But now, in Santa Monica, all of my strength and confidence is fading, replaced by a flutter of nerves that has me tapping my foot and twisting my skirt in my hand.
And the closer we get to Wyatt's studio, the more nervous I become. Because I'm not just going to be on display for Wyatt, but for the world. And even though I admire those women who already hang on his walls, I can't help but hear my father's voice like a low drone in my ear. An early warning system of some approaching doom that I could have prevented if only I'd been a good girl, the way I was supposed to be.
Wyatt's studio has access to a multi-level parking garage, and once he kills the engine, he turns to me, frowning slightly. "I lost you somewhere, didn't I?"
I shake my head and try to conjure a smile. "I'm right here. Really. It's just nerves." That, at least, isn't a lie. "Just the thought of being in front of a camera like that."
He doesn't answer for a second, and I'm not sure if he believes me or not. But then he smiles gently and squeezes my hand. "You'll do great. You already did, remember?"
I laugh. "Yeah, but then I ran."
"A valid point," he concedes. "But you're not going to do that this time."
"No," I promise. "I won't."
I mean it, too. But that doesn't still the butterflies in my stomach.
The parking structure exits onto the street, and so instead of entering through the alley and the studio door, we go in through the gallery. It's a retail space from which Wyatt sells his work, and the walls are covered with stunning landscapes, vivid seascapes, and beautiful architectural shots.
"These are amazing," I say.
"They're not bad," he agrees. "And I've been making a decent living. But they're not my passion. Just like teaching kindergarten isn't yours."
I'd been looking at a photograph of a tide pool, but now I tilt my head up to look at him. "Are you lecturing me?"
"Just calling them as I see them. You should be dancing."
"I dance."
"Hmm," he says, which clearly isn't agreement, but since he's also not arguing, I move on, hoping to change the subject.
"When did you go to Paris and London?" I ask, pointing to some photos on a far wall. "And is this Moscow?" I turn back to him. "Are these yours?"
"What makes you ask?"
"I don't know. The style is different. The composition. The use of light. Is it a different technique?"
"You were right the first time. My friend Frank took them. I sublet him studio space on the second floor, and share this part of the gallery with him. He's in Bali now, I think. Possibly Alaska."
I laugh. "Well, I hope he packed well."
"I can't keep track. Come on," he says, taking my hand. "The studio's back here."
We go down a short hall, and then through a steel door to the familiar studio where I'd come to audition. "This place is bigger than it looks."
"I have the second floor, too. It has two apartments and a shared kitchen."
"Do you live here?" The thought amuses me. Like an old-time artist living in a garret.
"Not technically. Frank lives and works in his apartment, but I use the other as an office. It has a Murphy bed, though, and lately I've been sleeping here. It's easier than going home even though I'm just over in Venice Beach." He smiles at me. "Better now?"
The question surprises me, and I realize that my nerves have faded. "Yeah," I say. "Better take some pictures quick before the nerves come back."
"I would, but I think you'll appreciate me waiting just a little longer."
I don't know what he means until he pulls out his phone and sends a text. A second later I hear a door open above us, then I see two sets of legs descending the stairs on the far side of the room. A moment later, I see who the legs are attached to, a lanky guy with a mop of dark hair that he wears in a man-bun, and a petite blonde in very impractical heels.
"Kelsey, this is Jon Paul, my assistant."
"Just JP," the guy says.
Wyatt turns his attention to the girl. "And you are . . .?" He trails off, and she thrusts out her hand toward him.
"Leah," she says. "I'm Siobhan's intern. She sent me over to drop off some mockups for the front of the catalog."
"They're on your desk," JP says. He looks at me. "Is she-I mean, are you-"
"She's just here for an audition," Wyatt says, then shoots me a warning look before I have the chance to ask him what the hell he means.