Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

I helped Bryan pick the paintings up off the floor while we both hung them on the walls. It didn’t matter that almost all of John’s paintings had sold. It didn’t matter that we’d racked up close to ten thousand dollars because of this showcase. It no longer mattered that we were shipping his artwork everywhere from Texas to South fucking Africa.

Now, the only thing that mattered was why his parents were here.

They had somehow found a way to make it about them even though it wasn’t.

“Mom. Dad,” Bryan said.

“Hello, son,” Michael said.

“It’s very nice to see you two again,” I said.

His mother turned to look at me, clocking my hair and the way it matched my dress before her lips downturned in a very staunch disapproval.

“I didn’t expect to see you guys here,” Bryan said.

“We didn’t expect to come,” Dorothy said.

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

Bryan took my hand solidly within his, trying to quell the tremble that was reverberating throughout his body.

“Just taking things in,” Dorothy said.

“Looks like John had some talent,” Michael said.

“He did. About eighty percent of his artwork has sold in the past two and a half hours,” I said.

“You’re selling them for ten dollars apiece?” Dorothy asked.

So, they’d read the articles leading up to this gallery. That meant they knew the whole story about how Bryan and I met. About John and his death. About how I’d met their son and how Bryan and I were tethered and bound together before we’d even met one another. They knew the whole story, from A to Z, and they were still acting like rich, pretentious assholes.

“No. They’re selling anywhere from one hundred and fifty to seven hundred dollars apiece,” I said.

I could see the shock roll over Michael’s face, but if Dorothy seemed shocked, she didn’t show it. Whether it was the Botox recently shot into her forehead or whether she was just that callous, I no longer cared. If this was the kind of atmosphere they were going to bring to a celebration of life, they could exit the way they came in.

“Well, we better be off,” Dorothy said, sighing.

“Thank you for allowing us to come view a few of his pieces,” Michael said.

Bryan nodded, still clearly in shock as I laced my fingers with his.

“You’re welcome in here anytime. Is there a painting you want me to set aside for the two of you?” I asked.

“Nope. That’ll be all, thank you,” Dorothy said.

And with that, they exited in haste.

“What the hell just happened?” Bryan asked breathlessly.

“Maybe they were coming here to start coping with John’s death,” I said.

“I don’t think my parents are capable of that sort of thing,” he said.

“I’d like to hold out hope since they came, despite the fight you got into with them.”

“You think they were really here to start processing his death?” he asked.

“I think that anything’s possible when someone’s art can bind a community the way John’s art has.”