“I can guarantee you don’t know what goes on here, lady.”
“All right. How about this? I think you have an interesting take on Ian. I even looked through the digitized Polaroids you created for Lila. It’s a different approach. One I wouldn’t have envisioned, and I think that might be helpful when it comes to him. He’s a wild card in many ways.”
“Truer words. And I get it. You’re one of those people who has a spin for everything. I’m just too busy to get involved in Ian’s kind of crazy.”
“All I’m asking is you think about it. It’s a good deal for the both of you. I’ll text you my details.”
“I don’t need to think—”
But the line went dead. I tossed the phone on my kitchen island. Save me from Type-A women who think they’re doing things for my benefit. Almost always, it was for theirs.
I shoved my fingers into my hair. Shower. I needed a shower before Ginny arrived. And I did not need to think about Sabrina or Ian any more today. It was bad enough he was larger than life on a dozen of my canvases.
Fifteen minutes later, I had my brushes soaking and I’d scrubbed the worst of the paint off of me. The shower did the rest. I took a few extra minutes to dress like a real girl and do something with my wild hair. My backup alarm told me I only had ten minutes. I rushed around my studio and put away the extra canvases that didn’t pertain to my collection. Except the one that was still wet. I wasn’t entirely sure I could make that one work in the collection, but at least it was sort of in the right vein.
I shoved extra supplies in my drawers, slamming them as I went. One bounced back open and the corner of the glossy photo stuck out. My fingers curled into my palm. Me and Ian on the beach. Me laughing at him as he strummed on his guitar. Well, I can only assume it was me laughing, since I remembered the day so well.
The black marker X over my face seemed unnecessarily cruel.
It was the second one I’d received. The first had been addressed to J Town with just my first name, but this one actually had gone to my personal P.O. Box. The one I only used for my freelance jobs.
I’d thrown out the first one. I wasn’t sure why I was keeping the second.
Considering the vitriol I saw on my Instagram account by the fans Ian had accrued in his short career, it wasn’t overly surprising. They didn’t even know me and a large percentage of them hated me. I had no real ties to Ian other than a few sightings and videos, but it didn’t seem to matter.
My phone buzzed, and I stuffed the photo deeper into the drawer and slammed it shut again. I grabbed my phone and flicked away Ian’s last three texts to find Ginny’s, letting me know she was on her way down to me.
Showtime.
I shoved my phone in my pocket, straightened my jersey wrap dress, and made sure all my parts were covered before opening the door. I peeked outside and, sure enough, Ginny was striding down the hall. She wore a candy-red column dress that accentuated her long, willowy form. Matching red cat-eye glasses were perched on her blade of a nose. Her blond hair was cut in a severe pixie-like style, which also showcased the angles of her triangular face.
“Hello, Zoe.”
I pasted on a bright smile. “Nice to see you, Ginny.”
“I hope you have something for me this time.”
“I do.” I held open my door. “Come on in.”
She walked around my space, her arms crossed while her long fingers drummed lightly against her forearm. As usual, she didn’t say a damn word, which dragged the urge to babble out of some deep, ugly place in the back of my brain. The part that wanted to scream and defend my work.
The place I had to sit on whenever someone looked at my paintings.
Artists had it easy—except not. On like eighty levels of not. I still hadn’t recovered from my first show during college. The teachers liked to rip us apart with glee. They said it was to ready us for the ugliness of the real world, but I personally thought that was a crock of shit. They got off on the teardowns.
Ginny glanced at her phone, then up at the four canvases I had displayed, before finally turning her back on the whole thing. “Explain to me again what your thought process is on this collection?”
I swallowed and forced myself not to fidget. “I forwarded you my—”
“No, I don’t want your college term paper. I want you to tell me why this is the thing that expresses your artistic nature.”
I should be able to do
this. I wanted this residency more than anything. I’d learned so much about myself and my art just being here and surrounding myself with art and the community, but I didn’t have an answer for this. Which did not bode well for me.
“What I thought.”
I fisted my hands. “I’m creating amazing stuff.”