The Girl in the Painting

I remove myself from the call before my brother can protest, and I shout victory into the crisp emptiness of my brownstone.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly how you end an interview early.

By the time I’m almost ready to head into my personal studio on the second level of my house, my phone vibrates with a text message.

Bram: You’re such a dick.

I chuckle and type out a quick response.

Me: Consider it payback for that time you sent a car full of your groupies to my house at three in the morning.

Bram: But they wanted to meet the illustrious Ansel Bray. Who was I to say no?

That fucking night. It took me nearly an hour to get the drunk, extremely loud, and scantily clad ladies inside my driver Hank’s Escalade and on their way home.

Me: Well, Mr. Accommodating, I’ll keep that in my mind the next time someone stops me on the street to tell me how much they love New Rules…

Next time that happens, I’ll personally escort them to his fucking house.

Bram: And I’ll be sure to get you on the line every time someone asks me about the girl in your painting…

I cringe. The one painting I didn’t want to put in the show, the one painting I hoped would fly under the radar, is the one painting everyone appears to be fixated on.

Me: People are asking you about her too?

Bram: Apparently my publicist is up to her ears today with calls about the girl in your painting.

I click my phone to sleep and walk into the bathroom to take a shower and get ready to head to my studio.

I’ve got more visions of her to paint.

But before I hop in the shower, my phone pings with another text.

Fully prepared to see Bram’s name, I tilt my head to the side when I read the name Lennon Quill on the screen.

Fucking hell. I groan, already annoyed.

Lennon Quill is a guy I’ve known since I was in my early twenties and is a complete fucking mess.

A cocaine-dabbling, fedora-wearing, self-proclaimed hipster who tries to chase other people’s fame because he can’t find an artistic voice of his own.

The only reason his number is programmed into my phone is to ensure I avoid his toxicity. Because that’s exactly what he is—toxic.

Unfortunately, given the amount of time that’s passed since I last heard from him, I’m too damn curious not to open his message.

Lennon Quill: Great show, dude. Truly impressed with the new works. And it was clever to have her at the opening, but not admitting she’s the inspiration.

What is he talking about?

I shake my head as I read the message again. When it still doesn’t make sense, I have to assume it’s being brought to me courtesy of a bender.

It’s an easy decision.

Ignore. Delete. And go on about my day.

Indy

Two hours ago, I gave Matt a kiss goodbye and watched him hop into a black town car and head for the airport. He’s on his way to another business trip that includes big European companies and the installation of some sort of high-tech computer program.

Considering my knowledge of computers revolves around how to find Microsoft Word and my iTunes library, it’s all a bit over my head.

He will be gone for twenty-one days, and his itinerary will take him through several stops in Europe—France, Italy, Germany, and a few other countries I don’t even remember.

No doubt, it’s a long time to be away from my boyfriend, but I’m used to it.

My phone vibrates across the coffee table, and I pause my mindless search for something to watch on television and check the screen.

Sally. Again. This is the second call in the last three weeks. It’s way more than her usual twice a year, but not enough to make me hit accept. I’m not ready, and something emergent would surely warrant more calls than this.

I slide my phone back onto the table, and it vibrates again immediately. I’m almost scared to look, but something about being in my thirties means I’m not allowed to be a total baby anymore.

This time, it’s a text from Matt.

Matt: Getting ready to board now. Here’s to hoping these next three weeks fly by. Miss you already, baby.

Baby. My lips turn down at the corners.

Terms of endearment have never really been my thing, but they’re sort of Matt’s thing, so I try to oblige.

But I can’t deny it grates on my nerves a bit. Or a lot, if I’m really being honest with myself.

Me: Have a safe trip and let me know when you land. XOXO.

Matt: I will. Promise if you start feeling bad again, you’ll go to the doctor?

After my abrupt departure from the gallery the other night, he’s been urging me to get checked out.

It’s been a long forty-eight hours of reassuring him I’m fine and him obsessing over stomach viruses and weird diseases.