17. I Am An Artist Dammit
Chapter 17
I Am An Artist Dammit
MEGAN
F or the first time in weeks, I’m focused on my art, which feels incredible. Growing up, I was made to feel like an outcast in my incredibly toxic family, so I always sought refuge within my art. Sketching and painting have always been the perfect escape, but never in a million years did I think I could forge a real future showing and selling my art. Now that I am, it almost feels surreal.
I am an artist.
I am an artist.
I am an artist.
Perhaps if I say it a hundred more times, I’ll actually believe it.
“I love this one, Megan. Have you named it yet?”
I’m having lunch with Miss Linda John, the assistant curator of the Los Angeles Starlight Art Foundation. She seems really interested in a new piece I’ve been working on for a while now.
“No, I don’t name my pieces until they’re finished. A lot can change with just a few strokes, and I like to give them time to morph into what they will become before I title them.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Could you perhaps at least tell me the inspiration behind the piece? You’re such an upbeat person with a baby coming soon,” she points to my growing stomach. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m asking about your inspiration because the shadows of this one skew a bit dark to me.”
“But you like it?”
“Yes, there’s a weight to it I find particularly interesting.”
“I firmly believe that most people have both dark and light parts of themselves. I guess I’ve just been tapping into the darker areas lately,” I smile uncomfortably, not particularly enjoying where this conversation is headed.
Hell yeah, my work has been dark lately. I was kidnapped by a middle-aged gangster and broke up with the overprotective father of my baby all in the same damn month. I paint the darkness to safely escape it, not chat about it over lunch.
“Well, it’s fabulous, and I’m confident that the foundation will be very interested in curating this piece for our exhibit next year. The show will feature all local artists, and this piece fits the theme of the show: In The Shade and The Shadows. Oh, and did I mention that it’s a year-long installation?”
“A year?”
For new artists like me, art show exhibits typically last about a week. A year-long run is rare.
“Yes.”
“I’m thrilled that the foundation is even considering me.” I swallow a bite of my chicken piccata. “But I need to ask.” The one question I’ve been dreading to ask. “How did you discover my work?”
I pay close attention to the focus of her gaze when I ask Miss John the question because if I think she’s holding something back, like if this is somehow due to Hunter–the underworld patron saint of the arts, I’m out.
She stares me straight in the eyes when she answers, and I wonder if maybe she’s trying a little too hard to be convincing. That’s one of the problems with being in a relationship with someone like Hunter: you start to suspect everyone and everything.
“Our organization follows the careers of many young people in local university art programs. It’s part of our ethos to amplify the voices of new artists.”
Duh, Megan.
Get a grip. You know that.
“Right, I just wondered if a particular professor recommended my work or something?”
Or a dangerous millionaire I know.
“You remember there was a write-up about you in the Times after your last show, right?” She gives me a pacifying look. “Many people in the local art community know about your work from that.”
“Yes, of course.” I nod, embarrassed by my skepticism.
With everything going on in my life, I forgot about the article. Shame on me. Now that she brings it up, I recall how it was a well-written piece about several emerging artists from the Los Angeles area, including myself.
“After reading the article, I searched for a way to contact you online but noticed that you hadn’t set up a portfolio website yet, so I contacted your school. They gave me your cell phone number. I hope that was okay?”
“Yes, at some point, I’m sure I checked a box that said it was okay to share my contact information, and I’m so glad I did, or I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”
She smiles comfortably.
“Just so I’m clear, these exhibits take a while to plan, and we won’t be able to decide on your inclusion until we’ve seen your final piece.”
“Understood.”
“Which may possibly fall around the time of your delivery. What are you five or six months along, Megan?”
“Almost six, but I have recently left my job and have nothing but time to work on the piece. It should be finished well before I deliver the baby.”
My cell phone rings and I’m startled by the name on the screen.
LYING BITCH
Naomi.
“Do you need to take that?” Miss Lord asks, reading the surprised look on my face.
“Um, if you don’t mind?”
“Please, go right ahead. Take your time. I’ll be here enjoying my lunch.”
I’m not even sure why I decided to take the call. I haven’t seen or spoken to Naomi since I snuck out of the motel. Not once did she call to see if I was alive or dead. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that type of betrayal? Nevertheless, I rise and head outside to the front of the restaurant to answer her call. I guess I’m more curious about what she has to say than angry.
“Hello?”
“Megan.”
Her voice is not at all Naomi-like. It’s small and sad, and it breaks my heart.
“Are you in trouble?” I ask her, concerned that things may have gotten dangerous for her.
“I’ve been in trouble since the moment I was born.”
“Where are you?”
“New Orleans.”
“Why are you calling me, Naomi?”
She pauses for a moment before she answers. “I’m sorry, Megan. I’ve been a horrible friend to you.”
I hear a soft, muffled cry. It’s a strange sound because now that I think about it, I’ve never heard Naomi cry before.
“You’re right. You have been,” I tell her, not mincing any words. Her tears do not absolve her.
“I realize it’s selfish of me to bother you with this, and after all that has happened, I should be grateful that you’ve bothered to pick up the phone, but I can’t do this, Megan. I have to get out of here–”
I stop her.
“Naomi, I’m pregnant and in a meeting right now. I don’t have the bandwidth for whatever is happening with you and your daddy. I just don’t.”
Her soft cries escalate into full-blown sobs. “I cannot marry Gabriel.”
“Then don’t.”
“I have to.”
“Then marry him!” I say, exasperated with the nerve of this phone call. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“There are so many worse things, Megan. You have no idea.”
“I think I have some idea,” I answer snidely. “Kidnapping a pregnant woman from in front of her home is a pretty shitty thing to do. Your father is a piece of work, and his henchman is no saint either. I think that dude truly wanted to hurt me.”
“Imagine being around him your whole life?”
I don’t feel sorry for her. I had my own sociopaths at home.
“Listen, I have to go. There’s someone waiting for me.”
“Maybe we can talk later?”
“I’m not sure there’s much to talk about, Naomi.”
“So you have zero interest in talking to me? Ever?”
“At this moment in time, my answer is no. I’m still angry at all the lies you’ve told and how you didn’t have my back at all when your father took me.”
“My relationship with my father is complicated, Megan. I am a different person when I’m around him.”
“That’s obvious.”
She sighs heavily. “Can you at least let Hunter know that I called you.”
“What does this have to do with Hunter?”
“My father was in Los Angeles, and when he was there, they had a meeting. I don’t know what they discussed. All I know is that my father came home and gave me permission to call you, which is another way of giving an order.”
“Your father was here?” I ask softly. “In Los Angeles?”
“Did Hunter not even bother to mention it?”
“So you called me because you were ordered to,” I state plainly.
“I didn’t think I had the right to call you after all that I kept from you.”
“And so you were never going to call and explain yourself?”
“That’s what I’m doing a piss poor job of right now.”
“You haven’t explained anything, Naomi. You haven’t once explained why you thought it was a smart idea to take on a whole new identity and never tell your best friend about it.”
“Telling you about my life in New Orleans would have only put you in danger.”
“Yet here we are.”
“I realize now that there’s no escaping danger when it comes to my family, and I’m also finally realizing that your fiance may be the one person who can help me break free from them.”
“If you think Hunter is going to help you with anything, you’re delusional. He’ll never forgive you for your part in this, Naomi. He just won’t, and I’m not sure I can either.”
“Funny how he’s still communicating with my father, though. I’m not even fucking Gabriel, but I know if someone kidnapped me, he would have already put them six feet under.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask, horrified. “You want Hunter to kill your father so you don’t have to?”
I’m feeling slightly nauseous now. It’s pretty evident that the baby doesn’t like it when I argue with people. Not to mention that I’ve been on this call way longer than I intended. Miss John is probably ten seconds away from ditching this lunch meeting.
“Don’t answer that,” I tell Naomi. “You’ve followed your father’s orders and called me. I need to go.”
“Megan, I’m all messed up in the head. I need another chance to explain myself.”
“There’s nothing to explain. Not anymore. I sincerely wish you luck, Naomi. I hope you figure out a way to get out of this ridiculous marriage arrangement. But you’re not who I thought you were. I don’t know who you are, and I’m not sure I ever will. There’s just no room in my life for that type of doubt when I’m about to bring a new life into the world.” I inadvertently rub my rounded abdomen. “My baby is all that matters now.”
And before I give her any more room to protest, I press the red button on my phone screen to end the call. But as I go back to my meeting, I can’t help but ruminate over what Hunter could be up to meeting with Naomi’s father.
My stomach swirls again.
Whatever the reason for their meeting, it can’t be good.