The Girl in the Painting

I click the link, and my jaw goes slack when I see side-by-side pictures in the center of the article—Ansel’s painting and a picture of me that was taken for the school website last year.

I kind of want to vomit, and I can’t even get through the whole article before I’m grabbing my phone and calling my sister.

“Hey, buttercup,” she greets on the second ring. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Lily,” I ignore her greeting altogether. “What is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you write that Ansel Bray article?” I question, and my words come out harsh and rigid around the edges. “I mean, why was I even mentioned, Lil?”

“I told you I was going to write a column on him,” she responds without hesitation. “You were at the interview with me. I figured you at least had an idea of what I was going to write about.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I snap. “You really think I had an idea that you were going to include me, your sister, in the article? I feel completely blindsided by this!”

“Whoa,” Lily mutters, and surprise raises her voice. “You’re, like, insanely upset right now.”

“Of course, I’m upset!” I shout. “You put my picture in your column and didn’t give me any sort of heads-up,” I retort and stand up from the couch to start pacing the floor of my living room. “I mean, isn’t there some kind of code of ethics where you have to ask for permission to use someone’s photo before you publish it in the newspaper?”

“But you’re my sister,” she says like it’s some sort of excuse. “And it’s not like I said anything bad about you, Indy. I said all good things. I mean, I compared you to this amazing, gorgeous, stunning painting that people are raving about,” she continues, and it only makes me cringe more. “I’m a little confused on why you’re so mad about this… If anything, the article debunks the assumption that you’re the girl in the painting…”

Why am I mad?

Because…because I am!

You’re mad because this is going to make it harder to spend time with him.

Is that why I’m mad? Because Ansel is involved? Because I can’t seem to stop spending time with him, and this article is going to get in the way of our friendship?

My subconscious laughs at the use of the last word, but I tell it to fuck off.

I’m confused enough as it is without its two cents.

“Indy?” My sister’s voice fills my ear. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” I mutter and run a hand through my hair. “I’m just… I’m sorry I freaked out… I just… I guess I was just a little surprised.”

“It’s okay.” Lily lets out a deep exhale. “And I’m sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up. When I think about it, and hear your side of things, I guess I can understand why it might have upset you a little.”

“It’s fine, Lil.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks with concern.

“I’m fine. Promise.”

It’s a blatant lie, but I just can’t find the strength to pull her into my muddled web of feelings.

“We good, then?”

“Yeah.” I nod even though she can’t see me. “We’re good.”

“You’re not going to come over here and strangle me in my sleep or anything, right?” she jokes, and my laugh almost seems natural.

Ansel

“The buyer still wants to remain anonymous,” Nigel responds, and I roll my eyes. “But they’ve increased the offer.”

This is the third call I’ve received today about selling one of my paintings from the show in his gallery, and I was done with the conversation before the first call came through.

“I don’t really give a shit, Nigel.”

The first offer was $200,000.

The second offer was $250,000.

The third offer? Who fucking cares.

His soft chuckles fill my ears. “You don’t even want to hear the offer?”

“I’ll listen to the offer when this mysterious buyer tells me who they are.”

I’m not a fan of this smoke-and-mirrors approach. And, if I’m being honest, I’ll probably never sell the painting he’s after.

Fuck if I’m going to let some pretentious art collector store a painting I consider priceless in some secret art room where only wealthy friends and fellow investors can stare at it.

I’d rather cut off my dick than do that.

“I liked you a lot better when you were poor and desperate for money.” Nigel laughs again. “But I’ll let them know.”

“I liked you better when we were younger too.”

Nye mutters a selection of choice words, and a few moments later, we end the call.

Fifteen years ago, when I first jumped into the art scene, I was desperate. Desperate to make a name for myself and to make a living off my art.

My first big paycheck was for $1500, and you would’ve thought I’d won the goddamn lottery back then.

Obviously, times have changed. And as my success has grown and my bank account has thrived and my paintings have flourished in popularity and value, I’ve turned protective of my work.