“You know, I thought something was a little off. I never imagined Chris to be a dancer and the way he was all over you…” She helps me look at the wallpaper samples for an accent wall for the upstairs of the gallery.
“I should have known.” I grimace.
“I like these two the most,” she says making an x on her two choices. They’re a little bolder than I wanted to go but nothing about Hillary is subtle. “You were out of it. We went out to drink and have fun, and I mean it’s not like he morphed into a guy with a different face. You know why I think this is all ridiculous—he’s the same person! I can’t believe how guilty he makes you feel about this. It’s a load of shit,” she declares with a hand on her hip.
“They all look the same, and you can’t help it if they confuse you. Chris is more Old Navy while Cal’s more Armani and Collin has his metrosexual thing happening. But at the end of the day, they are the same person. And if anyone should be offended, shouldn’t it be Cal? He was the first.” She shrugs moving her attention over to the bio files of each artist who will be at the opening.
“Oooh, he’s so hot!” she squeals eyeing one artist that was recommended to me from one of my old classmates. He’s a photographer and has a growing Instagram following.
“Yeah, his work is hotter,” I tell her dryly and she scoffs at me.
“Please get out of this funk. You’ve got your hubby back even if it’s Fifty Shades of bat shit crazy,” she jokes giving me a nudge. “I’ve been really into blonds lately,” she says grinning at the artist like a Cheshire cat. I snatch the picture from her.
“Focus please.” I beg her pointing to the stack of bios I called her over to upload on our social media accounts.
“On what? Your domestic woes or this boring stuff?” She points to the papers. “You guys are rich. Why don’t you just hire someone to do this?” she whines.
“Because I hired you, remember?” I remind her with a grin and she pouts.
“Oh, yeah I forgot,” she says. Hillary has been temping, and working at this new club. She has a degree in marketing but seems hell-bent on not making any use of it right now. Even though she hides behind her brash mouth and childish tantrums, she’s extremely intelligent and has taught me a lot about social media, analytics, and things that I’ve obviously gotten left behind in early 2000 about.
“You need to take a picture for the website,” she reminds me. I comb my hands though my hair.
“I did that already.”
“Yeah, we need a picture where you don’t look like someone’s librarian.”
“It has to be professional,” I retort back. I don’t look like a librarian.
“Yeah, but you’re opening a gallery which you’re marketing to be hip, chic, and cool. It’s not boring, old and stuffy which your picture implies.”
I pull up the picture I sent her. I’m wearing an oversized green sweater and my hair is in curls.
“Wear a black sweater that’s showing a little cleavage, straighten your hair, and it wouldn’t hurt to throw on some mascara. Also I’m going to get you a new photographer. You look like you’re taking your high school yearbook picture in this one.”
“Fine,” I tell her and she claps her hands excitedly then walks toward me and swings her arm around my shoulder.
“You know I love you, right?” she asks, a genuine smile on her face.
“I know.”
“So I’ve been wanting to ask you something, but I was thinking it might be too sensitive right now. But you know me and since we’re on the subject…” I frown already preparing myself for the worst. “I took a peek at the picture under the big blanket.”
“I wasn’t exactly hiding it.” Not from her at least.
“I think it’s amazing.”
“You do?” I ask, surprised and she nods enthusiastically.
“Yes, when are you going to be finished with it?”
“I don’t really have a set date. It’s been more for therapy if anything.”
“I think it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The emotion bleeds off it, and you know I’m not an emotional person.” I’m surprised because she’s not, and she’s never been that interested in art—unless it’s of a hot guy—though I guess this one has three hot guys on it.
“Wow, thanks Hillary,” I tell her unable to fight my growing smile.
“You think you could be finished before the opening?” she asks hesitantly and my smile drops.
“Oh no. I can’t show it there,” I tell her as if she’s lost her mind.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s so personal.”
“Lauren, it’s amazing and I think it could be a breakout piece for you. I know you. You love art, not just showcasing it. You have to do it.” I cross my arms, and shake my head.
“Things are different now. That piece is the first thing I’ve been able to come close to finishing completely and I can’t show it.”
“Come on! It’s too good to be kept hidden in your office, and if we’re going to buy into this whole mental illness being legit thing, wouldn’t this be a great piece to further the cause?” she argues and my heartbeat starts to accelerate. I rub my temples to ease the headache that is coming on.
“No not this one.” I say quietly.
She looks at me, and her perfectly arched blond brows furrow together. “If you don’t want to include your inspiration or what it’s about, you don’t have to.”
“People aren’t blind, Hillary. They’ll know it’s my husband.”
“But they won’t get what it means.”
I shake my head. “A lot of people from Crestfield Corp will be here. It’s not a good idea,” I tell her adamantly.
“He’s the president of the company’s son. Who cares what they think. I’m sure they’ve put the pieces together, Lauren.”
“He doesn’t even know I did this,” I say quietly, feeling the guilt creep up my neck. She twists her long French braid around her finger.
“Well, ask him or them. I can see the work you put into this, and it deserves to be seen,” she urges. “Can you just think about it?”
I grip the back of my neck and glance over at the portrait. The hours it took, the memories and feelings I fought with spilling out onto the canvas.
“Pleeaseee.” She begs, her hands in prayer position. I look at her skeptically.
“Lauren, you deserve this,” she says. The solemnity in her voice catches me off guard.
“I’ll think about it,” I mutter and she squeals in delight.
If only I was as excited about having this conversation with Chris as she seems to be at me having it.
Chapter 30
Chris
I look at the white envelope I found taped to the steering wheel in my car. The message on it simple:
We need to talk
—Cal
Now in Helen’s hand, she is examining it thoroughly as if it was an essay written instead of a simple sentence. A request or a demand—I keep bouncing back and forth between which it is and what it means. Helen finally lifts her head and turns her attention to me setting down the note beside her. She interlaces her fingers and looks almost past me as if she’s contemplating something.