The Girl in the Painting

The scrutiny of his gaze makes my chest grow tight with anxiety. I feel vulnerable. Exposed. Like I’m having that awful dream where I’m standing completely naked in the middle of my high school, except replace the school with this gallery. I rub my now sweaty palms across the material of my dress.

He grins, and I take it as my cue that I need to get the fuck out of there. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my sister.” I don’t give him time to respond and push through the crowd, paying absolutely no attention to the rest of the paintings, until I reach the rear of the gallery.

I rest my hip against an empty wall which is connected to a long back hall with a small sign that says restrooms resting above its archway and try to get myself together.

My chest is tight and my head feels fuzzy, and I don’t know how much longer I can stay here while my mind races with confusing thoughts and questions and memories I’d much prefer not to think about right now.

I stare at the tops of my nude pumps and force myself to take slow, deep breaths.

There has to be an explanation for this, I tell myself. It’s probably just some sort of weird coincidence.

And then I start to question the likeness of it all. Does that painting really look like me? Isn’t that kind of a narcissistic thing to think, Indy? That a beautiful painting looks like you?

Surely, I’m mistaken…right?

That guy in the fedora didn’t seem mistaken…

“Where did you go?” Lily asks, bumping me with a playful hip. I look up from my shoes to meet her eyes, and I find Matt standing beside her.

Looks like he finally arrived.

“We were looking everywhere for you.”

“Sorry, I was late, baby.” Matt grins and steps forward to plant a soft kiss to my lips. I feel oddly annoyed by it, but I swallow down the feeling with the rest of the intense emotions running through my veins.

“I thought you were going to text me when you were on your way?” I ask, and he wraps his arm around my shoulder, tucking me into his side.

“I did, but I guess you didn’t see it.”

Oh. Whoops.

“I guess so,” I mutter, but my mind is mostly just thinking that his body is too warm and I am too warm and, goddammit, is this gallery on the surface of the sun?

“You feeling okay?” Lily asks, and she scrutinizes my face.

“Yeah, it’s just a little crowded in here,” I say with a little shrug and a tug on the material of my dress. “I might need to step out and get some fresh air soon. I’m feeling overheated.”

“Well, if you can hang in there for a little longer, I just need to see a few more paintings. Maybe then I can walk outside with you while Matt finishes making his rounds?”

I want to tell them I’m ready to go right the fuck now, but I bite my tongue.

Matt wants to be here and Lily is here for work, and I want to respect that. I don’t want to be the emotional asshole who wrecks everyone’s evening.

So, I suck it up.

“Okay.”

Lily smiles and leads the way, with Matt and me in tow behind her.

All is well, until she leads us right back to that fucking painting.

Instantly, my heart flutters and flips beneath my rib cage, stealing the breath from my lungs.

Maybe they won’t notice.

“Holy shit,” Lily mutters, and she glances back and forth between me and the painting. “Indy, she looks like you!”

“Yeah.” Matt grins and squeezes my shoulder. “She really does look like you, baby.”

I try to shrug it off, but on the inside, I’m dying.

“You don’t see it?” Lily asks and I shrug again.

“Maybe a little,” I force out a lie.

“A little?” my sister questions on a laugh. “If I didn’t know you better, I might ask if you were Ansel Bray’s secret mystery muse or something.”

My heart drops to my stomach, and I think the words I am no one’s muse in my head. No one’s.

Matt grimaces but laughs at the same time. “Well, fuck. I don’t think I’d be too happy with that scenario.”

“I’m kidding!” Lily says and gives him a teasing pat to the shoulder. He takes it all in good humor. All in all, really, he’s happy.

And Lily’s happy.

Everyone’s just having the fucking time of their lives.

Everyone but me.

I try to laugh along with them, but I’m almost certain all I’ve managed is a silent grimace that has all the feminine appeal of Voldemort.

While my sister takes notes and pulls her camera out of her purse to take a photo, I stare at that damn painting, picking it apart for all the details I surely don’t share.

“Look, babe,” Matt says and points toward the painting, “she even has dimples and that little beauty mark on your cheek.”