Chapter 2 #2
I suppress a laugh. “I never said that. What I said is, when a doctor’s mega-rich and desperate to be on TV, genuine isn’t the word I’d use.”
Reggie shoots me a glare. “Look, not everyone is Bobby Derring, okay?”
“OMG, Reg. Why?”
“Because you’re still bitter after all these years. Admit it.”
“No.”
“Admit it!”
I sigh and relent. “All right. A little.”
How could I forget? Bobby and I were together through the best years of my late teens. At that age, you believed your heart was always true, and the man who made you fly would never let you fall.
Now, at twenty-four, the mistake still stings.
“Eye, Bobby Derring served a purpose. Crimson Reverie was brilliant. And as much as I hate to say it, it wouldn’t have happened without him.”
Reggie’s right.
“He was a sleazy, cheating, lazy piece of rot,” Reggie goes on, “but you’ve got to stop living like all men are evil.”
“I never say that.”
“No. But you think it,” Reggie points out.
“Well, I’m not about to make Marcus Lockwood my next muse, if that’s what you’re hinting.”
“Yes and no. It’s too late for your current collection. You’re nearly done. Am I wrong?”
I roll my shoulders, which are still stiff from a full weekend of painting. “The anchor’s done. It needs a day to dry before transport. The companions are still concepts, but LeBlanc’s fine with that,” I say, referring to the gallery manager.
“For the next collection,” Reggie says, his eyes glinting, “anything is possible. Say it.”
I groan, not in the mood to spar. “Fine. Anything is possible.”
“Pathetic.”
“You know, Reg…” I swirl the bubbles in my glass. “I miss our time together.”
He groans. “God, you don’t actually want to be twelve again, do you?”
“No,” I reply, but the word comes out too quickly.
And yet, back then, I’d felt safe. Reckless, sure, but safe.
Because nothing felt permanent, and no choice was too costly.
Reggie once caught me practice-kissing with a mirror, and then a peach, and he dared me to try it on him instead.
So we did. My first kiss. Our first kiss.
We called ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend in the truest sense two preteens could manage.
And just as easily, we outgrew it, brushed it off, and kept going.
“I miss when things weren’t figured out,” I admit softly.
He freezes mid-motion, narrowing his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“No, no.” I wave my hands. “I don’t mean I want you back. Absolutely not.”
“Ergh!” He throws his head back. “Would it kill you if you did? I mean, damn, Eye, twist the knife, why don’t you?”
I laugh and nudge him. “Oh, please. You know what I mean. You’re gay, I’m straight, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Of course. I know.” He smirks. “I just like keeping you on your toes.” Then, he softens a little, adding, “But I get it. The unknown was thrilling back then. We had something to prove.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “And you did.”
His lips curve. “Damn right, I did. And you don’t think you have?”
I hesitate. “Not even close.”
Reggie waves a hand. “Maybe you just need to upgrade. A man who actually deserves you. Preferably one with an ungodly amount of wealth and a jawline like Marcus Lockwood.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. Because that’s realistic.”
“Manifest, Eye. Whoever’s got you is already winning. Muse, roommate, lover, partner. You’re the whole damn creative cosmos. Beautiful, brilliant, and unstoppable.”
I snort. “I’m not feeling any of it right now. Two of my latest collections bombed. I bombed. And there’s no guarantee this new one won’t crash just as hard.”
The vision of my frilly, manufactured art barrels through me.
“Oh, baby.” He yanks me into a hug, holding me as though he can physically squeeze the self-doubt out of my body. “You DON’T have to prove anything.”
I nod against his shoulder, but it’s not a full agreement. “Well, let’s see if you’re right. The world will know soon enough what my next big thing is.”
His eyes flare in anticipation. “Can I see it?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Come on, we’re going to your studio!” He snatches his coat and drags me to the door.
“I thought you had to deal with Jenna Ortega?”
“I lied,” he says with a shrug.
We drive up to the Hudson Valley, past the vineyards and weekend estates where Manhattan’s elite play at rustic living.
That Hudson Valley, the glossy one, couldn’t be farther from mine.
My version is on the skirt, where cheap rent in a rundown barn with weathered wood and sagging rafters bought me a second chance.
There was no infinity pool, just puddles that collect when it rains.
I turn into the driveway.
It’s not much to look at from the outside, but the barn is all I can afford. I couldn’t dream of a studio in the city, not anymore. Here, at least, I can spread out, paint, and keep pretending the artist’s dream is still alive.
“I’m surprised you still haven’t pulled a guard dog yet,” Reggie says.
“Bestie, I can’t afford anyone on my payroll, not even canine security.”
“Voluntary, I mean. You used to be a stray magnet. Remember when you smuggled those pooches home, and your parents nearly lost it?”
I laugh. I remember.
“Whatever happened to the one from Hudson River Park? What was his name? Pillow?”
“Blanket,” I correct, easing to a stop outside the door. “And he belongs in Chelsea. I haven’t seen him in a long time. Even if he followed me here, I couldn’t feed him.”
The starving artist isn’t a cliché; it’s a condition. Some wither for lack of money, others for lack of meaning. I hit both at once. I’ve kept afloat on Macy’s paychecks, sketching jewelry I’d never wear. Until today.
“Reg, I’m officially jobless.”
His head whips toward me. “They let you go?”
“Yeah.”
Reggie’s arms close around me. “Their loss. You were born to paint, not to burn daylight sketching trinkets for mid-range department stores. I’ll cover your rent and utilities until you—”
“No. No, I won’t be a leech.”
“The last thing I want is for you to lose this space,” he says, pointing at the barn.
I look at the sagging beams, the cracked door, and the gaps I’ve only ever patched well enough to keep the weather off my paintings.
He goes on, “Or run out of alizarin crimson and keep abusing that bald brush.”
“Then I’ll make it work. No matter what. Without losing this place, and without leaning on you.”
He lifts a brow. “What about your parents’ place?”
“I’ve still got some savings. Reg, seriously, I’ll make it work.”
Reggie exhales. “Fine. Then I’m officially promoted to your cheerleader. Expect pompoms.”
I crack open the padlock. “Pompoms, I can live with. But promise me you’ll keep your commentary to a minimum.”
“You know I’m not that kind of bestie,” he says, waiting for me to open the door. “I’m in your corner. Always have been.” He pauses. “You were in mine first, though.”
I know that tone. “Reg…”
“I'm just saying. When everyone laughed at my teal dresses, you wore one. To the city councilor’s daughter’s wedding, of all places,” he says.
“It was a great dress.”
“And when my family decided I was an…inconvenience,” he adds, his voice flattening. Then he looks away. “I can’t change who I am, Eye.”
“You shouldn’t even try.”
Reggie never learned what to do when hurt catches him sideways. We’ve been here before—late nights, wine, him trying to make sense of it. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m not watching my best friend cry. So I do the only sensible thing.
“All right. Enough of you,” I say, bumping his shoulder. “Focus. On. Me.”
He smiles, grateful and a little undone. “See? This is why I keep you.”
I drag the barn door open and flick on the light.
Reggie stops short. “Oh…wow.”
There it is.
Is it the worst thing I’ve ever painted? No. The best? Not even close. But it’s what the gallery wants, so I give it to them, even if it strips away pieces of me one brushstroke at a time.
I narrow my eyes. “You hate it.”
“No! No, no, no.” He shakes his head fast. “It’s just…uh…very dotty.”
I cross my arms. “Polka dots are in right now.”
“I know,” he mutters, squinting at the canvas. “Dior and Valentino are losing their minds over polka dots this season. You’re definitely on trend.”
Exactly the goal. Not passion. Not originality. Just what the market wants.
“Title?” he asks.
“Dotted Lies,” I say without inflection.
He groans. “Serious. What’s the collection name?”
“I don’t know.” I appraise the piece, equal parts critical and quietly protective. “Spotlight Study.”
“That, I like.”
“LeBlanc will probably call it something pompous, like Spatial Harmony,” I say.
“Spotlight Study is better.”
“Yeah.” I give a half nod. “I’ll fight for that one. But I need more pieces to impress him. It’s too late for acrylic, but sketches might do.”
“When are you meeting him?” he asks.
“The truck arrives tomorrow morning. I’m with him once the painting’s at the gallery.”
Reggie gasps and checks the clock. It’s past midnight. “And you plan to work straight through?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Bed. Now.” He gestures toward my futon. “Two hours shut-eye, then you have my blessing to burn the midnight oil.”
For once? He’s actually right.