The Girl in the Painting

“That’s crazy,” Lily chimes in just before she lifts her camera in front of her face to snap a photo.

I couldn’t respond if I wanted to. My lungs are too tight with shock, and my heart has migrated its way into my throat. So, all I do is nod, but on the inside, I’m rocks and dirt and dust crumbling to the ground.

Vivid memories assail me, and I grab at my chest to find what surely must be a knife. And closer and closer the walls of the gallery come, suffocating me until I can’t breathe.

My fingers tremble, and my flight response kicks in.

“I think I’m g-gonna walk outside,” I say through the tightness in my throat.

“What?” Matt asks, but when his eyes lock on to my face, his gaze goes wide. “Indy? You okay, babe?”

I shake my head. “I don’t feel so well.”

I turn on my heels and push through the crowd until I reach the long white hall that leads to the bathrooms.

I’m in the stall and barely getting the door shut when a rush of nausea overwhelms me, and I almost don’t make it to the toilet in time.

Fucking hell. What just happened out there?

What did I just see?

By the time I get myself together enough to step out of the stall, my sister is standing beside the sink with concerned eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asks and hands me a wet paper towel to wipe my mouth.

I nod and take in my pale and clammy reflection in the mirror as I move the towel across my forehead and lips.

“What happened?”

That fucking painting happened.

“I don’t know.” I shrug and throw the towel into the wastebasket beneath the sink. “All of a sudden, I just felt nauseous.”

It’s at least partially the truth.

The rest, I can’t even understand myself, much less try to explain it to someone else.

“Wait…” Her eyes go wide. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I roll my eyes and turn on the faucet. “You have to have sex to get pregnant.”

“You have a boyfriend, Indigo Davis,” she retorts with a furrowed brow. And I know when she uses my full name, she means business. “A boyfriend whom you’ve been with for over a year, by the way. I sure as fuck hope you’re having sex. One of us should be.”

“Well, he travels a lot,” I retort, trying to cover over my embarrassing truth. “And, plus, I’m on the pill.”

To be honest, I can’t even remember the last time Matt and I had sex.

Has it really been that long since we’ve had sex?

I try to count the days in my head, but when I reach three weeks, I stop altogether and choose to explore that shocking realization another time. Preferably one that doesn’t involve me puking in a public restroom.

“Well, if you’re not pregnant, then what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug and wash my hands. “I think it was just a bad combination of it being too hot and crowded inside this gallery and the fact that I ate tuna salad for lunch.”

“Ew.” She grimaces. “I can’t even think about tuna fish after hearing you hurl into the toilet.”

“How do you think I feel?” I question on a laugh. “I was the one hanging over said toilet, doing all of the hurling.”

Lily’s bright-red lips crest up into a smile. “What do you say we head out of here and get you home? Pretty sure your stomach isn’t going to be able to tolerate tacos right now.”

For once in my life, I can agree that tacos are a bad idea.

“Definitely not.” I dry my hands with a paper towel and turn off the faucet. “Let’s head home.”

When we leave the bathroom, I find Matt standing at the end of the hall, worry written all over his face.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say and force a reassuring smile to my lips. “I think I just got overheated, and the tuna fish I ate for lunch didn’t respond too well to that.”

“You sure that’s all it is?”

“Positive.” I nod. “But I am sure I want to go home now.”

Thankfully, Matt doesn’t give any pushback, and it doesn’t take long before we’re heading toward the front doors of the gallery. But this time, I’m smart enough to keep my eyes toward the ground as we pass through the exhibition. Avoiding everything and everyone inside the building.

My heart has had enough for the day.

Tomorrow, I’ll try to wrap my head around the girl in Ansel Bray’s painting.

Ansel

“First, I want to thank you for taking the time to chat with me this morning,” Just Debra, as she’s introduced herself, with the Los Angeles Times says, and I rein in my inner asshole and focus on remaining cordial.

She’s just doing her job, I remind myself.

“Sure,” I respond in the friendliest voice I can manage. It sounds a little too much like I’m imitating Clark Griswold, but at least it’s devoid of irritation and annoyance.