle Tig...” One. Two. Three. As if on cue, Graham’s ex swallows one of the oysters arranged on her plate and shivers. She does that whenever her daughter refers to me this way. “He had a drinking problem.” Graham’s daughter frowns at her offensive mother. “Because he
was so sad. Now that he quit, he no longer consumes alcohol. Ever. How many times do we have to explain it to you?” The funny thing about Chloe is that she’s spot-on, matter-of-fact, and sweet. “Here you go.” She pours me a tall glass of sparkling water, then shrugs. “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure whether she’s apologizing for her mother’s behavior or for the fact that I’m bound to indulge in the same variety of bubbles that she is while the other adults are sipping champagne.

  “I apologize for being so forgetful.”

  Forgetful, my ass!

  This woman clearly dislikes me and everything that I represent, and the feeling is mutual. I guess I’ve never forgiven her for trying to tear Graham and Soraya apart. Thankfully, Keaton is a great guy who doesn't give a flying fuck about my collection of tattoos, my beverage of choice, or my signature scruff that I didn’t bother to shave for the occasion.

  Calm your tits, man! After all, without her, Chloe wouldn’t be here and you love that kid.

  You’re probably wondering why I’m celebrating New Year’s Eve with a woman I despise. Graham invited me a while ago because he and Soraya are more into small family gatherings than extravagant country club parties, and he claims that I’m family. At some point, he remembered that he had custody of Chloe during Christmas break but didn’t have the heart to separate her from her mother.