Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

“Does a child ever run before it walks, Mr. McBride?”

“Please dear, call me ‘Michael’,” he said.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Did Bryan run before he could walk?”

I could feel Bryan’s eyes on me, but I wasn’t backing down. They were insulting the very thing that kept me alive and afloat for years. They thought that art only existed when there was money because they were short-sighted and closed-minded.

I had this speech prepared for my own parents, but this venue would do for now.

“No, he didn’t,” Michael said.

“So, how do you expect cavemen to build corporations without having, say, heavy machinery to build their skyscrapers?” I asked.

“That isn’t the point,” his mother said. “The point was, the beauty of art is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it.”

“What if someone paid with their life?” I asked.

The entire table froze, and I had to hold my ground. I was saying too much. Speaking too much. Allowing my mouth to run away with my mind. I had to reel it back in. I had to take a deep breath and start over.

So that’s exactly what I did.

“I pity you. The both of you.”

“You what?” his mother asked.

“I pity you. For your ignorant attitude. The mere idea that beauty doesn’t exist unless you pay for it is what has delved this society into the lack of morals it now holds. Every issue, every anxiety, every idea of sadness can be routed back to one very important rule, that only certain things can be beautiful. Only thin women can be gorgeous. Only money can buy you the prettiest boat. Only certain shades of certain skin tones can be photographed for magazines. Only certain colors that appeal to the eye can draw out certain emotions. The idea that beauty only exists within very specific terms is what fuels the mounting tensions of mental illness and undergirds the empty lifestyle of addiction. The mere fact that you feel that art is only beautiful if it is worth being purchased for a specific sum you put forth first completely negates the purpose of art itself.”

“Which is?” his mother asked.

“Expression. Emotional expression. Some people use it to come. Some people use it to clean up their acts. Some people use it as a release for stress. And some people use it bloom beauty into the darkness. You don’t have to pay for art for it to be beautiful. What makes it beautiful is the emotional reaction it pulls from the viewer. From the audience.”

“Did you pay for that hair dye of yours?” she asked.

“I did, but that point is mute since you don’t believe it’s appealing,” I said, grinning. “For two individuals who seem to be so obsessed with status and how they appear to the public, it’s odd for you to be so dismissive of a realm that has been soaked in wealthy patronage for hundreds of years. If you really want to make the argument, the only reason the artists you revere rose to any sort of status you truly admire is because of the money people were willing to pay for their paintings posthumously. So, with your argument, your Rembrandts I saw hanging in the hallway aren’t beautiful at all.”

“You mind your tone, young lady,” his mother said.

“It’s the same argument. No, my gallery is not full of Picassos and Pollocks and Van Goghs. It’s full of something better, people who want to bring beauty to the world. People who want to fill spaces with beauty that high society seems hellbent on ripping from us. It’s full of people reclaiming their lives and pouring out their souls. My gallery isn’t there to simply make money and pedal black-market paintings. My gallery is there to help a community that has been ravaged to a point where it’s been forgotten. You want to know what real beauty is? Real beauty is gazing into the eyes of darkness and not allowing it to dim the light you hold in your hand. Real beauty is looking right into the bleak darkness of the night as it caves in around you and saying, ‘I don’t give a shit.’ ”

“You mind that mouth of yours at this table,” Michael said.

“No, thank you,” I said. “According to your definition of art, the art hanging from your walls are the mere finger paintings I’m going to be hanging in my art gallery. Your dismissal of my gallery only shows your ignorance of the very history of the life you attempt to lead. That is why I pity you.”

I sat there in silence as I crossed my legs at my ankles. I felt Bryan’s hand slide up onto my thigh, squeezing it tightly while his parents resumed eating their meal. You could slice the tension in the room with my fork it was so tender, and suddenly I was no longer hungry for the meal set in front of me. I left it half-eaten on my plate while everyone else finished in silence, and once dessert was offered to us, I watched his mother shoo it all away.

Bryan took that as our cue to exit, so he helped me up from my seat, planted his hand on the small of my back, and we exited without another word said.

Chapter 25

Bryan

I led Hailey out of the house and straight for my truck. She was quiet and brooding, and all I wanted to do was get her out of there. Her eyes had this far-off stare to them like she was replaying them moments in her head. The nighttime trickled over the city of San Diego in an unassuming matter, unaware of the truth this beautiful woman had just spewed to my venomous parents.

“You okay?” I asked.

But all she did was squeeze my hand.

We rode in silence for quite some time. I wanted to take her back to my place and hold her, but something in my gut advised me against it. Her forehead was leaning against my truck window while our hands stayed intertwined, but I could feel her grip slowly loosening on mine.