“There’s my favorite security man.” Gwendolyn Wright shuffles to my side. “Isaac, right?”
My mouth goes a little dry. She’s a brilliant artist, one of the biggest contributors to modern art, and she’s talking to me. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, hush.” Her hand rests on my forearm and she laughs. “Call me Gwen. Now, let’s talk about when you’re going to show me your work.”
“I, um.” I clear my throat.
“You’re shy. You don’t think it’s good enough. Yada yada.” She waves her hand as if shooing away a fly. “I get it. All artists suffer from imposter syndrome. But I’m afraid I won’t take no for an answer.”
I can’t help but smile at her persistence. “You’re a woman who goes after what she wants.”
Her brows furrow and she shakes her head. “Would you say that if I were a man?”
I don’t expect her question, but something in her gaze tells me she doesn’t tolerate bullshit. “No. I wouldn’t.”
“Right. You might call me ambitious or successful, which I am.” Her stare hardens to that judgmental glare that reminds me of my late grandmother. “But my gender shouldn’t enter into the equation.”
I feel like a jerk. “I didn’t mean disrespect.”
“Of course not.” She offers a faint smile. “We’re all products of our environment. Be better than yours, Isaac. Don’t limit yourself.”
Her words strike a tenderness in my soul. I’m not only a product of my environment, I’m a slave to it. My lack of resources. My responsibilities. My culture too. They’re all contributing factors to why I packed up shop, boxed up my creative life, and shoved it on the back shelf. I rationalized it all as a means of survival, of growing up and stepping up for my son. But for the first time in over a year, I wonder if that was too extreme. Being around all these creative minds and Gwen’s art makes me miss it.
“Bring me your work.” She lifts a finger and waggles it at me accusingly. “If it sucks, I’ll tell you.”
A burst of laughter escapes my lips at her bluntness. “I’ll think about it.”
She shakes her head, but still smiles. “What are you so afraid of?”
I don’t want to consider her question, let alone answer it.
“Excuse me,” one of the production assistants’ interrupts. “Miss Wright. We have a few people who’d like to meet you.”
Gwendolyn glances around the set, her lips twitching as if she finds something humorous. “Investors?”
The assistant nods. “I’m sorry. They’d like a few minutes of your time.”
“I’ll be right there,” she says, and turns to me before following. “Whenever I don’t know what to do, I ask myself what I would do if I wasn’t afraid. Comfort zones become places of complacency if you let them.”
I swallow at the unease that prickles my spine. Her words are all well and good, but most days I barely keep food on the table for my son. Poverty doesn’t grant me the luxury of that ideology. “And that advice never steered you wrong?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Her eyes sparkle with her smile and she pats my arm again. “Be brave. Trust the universe. It wants good things for you.”
I stand there, more than a little stunned by her unwarranted advice. Who is she to tell me how to live my life? Implying I live in fear? I do what I have to for something greater than myself. I dare anyone else to do better.
My indignation falters, because she’s also right. I do live in fear. In fear of losing David. Of not being enough. I put aside my own dreams to provide the life he deserves, but where has that gotten us? I’m still scraping by, and the joy and freedom that filled my soul lays dormant and repressed. Resentful even, at being ignored. I’m an artist. Or at least I was. Does that go away because I packed up my materials and supplies?
I already know the answer, but it leaves me raw and confused. A blur of white catches my gaze from across the room. The dress Cora’s wearing for this scene makes her stand out in the thick crowd, though it wouldn’t matter what she’s wearing. Like magnets drawn to each other, it’s as if I can’t help but seek her out.
I should plant my feet in the ground.
I should ignore what could’ve been and move on.
I should— Fuck it! My feet move before I’ve fully made up my mind. My gaze holds hers like a lifeline, and I duck around equipment and jostle between people until we’re only a few feet apart.
As soon as she notices me, she turns away.
“Cora.” I call out her name, knowing she won’t make a scene. It’s not her style. She doesn’t turn to meet my stare, but she doesn’t run, either.
I close the space between us, and step into her path so she has to look at me. “Hey.” I swallow hard, drawing up my pride and praying it’s enough. “I’m sorry about last night.”
“It’s fine.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up with two sisters and a mom, even when they say so, it’s never fine.
“I messed up. I should’ve called you.”
“Yeah.” She looks as if she might lash out, but instead her face calms with detachment. “But you didn’t.” She glances over my shoulder. “Look, I have to get back to work.” It’s a brush-off. The worst kind of rejection. She’s done, and maybe it’s better this way. Were we ever going to have more than temporary joy? She’s so far above me, I never stood a chance.
“I’m sorry.” For not being able to call. For standing her up. For what we might have had if circumstances were different.
“Yep.” Her gaze doesn’t meet mine. Her chin juts proudly, her focus on the set, waiting to be called center stage for filming.
“I mean it, Cora. I’m sorry. You deserve better.” With those last words, my replacement, Frank, steps into the studio and I’m forced to walk away from the first woman to make me feel hopeful in almost two years.
Sixteen
Cora
You deserve better.
Isaac’s parting words play on repeat in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. I should feel relieved. At the very least, grateful he won’t harass me at work about giving him a second chance. But instead I feel—I don’t know, sorry for him? Which is so fucked up because he’s the one who no-showed on our date! Screw him. I know what I deserve. Who is he to decide if that includes him?
“Cora?” Trent’s lips pull into a smile from where he sits across the table.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, flashing a smile and reaching for my glass. “Been a long day.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He lifts his beer and we clink our glasses together.
“So, what’s new? Business is good? Lexi’s good?”
“Can’t complain. The label is going fantastic. You see we got a Grammy nom for two of the bands we signed?”
“Yes! Jess told me. And your wife’s album got her own nomination.”
“Fuck, yeah. Lexi’s my hero. Kicking ass and taking names.” He shoves his hair back, tucking it behind his ears. “She’s so damn dedicated, working crazy hours, and still writing some of the best music I’ve ever heard.”