Chapter 2 Reyna
REYNA
There’s something to be said about human creativity. Give a person a piece of paper, and they might fold it, draw on it, or turn it into ash.
It’s one of the reasons I chose to go into the film industry. If three people are given a camera, not one will capture the same exact footage.
Mom loved art because of that too.
My footsteps hum through the otherwise deserted exhibition. It’s a hollow, foreboding sound coming from the creak of a decades-old wooden floor, combined with a high ceiling and glass roof that lets in light from the slate-gray sky.
Thunder cracks in the distance, promising a long, dreary day.
Paired with the flicker of a single sconce, the weather drags the space back into the ages long before digital cameras were ever a reality.
The official gallery of Cresswell University is the picture-perfect definition of melancholy, built for morbidly curious minds.
I’ve been studying here for a year now, and not once have I made the trek to the south end of the university to see any of the exhibits. I’ve been telling myself that if I’d befriended a fine-art major, then I would have gone. Unfortunately, I’ve found the whole befriending part rather difficult.
I tap my fingers against my leg, trying and failing to focus on the art.
I check my phone for the tenth time in ten minutes.
Lawrence still hasn’t replied to my question about how far away he is.
He’s not about to look at the art with me, but having him here will make me feel a little less alone, and like it’s not wrong of me to be here without Mom.
She took me to every art event and exhibition that was held in our city—sometimes, she even had her own work up on display.
I’m sure she’s beside me in spirit, critiquing the ever-living shit out of the pieces hanging on the cobalt walls.
She’s probably happy as can be right now, finally reunited with her soulmate.
But I’m selfish. I wish she could be with me instead.
Taking a deep breath, I slip my phone into the front pocket of my pinafore and move away from the odd light display to return to the paintings. Neither Mom nor I had an eye for conceptual or contemporary art, but it didn’t stop us from pretending that we did.
Each work of art I pass has me imagining the ruthless things she’d whisper when she thought no one could hear her.
She used to be a surrealist painter with an Indonesian flair.
She still has her art displayed in museums all around the world, even one in the Merdeka Palace.
The portion of her royalties that she didn’t leave to be donated to charities back in Indo have been accruing in a trust I can’t touch until I’m twenty-five.
She may not have known the first thing about operating a camera, but she taught me the art of cinematography and sent me to every class that came up so I could become the very best.
Or at least try to be. I seem to be woefully failing in that department if my grades are any indication. Before Mom died, I had a stellar GPA. Now I have—well, nothing worth bragging about.
I stop at a painting of a shepherd herding a pack of wolves through a maze, and a pit forms in my stomach from the memory of Mom’s dying words.
Find shepherd.
I never got the chance to ask whether there was meant to be a the before shepherd.
Honestly, I’m probably looking into it too much. Mom was never very religious, but as she was nearing the end, she sought comfort from anything she could, even if it didn’t make sense to me. Whatever it was that went through her head, it’s too late for me to get answers.
I pause in front of a painting of a dead angel hanging upside down. Folding my hands behind my back, I tip my head to the side. The piece in front of me is… fascinating, to say the least.
Shaw’s pieces usually are. Mom took me to his exhibit in Chicago a couple years back. She had been watching his rise to fame ever since he first hit the news as a teen. The man has talent, but he’s nowhere near as good as he used to be. I suppose what comes up must come down.
The angel is holding together his shattered body with broken fingers. Midnight hues and flecks of crimson blot along his porcelain skin. Pools of scarlet and royal-blue velvet, vases, jewels, and golden filigree decorate his surroundings.
The longer I look at it, the clearer it becomes—the subject is a woman, not a man.
I edge closer to get a better look. Her eyes are hollow.
Darkness colors between the cracks of her skin, except for the dull light trickling though from her center.
Her fragile hands and fraying threads of gold hold her shattered pieces together.
Skin flaps at her hairline like she might have been scalped.
Once I lean in, I realize she’s wearing a wig.
The most jarring realization isn’t that she’s trying to hold her body together; she’s covering the swell of her stomach where the shadows within are five shades lighter.
Sat against the backdrop of the neoclassical building of the fine-art department, and the sullen hues from the indignant sky, Shaw’s painting is beautifully grotesque.
The level of detail and thought that has gone into this piece is nothing short of genius. A hundred years from now, critics will look back at this and sing praises about the masterpiece. Any art major could have a field day trying to unpack its meaning. Except something fundamental is missing.
I want to know more about the woman. But I’m not knocked off my feet. I’m not going to go to bed feeling the soul-deep ache the artist is trying to achieve. Simply put, it’s lacking.
“Quite the piece.”
I whip my head toward the person beside me and nearly jump out of my skin. How long has he been standing here?
My eyes widen before I force my attention back to the painting, imprinting his side profile into memory. Dark hair, chiseled jaw, glasses, tall, British accent. There’s a relaxed, alluring air about the way he stands, and my God if it doesn’t make me feel a little unsteady.
We can add him to the list of artworks in the building.
If I sneak another peek, I might gawk, and I was raised to be better than that. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, observing the painting just as I’ve been for the past ten minutes. But all I can focus on is the six-foot-something fine specimen beside me.
And the fact that I have no idea what I should be doing in this situation.
What would be normal in these circumstances? Nod? Hum my agreement? Say something mundane about the shitty weather?
“You can tell it was painted by a man.”
Shit. Too direct.
He snaps his attention to me. “Is that meant to be an offense?”
Retreat. Retreat.
Fuck, I should have mentioned the weather. I shift my weight to look him directly in the eyes—which is a big mistake on my part. They’re the most stunning shade of green I’ve ever seen, with deep rings of emerald and rivers of sage. It’s almost unnatural.
My fingers twitch with the urge to draw my camera to capture the details of his face, like the dip beneath his bottom lip and the dark flicks of eyelashes.
Even the way the strands of his perfectly styled hair fall atop his head—clean and tidy, but effortless, as if he rolled out of bed, ran his hands through his hair with his fingers, then stepped out the door.
He’s got the whole English countryside business attire down pat with the knitted vest, button-up, Chelsea boots, and a tweed jacket hanging from the crook of his elbow. The five o’clock shadow he’s sporting is the cherry on top.
Actually a lens wouldn’t be able to capture his refined beauty. If Aphrodite saw him walking down the street, she would smite him out of jealousy. Maybe I shouldn’t have engaged at all.
My breath stutters as I rack my brain, trying to remember what he said. I clear my throat, then respond, “An astute observation made by someone with an eye for detail.”
It’s a physical feat not to stare at how the tendons in his forearms ripple as he places his hands in his pockets. I’m not falling for the nonchalant demeanor he’s dishing out. If I weren’t studying every angle of him, I would have missed the slight flattening of his thick brows.
“And what made you draw this conclusion?”
I could listen to that British accent all damn day. Deep and elegant, it even sounds like he’s smoldering.
He straightens, silently challenging me, with every expectation that I would back down, and by God does that irk me. He looks like someone who’s used to getting his way.
Unfortunately for him, I’m sleep-deprived, stressed, overcaffeinated, and I have many things to say. He can stare me down with those pretty green eyes of his all he wants, nothing will change the fact that I would kill for a distraction right now.
I don’t want to think about the corrupted footage waiting for me once I get home. Or the essay I haven’t started. Not the ridiculous test I have for an elective class I only chose because of how it worked in my schedule.
Pursing my lips, I twist back to scrutinize the painting. If this man wants to argue over something I’m right about, then I’m game.
“There’s profound meaning behind the piece—that much is apparent. There’s harmony, the detailing is phenomenal, the colors are complimentary, and the composition is superb.” I look over my shoulder at him. “But it lacks intimacy.”
Lately, all of Shaw’s works do.
He scoffs like I might really be insane. “It’s hardly meant to be a piece about love.”
I roll my eyes. Typical man brain. This is probably the first time he’s stepped into an art gallery.
Honestly, I’m not a hundred percent sure that Shaw’s the artist. I haven’t looked at the plaque. It simply looks like something he’s made.
Mom and I would never read the inscription until we were about to leave.
She’d always say that you haven’t done a good enough job if you need to read something to understand it.
The painter has made it clear that there’s meant to be some level of relationship to the woman. I have no idea what it is.