Chapter 19 Lucy
LUCY
Ishook my hands out at my sides, trying to get rid of the nerves that were raging in my stomach.
Here I was, at Mr. Vender’s Valentine’s Day exhibit. He’d stopped by while my painting was still draped in black fabric, as the crowd lined the sidewalk outside the gallery to wish me good luck and praise my father for recommending me for the show.
The problem was, he didn’t know that it wasn’t his painting underneath the cloth, but mine.
I’d made the decision this morning before I could second-guess myself.
I’d taken one look at the pastel, lovey-dovey painting that made me sick to my stomach, then to the painting that was genuine, authentic, and showcased whatever was going on between Knox and me, and I couldn’t go through with it.
At the end of the day, my dad had volunteered me as the artist, so I couldn’t take the painting that wasn’t me and display it to all of Sweetwater Bay and the greater Boston area.
Instead, I took the one that had my heart in every paintstroke, the one I’d seen behind my eyelids last night as Knox took me to my bed and made me feel a part of the moon and stars, and that distorted space where he and I overlapped.
“Lucian?”
I turned in time for my dad’s hands to land on my shoulders, strong and heavy.
“You’ve made me proud having done this for our family,” he boomed, “I put out your name, for your benefit, and you’ve risen to the challenge. You’ve done your part in bringing our family and the Venders together.”
He was taller than me, which I’d found intimidating since the first time his expectations landed on my shoulders. This was how it felt: the physical weight of the family, the risk of his disappointment.
Maybe I’d made a mistake. I could feel a chill seep into my bones, a cold dread.
“Thanks, Dad,” I exhaled shakily.
The doors swung open, and the murmuring of the outside crowd became a boom that thundered in my ears, shooting my pulse sky high.
My hands began to shake at my sides.
“Breathe,” Dad instructed, lifting his hand to mimic breathing in and out. “You’re representing our family now.”
I nodded, swallowing and forcing deep breaths into my lungs. “Yes, sir.”
This gallery was different from some others. Where others had a track of hallways and rooms winding throughout it to encourage privacy for certain works and the continued movement of guests, this gallery was one large room, with my painting as the focal point across the hall.
And it was time to take my black drape off.
I suddenly didn’t want to.
Dad steered me to stand beside my painting, and he gripped the cloth as the patrons started milling about the space.
“Here we are.” He pulled off the black drape, a sharp grin on his face, and revealed my painting.
Something that very much did not fit the bright whites and pastel pinks of what every other artist had included in their piece for a Valentine’s Day exhibit.
Dad’s face fell, eyes widening as tension cut through his entire body.
My hands really were shaking now.
“Lucian,” he hissed, his voice quiet so we wouldn’t be overheard in the loud room bustling full of people—people who had money and influence, who would take one look at my painting and see how out of place it was.
I hung my head. “Dad. I–”
“Hush,” he snapped. “Don’t make a scene. Smile, and try to play this off. If you’ve ruined this opportunity for us, Lucian, I swear, you’ll–”
The soft music from the large speakers stationed around the gallery cut out, and Dad bit off the rest of his words as the crowd quieted.
“Hello, everyone,” Mr. Vender called through the microphone, pushing a wave of booming static through the system.
“Whoops, the sound booth must be delayed.” Mr Vender chuckled, though he shot a sharp look to the black window where the sound operator must have been. “I wanted to thank you all for joining us tonight for my art exhibit showcasing Valentine’s Day, the day of romance.”
He looked around at his guests, and Dad stepped away from me and my painting, like he was trying to remove himself from any affiliation with me and my disobedience.
“All of this,” Mr. Vender continued, “is for my lovely wife, Diana.”
He held out his hand, and an older woman with static curls, her hair shiny under the lights from her hairspray, took it. Mr. Vender spun his wife to his side, and she giggled with delight as the crowd aww-ed.
“My wife,” he kissed her hand, “I have put this together for you. I even selected a young artist with a true taste for what you love, and he agreed to paint you a portrait worthy of your beauty. Please turn your attention to…”
I swallowed thickly.
“Lucian Sterling!”
The crowd turned, as one, to my painting.
I saw Mr. Vender’s grin turn instantly sour. Mrs. Vender’s hand flew to her mouth, her dainty eyebrows scrunching in displeasure.
The crowd was deathly silent. Then, all at once, chatters sprang up, full of hisses of gossip and ridicule that I knew so well by now I didn’t even have to make out the words to hear them.
I’d done this to myself, really.
I knew my new style wasn’t what anyone wanted. And here I was, the fool who had done it anyway.
This might have been the stupidest decision I’d ever made, and I knew the fallout didn’t end tonight.
If it ever ended at all.