Chapter 9 #2
“No, it’s moody. There’s a lot of detail and contrast. That caught my eye.” He zooms in, and I hold my breath.
“That project took forever. I was trying to go more abstract for this show in Boston my junior year.”
“It feels sad,” he says.
“I suppose it is. Just a little. I wasn’t in the best place then.” I take my phone back, awkwardly staring at the screen. “Anyway, it had a sad ending too. It didn’t get a lot of notice and I threw it in storage. I’m toying with selling it now, if it can ever find a buyer.”
“You should keep it,” he says, staring at the Lam painting in front of us again. “What’s your favorite medium? You’ve done a lot of experimenting, so you must know.”
“Actually… I’m still working that out. Anything but sculpture, I’d say.” I try not to stick my tongue out. “I do a lot of custom texture art for home décor. Gives me a little more depth to work with than painting.”
Holden’s gaze sharpens. He knows exactly where my aversion to sculpture comes from.
Ugh, my daddy issues are showing.
“Sometimes, I like art that’s a little less personal. The stuff that needs to be marketable comes easy. It’s my main income, so I probably take it more seriously, too.”
He nods silently as we stand and head into a theater room, searching for a bench in front of the large screen. It’s dark, only the flickering light illuminates the space.
Holden’s hand brushes the small of my back to guide me so I don’t fall as he settles in. The benches are small, and we take the seat next to the wall. I squeeze in until his bulk grazes my side.
Tingles.
It must be that stupid, intimate conversation we just had that makes it feel like static charge.
That’s why I feel this small, innocent collision everywhere.
We sit there in silence, watching the movie. We walked in while it was halfway through, but I think it’s an old experimental art film, tough-looking biker dudes mixed with Christian imagery.
Interesting, until the part where the bikers walk into their clubhouse and these prancing, smiling strippers start undressing them in pure drunken revelry.
Awkward. Definitely way too much skin to take in with this bear of an older man pressed up next to me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Holden whispers, his voice low and unbothered by the X-rated movie rolling.
“Huh?” For a second, I think he means the sexy business. I link my hands together in my lap. “Oh, the art, you mean… There’s not much to talk about.”
He keeps quiet, a human mountain, solid and so, so warm.
God, why is he so warm?
“You sure, Nile? Seems like your old man taught you a lot about what not to do.”
My mouth twists before I answer. “No denying that. It’s just… I want to forge my own path. Sculpture was his thing, whatever he did or didn’t do right.”
“Mm.”
“And… and things weren’t always good. You remember what I said about art being personal?
There’s no avoiding your own experience when you decide to go all in.
The good, the bad, the beautiful, the depressing.
” I pause. “I don’t remember much about when my mother died.
I was small. But I do remember Dad was never the same. All his worst impulses just took over.”
I don’t know how much he knows or doesn’t know about my family, but it’s a relief to say this out loud. Even while we’re ignoring the craziest stuff happening on the screen.
“I get it. You want to carry that shit without letting it define you.” He nods gruffly. “Same with your art. You want it to be you, your emotions, your history. No one else’s.”
Speechless.
I can’t believe he gets it.
We sit a while longer, watching the film while my face turns into a cherry tomato. And it’s not just what’s playing in front of us, though that’s not helping.
Holy shit, why did the art films of the 1970s have to insert a ten-minute sex scene?
It’s almost worse that Holden keeps watching me more than the debauchery flickering on the screen.
I’m so flushed and I don’t dare look at him.
I’m not a shy girl with sex. But I am with him.
I just can’t take the light and shadows dancing across his smug face right now while bikers groan away. There’s too much contrast there. So many hard lines. So many unreadable thoughts.
If I start trying to guess at what that means… yeah, this won’t end well. Wouldn’t that be a shame when we’re having a decent time?
Minus the unexpected porno movie, I mean.
I idly wonder if charcoal will do a Holden Verity portrait justice after all. Maybe he needs harder lines—hard, but still messy, rough like the scruff on his jaw and the black starlight in his eyes.
The thought makes my fingers itch, eager to try.
Once this egg run blows over, if we’re still on decent terms, I might throw it together and ship it back to him as a thank-you.
“I don’t know everything, you know. Leonidas never said much about his nephew when he wasn’t ranting,” he says after a long moment.
I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding in.
“I don’t think Gramps liked to dwell on disappointments. He had enough of that with Elvira and Scott. It’s really sad how much went sour in this family.” I shake my head. “If you listen to Dad tell his version, he’ll make it sound like PopPop threw him on the street and never gave him a dime.”
“Mr. Blackthorn tried to make it up to his grandkids after so much got fucked up with more immediate family. You, Margot, and Ethan were all he had.”
“And I’m so glad he had us. Even if I was the baby and a third or fourth wheel sometimes,” I murmur.
Holden stretches, pressing his knee against mine for a split second before his leg shifts away.
“It was different with you,” he whispers. “To him, you were his granddaughter, no matter what the family tree said. You stuck around longer. You had more time alone with him once life got busy for Ethan and Margot. He loved you to hell and back, Cleo.”
Oh, my eyes.
I smile painfully, pinning my eyes to the screen until my face hurts. I’ve never been so happy to see a scene change back to creepy skulls and guys in leather with Grizzlies MC patches dancing around.
“Gramps tried to patch the holes in the family quilt, I think. The people he lost, and I don’t blame him one bit. I’m glad I could be there for him.”
“He cared about the people who mattered, the ones who stayed and loved him,” Holden says warmly.
“He didn’t give a crap about anything that went against what he wanted, that’s for sure. He was tough.”
“Yeah. Whatever he thought was best for the folks he cared about.” He sighs fondly. “I’ll always respect that. The man carried his baggage quietly, accepted what he couldn’t fix, and just kept living.”
I wonder at the pride and envy in his voice.
But what is happening?
Are we having a freaking moment? Is Holden Verity showing me empathy?
I fight the urge to give him the biggest hug.
I have to avoid liking the thought of that way too much.
In the end, the urge wins.
Leaning against his arm, I rest my head on his shoulder for a frenzied second. My face feels like it’s melting but I don’t care.
“I’m sorry again. About yesterday. You’re not so bad sometimes,” I whisper. “And I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world to be stuck with you.”
He huffs but doesn’t move away.
“Should I get that in writing? Cleo Blackthorn agrees I wasn’t assigned to piss her off, and she won’t produce another unflattering drawing.”
“Shut up. Let’s enjoy the truce.” I’m laughing, suddenly giddy.
But he goes quiet as his lips turn up.
He lets me enjoy him.
Finally, we find a little unexpected peace in the dark, uneven chasms between our emotions.
By seven o’clock, I’m worried.
Jasper Fairfax still hasn’t called.
All the warm, fuzzy feelings from The Met visit have faded with the sunset, and all that’s left in its place is this waxy anxiety.
Lots of anxiety.
Holden shoulders the door open and steps through, carrying a pizza box and a bottle of wine. “Nile, stop pacing and come eat. You’re making me dizzy.”
“And you just got back and I’m starving.”
My inner hangry ghoul takes over the instant a whiff of good New York pizza hits me in the face.
My eyelids flutter shut in bliss.
While we sat around, waiting for the call, Holden insisted on getting some food in me. At the time, I wasn’t that keen on pizza, but now, I’m ravenous.
“Nothing from Fairfax?”
“Nope.” I grab a couple plates and two glasses from the kitchen.
“Dammit, what’s the holdup? He promised us a call.”
“Do you think it’s a bad sign? Maybe he found out the egg’s a fraud and he’s just figuring out how to let me down easy.
” I pour us both wine and accept the enormous pizza slice he plates up.
Classic pepperoni. “What if it’s not authentic?
Or something’s wrong with its condition?
Honestly, I never looked at it that closely.
Crap… What if it’s illegal to even sell it? I don’t want to get arrested.”
“Nile, switch off. If he had any concerns about it being stolen, they would’ve been front and center. Eat some pizza.” He pushes my plate into my hands.
Good advice I can’t ignore.
“How are you not freaking out over this?” I ask around a bite.
We sit on the sofa together.
“Why bother? You’re doing plenty of that for both of us.” He shoves the slice into his own mouth and tears off a bite, practically folding the thin slice to down it in a few chomps. And I thought I was starving. “You’ll feel better with a full belly. Trust me.”
“I’ll feel better with more wine,” I mutter.
But I take another bite and moan.
Hello, flavor town.
Yeah, okay, so maybe this pizza will make me feel better after all. That doesn’t mean it’s a magic cure for our problems.
“But what if something did go wrong?” I ask when I’m halfway through a second slice. “There are so many things that could derail, and—”
“Exactly,” he interrupts, polishing off his slice. “A thousand things could misfire, and there’s no point in worrying about them. Do you hear me?”
I blow out a breath. “I do.”