Chapter 8 Exhibition
Chapter Eight
EXHIBITION
Four Months Later
I twist my hair up in what I hope is a fancy chignon.
It feels like an artistic hair style, and if tonight’s not enough proof that I’m a real artist, I don’t know what is.
On my way out the door I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I instinctively smooth the natural ruching of my navy silk dress—I know it’ll bunch up again as I continue to move around, but I can’t help myself.
My lips are a cool-toned dark cherry, and silver droplets hang from my ears.
The earrings are literally shaped like oversized drops of water, and they glisten as I shake my head gently back and forth.
A couple tendrils of my hair tumble forward out of my amateur chignon, but I don’t try to tuck them back in.
This is firstly because I don’t know how, and I don’t want to mess up the twisted hair that is intact.
Secondly, the loose bits give me a slight girlish look, while the rest of my ensemble is more mature, woman-like.
I think the juxtaposition suits me. I’m 27 years old, but I feel like I’m still coming of age.
Maybe we always are.
Alright you can reflect more later, I tell myself.
You can’t be late to your own Exhibition.
I race downstairs as fast as I can in my two-and-a-half-inch heels, clutching the banister with one hand while my dainty black purse swings wildly from its silver chain in my other.
Once on the sidewalk, I start to march in the direction of the subway, my normal route to the Lower East Side.
But just as I get to the corner, a classic yellow cab comes toward me with its light on.
If I want to romanticize my night, then this is too New York to ignore.
I bunch up the hem of my dress and hail the cab with my purse in the air.
It stops immediately and I rush in. I haven’t taken a cab like this in years.
If I do wind up in a car, it’s typically some kind of rideshare from an app.
I let out a deep sigh and look out the window just as a few drops of rain hit the glass.
What kind of movie am I living in?? A smile creeps up the right side of my face.
“Where am I taking you, dear?” An elderly man with crinkles at the corners of his eyes and an impressive white beard turns around from the front seat.
Right… I forgot that when you hail a cab the old-fashioned way, you actually have to tell the driver where you’re going.
My eyes widen as I try to remember the cross streets—that's what real cab drivers want to hear, right?
“Bowery and Stanton Street,” I say. The driver turns forward with a hand hovering over his phone.
“Ah, just give me the address, that’ll be easier to put into my map,” he replies.
“Oh,” I say, hand over my heart. I’m starting to get nervous about the evening. “The Rabbit Hole Gallery.” I hope the name is good enough.
“Got it!” The driver taps on his phone and then we’re off.
I look out the window again as more rain patters down the glass. I always thought that rain was rather romantic.
I can hear my phone buzzing in my tiny purse, but at this point, if something’s gone wrong at the gallery, I’m sure Anton will inform me when I get there.
“So where are you off to all dressed up?” The bearded driver and I make eye contact in his rearview mirror. He seems friendly, and his aura puts me at ease. I can’t say that’s the case for every strange man you’re trapped in close quarters with.
“I’m going to an art exhibition,” I reply and smile, looking back out the window. “Paintings, actually.”
“Ah, paintings! Beautiful!”
I give a small nod.
He continues, “Now don’t you stray away from the pieces that make you uncomfortable! That’s when your mind really expands.” He makes an exploding motion with one of his hands off the side of his head.
“No, I won’t,” I respond. “I didn’t.” I say the second part just for myself.
We pull up to the gallery and I step out onto the damp sidewalk, careful to avoid the subway grate with my heels. “Thank you.” I wave back to the cab driver as I go to step inside.
“Charlotte, Charlotte!” Rob comes bounding over. “You’re never going to believe who’s—”
“Ah, babe, there you are,” says a silvery voice to my right.
I look over and it’s Anton, dressed in a deep maroon silk shirt, loosely unbuttoned at the neck, and a charcoal suit jacket.
“I’ve been texting you.” His voice is completely pleasant, but his smile is hard.
Rob shies away from his presence immediately.
Like a strong wind has blown his head back.
I can see Rob’s eyes flicking between me and the far corner of the room, but I feel like I need to give Anton my full attention in this moment.
He’s the gallery’s almost-owner, after all.
“Is something wrong?” I say sweetly through my own smile.
“The number of pieces is wrong,” he hisses. “There’s a thirteenth painting hanging on the wall, and I don’t know what to tell people about it. It doesn’t fit the theme.” He maintains his bright white smile and waves at an elderly gentleman as he walks in.
“Are you sure it’s mine?” I didn’t expect to be so stressed so immediately upon entering my own exhibition, but here I am.
What if we’re not even displaying my work?
I look around and see the semi-abstract paintings I’d been working on for the last few months.
Nothing looks out of place from this angle. ..
“Yes, your signature is in the corner.” He points to a section of white wall freestanding in the middle of the room. “It’s on the other side of that partition.”
“Huh—” I start before I notice Anton scrutinizing me from head to toe.
“I thought I told you to wear the gold earrings I gave you for your birthday,” he says, eyes narrowed.
“Mariah”—I grasp at an explanation—“she said these looked better.” I touch one of the silver drops hanging delicately from my ear. That’s a lie, but I don’t want to argue with him right now.
Anton purses his lips before responding, “Well next time babe, listen to what I say, hmm?”
I nod demurely. Another elderly gentleman walks in. “I have to go say hi to my dad’s contacts,” Anton says, staring past me. He leans down to kiss my head without taking his eyes off the newcomers. “Big night, Charlotte!” he says as he takes off.
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and shake off the chill that had glazed my skin.
All my friends should be here, Mariah should be here—she was coming straight from the university.
My art is on the walls for the first time in almost two years.
I take a moment to soak it all in before I click my way over to the area Anton had pointed to with the extra painting.
As I cross the room, I can see Rob watching me again from the far-left wall.
His gaze is alternating between me and the location I’m walking toward.
Gosh, I think, what awful canvas of mine had they included?
Now Rob is leaning in close to Miles’ ear and discreetly pointing.
Miles is rubbing his chin and nodding, but then his eyes go wide, as if he’s had a lightbulb moment.
I’ll have to get in on the discussion later after I figure out what to do about the incorrect piece.
Miles notices my eyes are on them and he awkwardly waves. Then his gaze flits to my left and I follow his stare.
A figure in a worn and oversized brown leather jacket has his arms crossed, leaning against the wall.
One foot up. My first thought is to worry about a dusty boot print against the pristine white walls of Anton’s father’s gallery.
He’ll be very upset. But my next thought is that I recognize that stance—from the very first night I met. .. Devo.
I clutch the chain of my purse tighter and suck in my cheeks. Then, I meet his eyes. He has his head angled forward—his light brown hair is swept up off his forehead and his icy eyes are peering at me through long lashes. His lips hold the ghost of a smile.
How long has he been watching me? How long has he been here? Does he know this exhibition is.... mine?
He pushes off the wall and tilts his head to the side, walking toward me with a purposeful, unhurried stride.
He’s a little dressed down for this event, I realize, in his white T-shirt, beat-up jacket and Levi jeans.
But still... there’s something about the way he carries himself that makes me feel like a moth to a flame.
Even if the flame is moving toward me, and I don’t want to get burned again.
I school my features into a polite smile, pushing my genuine surprise to the forefront. Maybe I can hide my racing pulse with my raised eyebrows and a light laugh.
“Devlin!” I say in a sing-song voice. “So good to see you!” I close the gap between us and give him a hug like he’s an old friend.
“Charlotte,” he says in acknowledgement as he wraps one arm tightly around me, the other deep in his coat pocket. I step back and glance around, even though all I want to do is stare—bore holes into him with my eyeballs, in fact. What is he doing here??
“Good to see you too?” he says with a lilt on the end.
This is not the way I’d expected to behave when I saw Devlin again.
But then again, I planned on never seeing him again, so I hadn’t thought this through.
Now I find myself treating him like any other acquaintance you might run into in the aisles of the grocery store.
“Have you stumbled into the wrong gallery?” I ask innocently. There’s no way he’s here for me. His eyebrows knit together and his smile morphs into one of confusion.