I drag on the first underwear I pull out of the drawer. My hair is still wet, but I don’t care. I scrape it into a ponytail. It’s hot out, and I throw on a simple sundress.
Now dressed, I finally allow myself to turn on my phone. Nothing. Not a single text or missed call from Lawson. My heart sinks.
For whatever reason, I’d expected to have dozens of them. But zero? I guess that means he’s got the hint and given up, just like I wanted. That’s what I wanted, right?
So why does the lack of messages hurt so much?
The only thing I know to do is trudge into my studio. Without any plan, I set up three new blank canvases and prepare my paints.
In a repeat of yesterday, I take out my emotions on the canvases. Reds, blues and grays are soon spiraling and intertwining with each other.
No paint gets on the floor or walls. Instead, the painting is more delicate than yesterday. There’s less anger and more sadness. The longer I paint, the more despair ends up in front of me.
Am I romanticizing him because he was my first? Or is it because he was the only person I’ve ever cared about as much as I care about my art.
Or am I right in thinking I’ve been duped by him? That he used me?
The more I think about it, the more angry red spatters begin appearing across my canvases.
Lawson cost me the commission with Kelso, just like he cost me my job at Johnny’s. Things like that just don’t matter to the rich.
It’s seems a little too difficult to believe he didn’t come up to Kelso’s bedroom to have sex. And to be found by Kelso, as a way to score points in the war between them.
But I don’t want that to be true.
Kelso was a creep from the day I started working for him. There was no surprise when he acted the way he did when I went back to his house. Just remembering him touching me sends a wave of nausea through my body.
At least one thing isn’t in doubt: Kelso’s a creep.
But he didn’t do anything to me until he walked in on Lawson and me. If that hadn’t happened, I would’ve been able to avoid him and finish the commission, collect my fat paycheck and put on a gallery show.
Why did Lawson come to the house that morning?
But the biggest issue of all is why doesn’t Lawson care that I lost the commission? He seemed relieved by it. Why doesn’t he care how important it is to me? That’s what really hurts so much.
I glance over to the abstract paintings I did yesterday. I shake off my smock and pick up the canvas I think conveys the most hurt. Even though it’s abstract, there’s no mistaking the anguish I was feeling when I created it.
Lawson won’t be able to miss the way he made me feel. And right now, I need him to acknowledge the way losing the commission hurt me. I lay it in my trunk and get in my car.
After a couple of wrong turns, I find my way to Lawson’s mansion. I get out the painting and balance it on one arm while I ring the doorbell.
“Yes?” a man says as he opens the door.
“I’m looking for Lawson.”
“Mr. Heywood isn’t home, would you like to leave that for him?” he asks, nodding toward the painting.
I pause, debating, deciding.
“No, it’s okay. He asked me to deliver this into his hands. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“He’s at work now, I don’t know how long he’ll be.”
I have to try. “Oh, is he at the office?”
“I believe he’s gone to the newest hotel for a meeting.”
“Thanks.”
I flop back in my car and take out my phone. A quick poke around on their website and I have the address for the latest hotel. And it’s local! I’d figured it would be in Los Angeles or San Francisco or somewhere even further away.
A local hotel is easy. I drive to it, wondering how big of a scene my presence will create. I don’t want anything public, that’d be humiliating.
The hotel is super fancy looking. The kind of place only the rich can afford. It’s smaller than I’d anticipated, with a stylish Georgian front.
Even though I shouldn’t, I leave my car parked in front of the entrance, I’m surprised there’s no valet parking.
I grab my painting, balancing it on both arms, like I’m delivering pizza. My purse is slung over my shoulder. Halfway between the car and the door, my phone rings. I ignore it and stroll inside.
The lobby is subdued. Vases of fresh-cut flowers fill the room with their scent. Busy rehearsing what I’m going to say, I vaguely notice pictures in heavy frames around the room. It feels more like walking into a home than a hotel lobby.
Halfway to the front desk, I realize the painting hung behind it is one of mine. A glance to the left shows me two more of my paintings along that wall. I come to a standstill and shift my body to the right. Two more of my paintings hang there, between the blue hydrangeas.