Pushing back the chair, I stand. My hands hesitate over the painting, unsure whether to take it with me or leave it for Lawson.
“What are you doing?” His voice is strained and he puts his hand over mine. His touch is electric.
“I need to go home, I need to figure things out.”
“Listen, we put a magazine in all our luxury hotel rooms. Because this is our new flagship boutique hotel and your work is the star of the show, we’ve decided to run an article on you.”
“An article? On me?” Through the chaos of my emotions, pride bubbles up to the surface.
“Yes. You heard from Rick how much of a hit your paintings have been. Will you at least let me interview you for the article?” Lawson shifts his weight. I can’t figure out if his voice is sharp from anger or frustration.
My breathing is getting faster by the minute. I bite my lips between my teeth and sit back down.
“Okay.”
Lawson hasn’t let go of my hand, and I make no attempt to pull it away. Instead, I relish the warmth the contact from his hand is radiating throughout me.
He clears his throat and asks, “Why do you paint?”
“To convey my emotion.” It’s all I can think about, it’s the reason I came here. I wanted him to know my pain. Except, now that I’ve learned what he’s done, I need to paint another, to sort out my thoughts. My mind races at the prospect of a new painting, I see a lot of yellows and oranges in it. Would my brush ever reach for the blacks and blues?
“Is that what this painting is about?”
“Yeah. It’s a break from my usual style. Do you get any sense of emotion from this?”
“It’s not very cheery.” Not very cheery? That’s an understatement.
“Do you get heartache? Anguish?”
“Yes, I’m absolutely feeling those things.”
“The feeling of being used?”
“No, there’s none of that. That situation definitely doesn’t exist.” He squeezes my hand to emphasis his point. I want to lean into him, to let him hold me while I digest everything that’s happened.
“I thought this was an interview for the article.”
Lawson smirks. “Don’t give me your sarcasm.”
Our eyes lock, and I don’t respond. I can’t. Not now that his eyes are holding me, their warmth comforting me so completely.
“Fine. How does it make you feel to see your creations displayed in our hotel lobby?”
“Shocked. It shocked me to see them.”
“But it must make you happy, or proud, or something?”
“All of that. But the real thing that makes me happy and proud is hearing about all the hotel customers who stop to admire them.”
“And try to buy them.”
“Yes, that too. Especially that.” That makes me more than happy. It makes my insides do backflips with relief and elation. People notice me. I am good. I must be, or my paintings would simply fade into the background. Chasing my dream might’ve been the right decision after all.
“You’re smiling, sunshine.”
“It’s a relief. Like a confirmation that I’m an okay artist.”
“You’re not an okay artist, you’re an amazing artist. You must see that now.”
“I used to think I was good, but it took so long for anybody to notice me. And when I finally did get noticed, it was for the wrong reason.”
“Wrong reason?” he asks, his eyebrow arched.
“Not for my art.”
“More for your ass in that tight waitress uniform, but followed quickly by both your personality and that picture you drew.”
“You found that sexy?”
“I thought that talent was pretty damn sexy. I’m still eagerly anticipating the self portrait of your sexy tits.”
An easy laugh flows from me. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to hear that laugh.”
“Like keep getting me fired?”
“Fucking hell, I thought we got past that.” The breeziness vanished from his voice. Instead there’s anger. I don’t want to push him away — the thought scares me. But he hasn’t given me time, and I need to decompress. Now I’m scared I’ll push him away just to get the time I need.
“I don’t want to have this conversation now.”
He closes his eyes and says, “Then let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about the Dodgers, or the latest Marvel movie, or the fucking weather, but for God’s sake, let’s keep talking.”
Lawson runs his fingers over my palm, and a tear trickles down my cheek.
Going to Voicemail
(Lawson)
Fucking hell. Time. Why does Skye need time? Isn’t it obvious to her how much I care about her? How much I need her in my life?