Hero Worship(2)
Author: Amelia Wilde

 

Marie’s eyes light up. “Are we friends?”

 

I laugh like it’s a hilarious joke, but a little part of my heart dies. “Of course we are. That’s why I’m at your show.”

 

“Of course we are,” she echoes.

 

Of course.

 

The gallery owner calls to Marie, and she squeezes me, a tight, close hug, and lets go. “I’m so glad you came. If I don’t see you, I’ll text you, okay?”

 

“You’d better.”

 

She flits off into the gallery.

 

I smile after her, hyperaware of my expression. Marie doesn’t think anyone noticed her, but everyone in the room saw her come over to hug me, and now they’re taking the opportunity to stare.

 

I’m used to the staring. On average, it takes people thirty seconds to figure out what’s wrong with me, and another thirty seconds to figure out if their eyes are playing tricks. To wonder what kind of a freak I am. Then, if I’m very unlucky, they’ll connect me with my dad.

 

Don’t misunderstand me. He’s one of my favorite people in the world. Nobody has a better dad than I do. But when I’m recognized as his daughter rather than a woman with monstrous eyes, some people feel entitled to ask questions. Sometimes personal questions. Sometimes, if they’re particularly pushy, they’ll make requests.

 

Usually, those requests involve delivering a message, or arranging a phone call or a meeting. They’re too scared to ask him themselves. They’re not afraid to bother me.

 

I’m not into that.

 

So I make zero eye contact with the people in the gallery. I put my champagne glass on an empty standing table and slowly, casually make my way to one of the gallery assistants. One of Marie’s bigger, more expensive pieces reminds me of the beach where I learned to swim, so I buy it and give the assistant the address to deliver it to my house.

 

It doesn’t matter that we’re not really friends. It stings a little bit, but it doesn’t surprise me. My childhood was beyond excellent, as far as childhoods go, but from what I gather, I spent more time alone or with my parents than other people. I had a close circle of friends, and my family, and by the time I left New York to come to California it was easier to stick with what I had.

 

Explaining myself to someone new is exhausting.

 

I text my driver, Shane, who doubles as my bodyguard, that I’m ready to leave. He’s just sent me a thumbs-up emoji when my phone rings.

 

My cousin Artemis is already talking when I accept the call, drifting into an out-of-the-way corner so I can close my eyes.

 

“—can’t do that. I’ve said it so many times, and I know you heard me, so, like—”

 

“Artemis. Artemis. Did you mean to call me?”

 

“Oh my God, Daisy, of course I meant to call you!”

 

“Sorry.” I can’t help laughing at how all-out she goes. “It sounded like you were arguing with Apollo again.”

 

“I am arguing with Apollo again. That doesn’t mean I can’t talk to you at the same time.”

 

“You can text me. Seriously. Don’t interrupt your argument on my behalf.”

 

“You shh. I’m not interrupting anything except Apollo insisting that I haven’t told him—”

 

Apollo’s voice, muffled in the background, interrupts her.

 

“I am right,” Artemis insists to him. “You will not win this battle.”

 

I catch a barely audible put your money where your mouth is.

 

“Hi, Apollo,” I shout into the phone, wincing at the sound even as I do.

 

“Hey, Daisy,” he shouts from the background of the call.

 

“You’re not going to win,” I whisper-shout back. Ironic, since winning battles of diplomacy is his literal day job.

 

“I know,” he answers, and then he laughs, which makes Artemis laugh, which makes me laugh, too. Which makes me wish, not for the first time, that I lived in New York with my cousins and my parents and my aunts and my uncles. It makes me wish I didn’t have to hide. It was never my plan to live at home forever, but it gives me a pang of homesickness and regret that I have to live in California now. Verbal battles would make a nice change from the one raging in my retinas. Except I can’t go back, no matter how much I miss them.

 

“Are you ever going to get somebody else to fight with?” I tease Artemis. I’ve known her since we were babies, and she’s always stuck close to our family, too. Especially once her dad adopted Ares and Apollo when we were six.

 

“No,” she answers, prim. “I prefer a well-matched opponent.”

 

“You don’t act like I’m well-matched,” Apollo says, close to the phone.

 

“Is it worse than that?” I drop my voice like I’m about to question her about a terrible secret. “Will you die without him? Is there a ticking clock the moment he leaves the room?”

 

Artemis laughs, and then laughs harder, and it’s…actually kind of forceful and weird.

 

“Um…are you okay?”

 

“She’s going to snort-laugh herself to death,” says Apollo, directly into the speaker. I’m sure I’m imagining any weirdness in his voice. It’s probably the sight of Artemis ugly-laughing. A rare thing to see, since she’s normally the definition of beauty. She has her dad’s golden eyes and her mom’s supermodel looks. I’m only a little jealous.

 

Of her, and how good she looks with Apollo, who has dark hair and blue eyes. They would make the perfect celebrity couple if they weren’t best friends.

 

Some people might argue that they’re siblings, but they’re not blood related, so if they choose to be obsessed with each other, all I can do is tease Artemis relentlessly about it.

 

“She’s still going,” comments Apollo.

 

“Get away,” chokes Artemis. It takes her a few beats to regain control. “I’m trying to ask Daisy about her art. What did the gallery guy say?”

 

The gallery guy is a curator I met with earlier this week after months of persistence on his part. He saw one of my pieces in the catalog for a charity auction and has been asking for a meeting ever since. I finally agreed, mainly because daytime meetings are going to be beyond me soon, and I don’t want to explain why.

 

It was a mistake. He liked the wrong work. I offered him a car-sized study in all the shades of black that exist, so many more than most people ever notice during the day. It’s studded with orbs of light that allow a further range of tones to celebrate the dark. He didn’t even give me a chance to begin explaining how personal the piece is before pulling out first one, then another of the wrong paintings to crow over instead.