Breakable (34 page)

Mark
looked chagrined as he was introduced to the two men, but I was relieved.

I’d
dragged my feet getting ready tonight, shown up at the last possible minute. A
part of me hoped the show would open and I wouldn’t have time to look at my
wall. But deep down I knew it wasn’t going to work that way. The whole point of
being here tonight was to answer questions about my work – first for the
judges, then for members of the public and art professors from many of the best
art schools in the country.

Even
the thought twisted my stomach.

“…very
interested in your talent, Mr. Gray. I believe our curriculum could benefit
your work immensely. Have you accepted a scholarship proposal yet?”

Mark
flushed, and shook his head.

I’d
known this would happen. I fully expected Mark to win the scholarship tonight.
But even if he didn’t, I had no doubt he’d leave the gallery with several
offers.

This
moment was particularly sweet. Mark’s dad was livid that Mark had entered the
competition against his wishes. But when he realized how prestigious the
competition was, he’d agreed to give Mark one chance: Mark came home with a
full-ride scholarship, or he gave up art school dreams and followed his
father’s footsteps and became an engineer.

As
he became more and more engrossed in the conversation with the men – professors
from a prestigious school, I gathered – I slid my hand from his grip, then
inched back.

Chapter Forty-Three

At
first I planned to just stand back and enjoy watching Mark finally find his success.
But as the conversation turned to nuances of Mark’s technique that I was
already familiar with, my eyes wandered to some of the other walls surrounding
us.

I
moved deeper into the gallery, following the feast of art that surrounded me on
every side.

I
think I knew what I was doing. I think a part of me had always preferred to
face this particular demon alone.

I
wasn’t consciously anticipating the moment as I examined the brushstrokes on
that painting, or how this artist used color to create a sense of light. In
fact, when the moment came, it was shocking. Yet, somehow, not.

I’d
just enjoyed a surrealist piece from a girl from Nebraska (her
near-photographic cows had lamps instead of heads) and stepped around her wall
to see what else was on offer, when I drew up short.

Crazy
Stacy Loves Dick

The
words stole my breath – and not in the good way. In fact, I think if there’d
been another human being present, I might have fled.

But
instead, I forced my feet to step closer. Forced my lungs to inflate. Forced my
eyes to remain open. Forced my heart down, out of my throat.

I’d
reached the back wall of the gallery. There, in all its perfectly illuminated
glory, was my story. Every face. Every stroke. Every moment of humiliation.

It
was a wall covered with my shame. It made me ill.

Luckily,
each artist’s wall had a bench seat squatting a few feet away. Since no one
else was around, I took advantage of not needing to use my legs, and dropped
onto the wooden slats. Making sure I didn’t miss it was an excuse to take my
eyes off the wall. Then I had to set my lanyard on the seat next to me so the
ID card wouldn’t flap around and irritate me. My skirt needed to be arranged to
ensure the scars on my thighs weren’t going to peek out. There was a piece of
lint on my shoe…

I
found I didn’t want to take my eyes off my hands.

Knowing
I was being ridiculous, I lifted my head, but my eyes skittered around the
edges of my wall, avoiding the real impact of what was there.

This
was the moment. This was where I was supposed to face my fear with courage;
stare down the demons of my past and realize they had no power. If it were a
movie, I might cry, but I’d walk away with my head held high and never look
back.

Right?

But
courage failed me. Fear set my hands shaking and twisted my gut into knots.

There
were no tears, thank God, but my breath came in short pants. My hands twisted
in my lap. And the thought of looking at that picture again made adrenalin
surge until my heart raced so fast I was afraid it might beat out of my chest.

What
was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be the kick-ass heroine, like in books? Or
the strong, noble star of a movie?

Because
it hurts.

Something
inside me broke open. I gripped the edge of the seat, swaying. My scars sung as
every muscle in my body went rigid, because this wasn’t just a story. This was
my life.

That’s
the part they never tell you in the movies. That’s the part the books pretend
doesn’t happen.

Sure,
I made it to New York. And I have a wonderful, glorious, boyfriend who I love.
I’m even pretty sure we’re going to get married one day. And none of that would
have happened without my story. So I can’t go back. I can’t wish it away.

But
it still hurt. Every stinking day.

Even
if I walked out of that room, right at that moment, and never looked back…it
would still ache inside when I thought of that picture, or worse, had to look
at it.

Even
if Mark loved me for the rest of his days, and never so much as blinked in the
direction of another woman, there’d still be pain in our past.

And
being with him is wonderful, but Older Me was right about one thing: Mark isn’t
perfect. He’s still working through stuff with his dad. Mark’s been paralyzed
by the idea of resisting his father before – and with good reason. We’re going
to face that again. Together, hopefully.  But still…

Mark
isn’t free yet, and I’m not unscathed. I have scars – inside and out – that
will never leave me. The pictures on the wall in front of me were just images
put together, mostly by my hand. But they represented the weight I would carry
for the rest of my life. And tonight it felt almost too heavy to bear.

My
heart jumped. The tingling in my limbs was almost unbearable. I had to decide.
Did I face it then? Or did I walk away and hope I could work through it later?

My
fingers tightened on the bench, whether to hold me still, or push me up and
away, I wasn’t sure. But then quiet footsteps sounded on my left and I froze.

A
low, quiet whistle rose then fell. A gruff baritone murmured, “Finally! I’ve
been looking for this one.”

Grateful
for the excuse to look at something other than the wall, I turned.  Then
my mouth dropped open.

The
man standing a few feet to my right, staring at my wall, was almost a
caricature. He was wearing brown leather short-top boots, with thick socks that
bunch halfway up his calf. And a kilt. An actual, tweed, wool kilt with one of
those man-purses hanging at the front. He’d paired it with a formal black
jacket, white shirt, a matching sash that dropped to mid-thigh, and a floppy
hat that reminded me of someone trying to look like a French painter.

He
looked ridiculous. And somehow…
right
.

He
glanced at me with a wry smile, then did a double take and turned, frowning.
“Have we met?” he asked.

“Um.
No.”

“Are
you sure? You look very familiar.”

“Uh,
yes, I’m sure.” I think I’d remember. But then he looked me up and down,
examining me and it creeped me out. “Look, mister–”

He
snapped his fingers. “You’re the girl in the painting! Mark Gray’s portfolio!”

Stunned,
I nodded.

He
closed his eyes and sighed. “That piece is remarkable. The movement! When I saw
it I wished I could meet the young lady to see how it felt to be the
inspiration behind such an erotic work. I never imagined – but you must be his
girlfriend, then?”

“Uh,
yes…”

“Wonderful!
Tell me the story! Did he have you sit for it? Did you know it would be
so…suggestive?”

I
swallowed, feeling violated and relieved, and inadequate, all at the same time.
“I didn’t know he’d painted it, actually. He didn’t tell me. It was a surprise.”
When he looked surprised, and not in the good way, I wanted to fall between the
slats of the bench and disappear. “It’s complicated.” I murmured.

“Ah,
of course. The good stories always are, aren’t they?” He rolled his eyes, then
turned back to my wall to fix his piercing gaze on that instead. My moment of
relief quickly became gut-wrenching fear. “Now, this one, I’d
love
to
hear the real story behind this one,” he said, flipping a finger toward my
wall.

I
swallowed. “Oh?”

“Yes.
Have you heard about it?”

And
then I realized he didn’t know who I was. My exhibitor’s pass lay face down on
the bench on my other side. He thought I was there as Mark’s girlfriend.

The
relief turned my knees to water. I was glad to be sitting down. “Uh…no,” I
croaked. “There’s a story?”

He
flapped his hand at me without taking his eyes off my wall. “Well, I’m sure the
story
we
hear isn’t even close to the truth of it. But apparently the
artist was…shall we say,
unpopular
.” He gave me a pointed glance from
the side. “Those awful words were actually painted by someone else, in an
attempt to sabotage her chances at getting here.”

“Wow,”
I said.

He
nodded. “Instead of painting over it, or starting again, the artist
used
the saboteur’s contribution.” He shook his head. “Inspired.”

“Really?”
It fell out of my mouth in shock, but he didn’t notice.

“Really.”
He stepped closer to my wall and pointed. I was forced to turn otherwise it
would be too obvious. So I stopped breathing and tore my gaze from him to the
painting he pointed at.

Finn.

“…See
how she’s used red and purple here? It looks positively sinister. She could
have done his whole face that way, to denote a truly evil person. But she
hasn’t. She’s used the implication sparingly. On the mouth.” He turned,
beaming, satisfied. “She’s implying that the individual’s
words
are
dark, rather than his heart.”

I
wouldn’t go that far, but I wasn’t supposed to know that, so I nodded. It was
gratifying that he’d at least read the right impressions about Finn. For a
moment I wished Finn were there to hear it. That urge passed quickly.

“…and
so two-dimensional! It’s as if she doesn’t know this man at all.”

He
pointed to Dex and I found another measure of satisfaction because he was
exactly right.

By
the time he’d finished waxing lyrical about how I clearly despised my father,
held my mother in contempt, and had barely suppressed rage toward Karyn, I was
almost in tears – and ready to tell him who I was just so I could thank him for
taking the time to
look
.

But
before I could speak, he moved almost to the center of the wall and stared at
my self-portrait. My stomach tightened and my throat closed. The words I was
about to say died on my tongue because he was looking at the picture with such
sadness I wanted to weep.

“…the
courage it must have taken to use this.” He shook his head, then looked back at
me. “I was bullied in high school, too,” he said quietly, conspiratorially.

Without
thought, I scanned him from head to toe.

He
chuckled. “Yes, yes. I wasn’t quite so flamboyant then. But there was no doubt
I had…flair.” He laughed a self-deprecating laugh and I couldn’t help but
chuckle with him because I knew an understatement when I heard it. I was
suddenly fascinated to hear his story.

“But
I never would have had the courage to do this,” he said quietly, the smile
fading as he turned back to my painting. “This is an artist who’s willing to
lay themselves bare in order to tell the truth.” He nodded once. “And
that’s
where real art comes from.”

I
swallowed hard. I had to tell him. I had to thank him.

“I’m
determined to sit here all night until she shows up. I’m hoping she’ll agree
to–”

“Look,
mister…”

He
blinked, then turns back to me. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been rude! I haven’t
introduced myself. I’m Jeremy August, I’m one of the Deans at the Vintner School
of Art.” He took the four strides to reach my side, holding out a hand. I knew
I should stand, but I was still feeling shaky. And he didn’t know who I was, so
I just shook his hand and nodded again.

“I
shouldn’t have been yammering to you. You’re here to celebrate!” he said,
throwing his hands in the air. “You must be so proud of Mark – another very
talented artist, I must say. Such an opportunity to be here with him tonight!
So what are you doing hiding back here? You should be standing by his wall! Let
the people tell you how beautiful it is – you are, I mean.” He grinned. “The
likeness is uncanny. He’s very talented.”

It
was like being buried in a whirlwind of words. “Uh, yes, he is. But I’m not… I
mean–”

“Oh,
don’t be shy! Come on, I’ll take you over there. I have some friends who’d love
to talk to you.” He took my elbow and pulled me to my feet.

“Wait!
I can’t!”

“Trust
me, dear, this is one of those moments you’ll remember for the rest of your
life. Make the most of it. That boy is going places.”

“No,
you don’t understand, I can’t! I have to stay here…with mine.”

Thankfully,
he lurched to a stop. I tugged my elbow out of his grip and straightened my
dress. “I’m sorry. I really do appreciate your compliments. But I’m exhibiting
too. And they said I have to stay here in case any of the judges come…”

But
he frowned again, looking at me, then at the pictures on the wall. “Oh my…
These are yours?” he said, throwing an arm toward my portfolio. He sounded so
aghast I wished I could go back to the lie. But it was too late for that.

“Yes.
I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you–”

“No,
no, don’t apologize. I didn’t really give you a chance to tell me, did I?” he
said ruefully.

“I
think–”

“But
I never would have recognized you from this,” he said, gesturing towards my
painting.

I
frowned. “Well, either you’re being nice, or I’m a terrible painter then,
because that’s a self-portrait. And it’s only a few months old.”

“Oh,
no dear, I assure you, now that I know, I can see it’s a perfect
likeness.
But I wouldn’t have recognized you from it because the heart of it… you’re
different. This isn’t
you
.”