Her Best Friend's Dad

“That’s interesting.” A guy about my age is looking in the mirrors, reading the card posted beside the piece. If not for Beck, I could see myself being interested in this guy. He’s tall, well-built, and has the sort of jawline and sleepy eyes that always caught my attention during college. I explain to him about the recordings and show him how it works. “Are you the artist?” he asks.

“Yes, she is.” Beck is suddenly beside me, a shadow beyond my shoulder. “Lia is very talented.” He is gone just as quickly, but I can smell him long after the admirer has moved on to get a drink and chat with a gallery employee around my age. He was scared off by Beck, it seems. My feelings for him and my dedication to Tasha distract me, and it’s harder to focus on being truly present at the show.

Going back to the sculpture, I peer into the mirrors and straighten my blouse and skirt. I toy with one long curl that has escaped my updo, and I mentally paint a smile onto my face before making my muscles move to match the mental image. Fake it until you make it…

I don’t see Beck again at the show; I’m kept busy with making rounds to talk to prospective buyers and am led by my father to a journalist who is doing a review of my work for the newspaper. It’s been months since I felt a glimmer of hope in my art, and now I feel like a fucking rock star. Buoyant and joyful, I bounce from group to group until the last person leaves and the gallery owner has started to turn off lights. I’m disappointed that Beck didn’t find me to say goodbye before he left, but I know he was exhausted from traveling. At least I get to see him at work tomorrow.

“Lia, what are your thoughts on the show?” the owner asks.

“I think it went great. I know at least a few pieces sold.”

The woman laughs and shows me a stack of receipts. “I have seventeen sales slips here, Lia. You killed it tonight. Do you think you can have enough new pieces for next season’s lineup? We have a few weekend openings for a show. If you want to come in on Monday, we can compare schedules and settle up on what we owe you for the pieces.”

Agreeing, I dance past my portraits and sculptures on my way out the door. Tasha is waiting on me outside and is the first to hear the great news. “They want me back in four months for another show! I sold all but like four pieces!”

Excited for me, Tasha decides we need to celebrate. At least that’s her excuse for not going home yet. Chris is at a party, and after making sure it’s okay for us to crash, we head north. As nice as it is to just lean back into her heated seats and let Tasha drive, I miss having my own car. I miss not needing to borrow one or worry about transportation. Most of all, I miss the sensation of the night air blowing through my hair.

“You are going to look like a troll doll or like you’re doing the walk of shame if you keep that up, Lia. I forgot you are part dog with your need to stick your head out the window on the freeway,” Tasha teases. I can hear in her voice that she’s rolling her eyes at me. I don’t mind. It’s such a gorgeous night, and my heart is light with how well things are turning out.

My fingers smooth my hair back into the clip, and I sing along to the radio with Tasha. It’s easy to forget my worries when I’m with her.

We’re both laughing and more like the us we were before I went to art school. Walking into the stranger’s house glued at the hip, I feel nothing but joy even as I’m abandoned when she goes to find Chris. There are photographs on the wall and tons of symbols, and it takes a while for me to realize we are at a frat house. I avoided them during my years in college, and I’m not thrilled to be at this one now, but to see Tasha so happy, I can deal with almost anything. I perch on the arm of the couch beside them as she sits in Chris’s lap, and we’re chatting about the show, about life… It’s a near perfect ending to the day.

The music changes from something techno to something better for dancing, and Tasha is up and grabbing my hands before I even recognize the song. “Let’s dance, Lia!” Her moods are more up and down than mine!

I barely have a chance to close my water bottle before we find our way on to the dance floor. My skirt isn’t really meant for this, and when I spin, I know I’m showing more thigh than I intend. It’s so easy to lose myself in the beat when Tasha is laughing in front of me.