The Girl in the Painting

“Ansel Bray.”

Me: For an artist named Ansel Bray. Meet me at my apartment around 7.

Lily: HOW DID YOU GET TICKETS TO ANSEL BRAY’S SHOW?? ON OPENING NIGHT, NO LESS!

I blink at her overexcited text. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s had too much coffee this morning?

Me: One of Matt’s clients.

Lily: Well, that was FUCKING GENEROUS. I write an arts and entertainment column for the New York Press, and I couldn’t get tickets.

Me: I’m not really seeing what all the excitement is about.

Lily: Seriously, Indy? He’s a HUGE deal. And now, thanks to Matt, I get to write my next column about Ansel Bray’s FIRST SHOW BACK!!!

Me: So, it’s a yes?

Lily: SAVE A TICKET FOR ME OR DIE.

Ah, sibling love.

Me: Fine. Also, we’re getting tacos afterward at El Torro.

Lily: WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT TACOS RIGHT NOW? WE’RE GOING TO ANSEL BRAY’S SHOW!

Me. I care about tacos.

Not even a minute later, my phone starts vibrating across the kitchen counter with Incoming Call Lily flashing across the screen.

“Hey, Lil,” I greet, but she’s already off to the races.

“Oh. My. God!” she shouts so loudly, I have to pull the device away from my ear. “Indy! You have no idea how excited I am now! I can’t believe we’re going to this show tonight!”

I swear, sometimes Lily is like a little Chihuahua all hopped up on speed.

She’s only eighteen months older than me, but it’s almost as if we have completely different DNA. She’s boisterous, super outgoing, insanely chatty, and I’m mellow, a little bit introverted, and prefer to keep my emotions close to the vest.

Obviously, our parents didn’t mix at all. They split chromosomal donation cleanly by alternating children. Lily is Holly Davis to a T, and I’m one hundred percent Mac Davis’s daughter.

“Well, I’m glad you’re excited.”

“Excited?” she shouts. “I’m over the fucking moon!”

I grimace. Her current mood is a bit too much for me this morning.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you tonight…” I attempt to end the call, but she doesn’t let me off the hook that easy.

“Wait a minute…are you okay?” she asks. “You sound off…”

“It’s nothing.” I shrug and pick at a piece of invisible lint on my pants. “I’m fine.” There’s no way I’m going to drudge up old demons right now. I’ve done pretty well this morning, and after this many years, you’d think I’d at least be moving in the direction of getting over it.

“Well, then liven up, buttercup,” she commands. “We’ve got tickets to the hottest show in town, and there’s no way I’m going to let you ruin it by moping before eight a.m.”

I swallow against the pull of melancholy and take her advice. The day hasn’t even started yet, and at least I’ll get to spend the evening with my sister. “You’re right.”

She groans. “Of course, I am.”

“And so humble.”

“Who needs to be humble when they’ve got tickets to see Ansel Bray’s long-anticipated collection?”

“Not you.”

“Fucking right.”

I roll my eyes and, despite myself, even manage a little laugh. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“That’s right,” she says, and her voice jumps in octaves. “You’ll see me tonight at Ansel Bray’s show!”

At seven on the dot, my always on-time sister shows up at my apartment, dressed in a sleek white pantsuit and tapping her watch impatiently at my lack of readiness.

It takes me another fifteen or so minutes to fix my long dark locks into somewhat manageable waves down my back and decide on my outfit of choice—a simple blush shift dress, heels, and a vintage cape with gold buttons.

My sister bitches at my lack of timeliness for most of the Uber ride to the gallery, but once we pull up in front of the building, she drops the attitude and goes straight into journalist mode.

I, on the other hand, take a weird nose dive into anxiety.

I have no idea what has me so on edge. Maybe it’s the crowd? The day? Because I’m already hungry for tacos?

Who knows, but I breathe through it and show the tickets Matt had couriered from his office to my classroom this afternoon to the security guard at the entrance.

We’re barely five feet inside the front doors when Lily is stopped by a gray-haired gentleman holding a complimentary glass of wine. He animatedly asks her about a recent column she published about the Guggenheim, and my sister goes into her full smiley, outgoing, extrovert mode.

As their conversation barrels into journalist mumbo jumbo, my phone buzzes inside my purse with a text.

Matt: Sorry I’m running late, babe. I’m still stuck in the meeting, but trying to leave as soon as I can.

Internally, I groan. The only reason I’m here is because Matt said we had to make an appearance. And yet, here I am, without him.

But when I glance back at my sister and find her totally in her element, chatting it up and smiling at her number one fan, I realize the evening isn’t entirely lost. At least someone is gaining something from this boring art exhibition.