Chapter 11
NOVA
“A little higher,” I say.
I haven’t been a stickler for perfection, but today it matters.
The woman lifts the frame an inch.
“Oh my God. That’s perfect.”
I turn to find Annie Jamieson, her hands clasped and eyes wide, in the doorway of the venue. Her red hair falls in sculpted waves, her body encased in a shimmering silver gown. She’s a mermaid.
“You look fantastic,” I say.
“And you’re a genius.” She clasps my hand in hers, the other on her heart. “Thank you for doing this. Especially when I’m going to get all the credit.”
Since I flew to LA this morning with the final art pieces for the premiere, I’ve been focused.
It’s the first time I’ve done portraits for a client, and I’m proud of how they turned out.
But this is a big stage, literally.
Tyler Adams comes up behind Annie. I saw him at the crowded party, but he’s more intense like this, in a dark suit with the collar open, the black shirt matching his eyes.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Annie asks him, her eyes moving between the portraits.
“Mhmm. But I’m biased.” Tyler half smiles at me, then turns the full force of it on his wife as he drags her close.
Swoon. I miss having what they have. I can forget Clay for a few minutes or even an hour, but this reminder makes me long for intimacy. For the closeness of having another person who has your back and thinks you’re everything.
Seeing him unexpectedly in Denver knocked the air from my lungs.
Hearing that he’d been supporting Coach this entire time, knowing that he still cares about something, gave me hope for him.
“About the break…”
“It was the right move.”
I wanted to talk about it, and instead, he just affirmed it.
Evidently, he’s taking it easier than me.
The woman hanging the art taps me on the shoulder.
“We should finish getting ready. Thanks again for the opportunity. Great to see you,” I say to Annie and Tyler.
The space is bustling with staff dressed in black, organizing trays for food, filling champagne glasses, and putting finishing touches on the décor.
I snap a picture and post it to social, which the publicity team already gave me permission to do.
When guests start to flow in, I take a minute to escape to the washroom. I got a message from Brooke earlier telling me to kick ass, and even Mari wished me luck before I hopped on my plane this morning. Another text comes in when I’m about to reach for the stall door.
Grumpy Baller: Good luck tonight, Pink. Blow their minds.
My heart flips over.
“Did you see the portraits? They’re so crass.” A woman’s voice comes from outside the stall.
Another responds. “I heard she was a last-minute stand-in. They had another artist lined up, and it fell through.”
“The director likes avant-garde, but this is ridiculous. The studio threw money at them. They would’ve been better to spend it on more champagne.”
Laughter follows, and I’m suddenly lightheaded, as if I hadn’t eaten all day. I wait until I hear the bathroom door shut to unlock the stall and step out.
Out in the foyer, ushers are moving people into the theater.
I want to run, but I can’t. It would be too awkward. So, I follow their hand gestures and head into the dark cinema. My seat is partway up. The cast is seated closer to the front, dressed elegantly. The men on either side of me are wearing press badges.
When the lights go down, the music and credits starting, my mind goes back.
“She was a last-minute stand-in.”
“They’re so crass.”
I sit in the dark, watching the film and ignoring the way my eyes burn.
The movie is beautiful, but it’s hard to focus on it with the criticism playing in my head.
It’s not even that they hated me or my work but that Annie took a chance on bringing me in for this and I can’t stand the thought of letting her down.
At the end, I’m swept out into the foyer with the others. Industry insiders cluster in groups, drinking and gossiping and laughing. I take snapshots of the art for social.
A few guests congratulate me when I tell them I’m the artist.
Which ones hated it? There’s no way of knowing.
I skip the lines of people heading for champagne and duck outside. It’s warm in early October, the light breeze lifting the hairs under my up-do.
My phone is heavy in my hands as I stare at the photo I posted earlier of the portraits, back when I was proud and confident.
I click back into my texts and hit a contact.
“Pink,” Clay answers.
It’s the single syllable that unleashes the floodgates. Silent tears stream down my face.
“How’s your event?” he asks.
“Great.” I swallow. “Okay, not great. Someone hated my art.”
“They’re morons,” he says evenly.
My mouth works for a moment as I glance around the alley. “You haven’t seen the portraits. I only posted them on social, and you’re not on social.”
“I check yours.”
That revelation takes a moment to settle. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He sounds caught out, as if he might already regret telling me. “Point is, it’s not about you, it’s about them. People hate on me every day. Look at a single article, a single post from the team or any of the news outlets. It’s full of judgment.”
I frown, swiping at my cheeks. “Is that supposed to make it hurt less?”
“I won’t tell you how you’re supposed to feel. What I will tell you is I’ve been there.”
The moon is full, just visible when I pace toward the back of the alley in my sparkly heels.
This is what it feels like for Clay. Every single day.
For the first time in a long time, I feel as if I understand a piece of him that he hides from the world.
I feel as if he wants me to.
“Where are you?” he asks at last.
“Alley beside the theater.”
“You got a new thing for alleys?”
I snort, his warmth contagious even from hundreds of miles away.
“Maybe I do.” I bite my cheek. “Where are you?”
My feet carry me toward the street again, the noise of traffic and conversation entering the bubble of quiet that was Clay and me.
“Just went to visit Coach. He’ll be out of hospital in a few days.”
“You’re still in Denver.” That knowledge lifts my spirits, though I can’t place why. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure. A few days more. For Coach.”
“That’s great,” I say and mean it—both that Coach’s condition is improving and that Clay is there with him.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I want to see him again.
I lean against the brick wall, thinking only of the man on the other end of the call. “Annie Jamieson and Tyler Adams are the most amazing couple. I don’t know how they survive all the pressure and still seem well adjusted.”
“You get their secret, you let me know.” I smile, and I picture him doing the same.
He clears his throat. “When are you coming back?”
He means to Denver, but for a second, I imagine he means something else.
“Tomorrow.”
“You need a care package for the plane? Say the word and there’ll be a bottle of tequila waiting.”
My lips curve.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”