“Thing?” Devlin murmurs, his mouth twisting with slight distaste. I flinch, but Anton is already distracted, checking atwho else is wandering in. I hadn’t expected him to invite so many strangers. It feels like he’s treating my exhibition like a networking event. I press my lips into a tight line.
While I did receive a chunk of funding for this collection from a few patrons, I suppose I don’t know how I would have gotten into a gallery without Anton. That’s why I was seeing him, right?Right?I was used for the sake of someone’s art, so why can't I do the same for my art?
Before he steps away, Anton looks back at me suddenly. “Oh, Char!” I look up at him with doe eyes, not knowing what to expect. “Check out that piece behind us, huh?” He thumbs over his shoulder and we all turn to gaze up at the thirteenth painting he’d been fretting over when I arrived. “A mistake by the gallery technician”—Anton shakes his head as he offers this explanation to Devlin—“clearly doesn’t fit thetheme.”He draws out the “e” sound in annoyance.
The name of my exhibition is “Released,” and nearly all my paintings clearly display that theme in their subject matter: there are figures who are walking off their canvas and depictions of flowing water and objects in flight, etcetera. The theme, however, isn’t just embodied in the subject matter, but also in the methods I’d employed.
I’d always thought of myself as a realist painter. Figurative realism, objective realism. That's the style I’d always admired in my adolescence—the great Renaissance artists who painted such perfect human faces and perspective. But so much of the art I’d chosen for display is absurd and abstract. Like myWoman in the Mistpainting, which is featured at the front of the gallery, many of the paintings have realism at their base, and then layers of abstraction. I’d felt like I’d unlocked new possibilities with this collection, like I no longer had to abide by anyone’s standards. In many ways, I’d felt “released” from my assumed obligations.
My eyes widen though when they land on the additional piece. Anton’s right, I hadn’t intended for it to be included.Devlin is looking at me with narrowed eyes and an open expression, waiting for me to speak on the painting.
This piece is not abstract, and I’d painted it in a private moment. It was two slender forearms pulled together at the top of the canvas and tied at the wrist. That was it. There was no face—just the feminine arms against a deep red background.
“Oh,” I gasp and cover my lips with the tips of my fingers.
When I don’t explain anything, Anton puts his head down to me and mock whispers, “A little private, don’t you think?” He says it loud enough for Devlin to hear, who’s observing everything very carefully. I even see Anton’s eyes flick up to catch Devlin react, but Devlin’s watching him right back. Anton nudges his shoulder and chuckles. “Sometimes we have a little too much fun, eh?” Right then, the one cater-waiter Anton had hired walks up with an aqua acrylic tray loaded with prosecco. Anton snags a glass.
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, David.” He tips his head to Devlin and takes a gulp as he walks away.
“Gentlemen!” His voice carries back to us as he walks up to a circle of men with graying hair. I turn my head stiffly back to Devlin. I refuse to acknowledge his alter-ego, the one I’d had a silly girl’s crush on all those months ago. Things are different now, I’m different. I lift my chin up once I meet his gaze, drawing in a breath.
Devlin glances between the painting and me. I hope he doesn’t see it. Without a word, Devlin pulls something out of his pocket just enough for me to get a good look. It’s a kerchief. My favorite kerchief, in fact. It was a creamy white with a pastel yellow floral pattern lining the perimeter. It’s the same kerchief in the painting behind me. It’s also the same kerchief I’d accidentally left with Devo after he’d used it to tie my wrists to the settee. That was something I’d never done before, and I’d liked it.
My chest tightens. I don’t want to overreact in case I’m still being watched by the likes of Miles and Rob. To my knowledge,only the Zenith Foundation and the person who’d ratted me out ever found out about my participation in Devo’s Brooklyn Muse Painting. But I’m sure there had been rumors in the studio, and I didn’t need to feed them, even all these months later.
“You still have it?” I say, barely breaking my polite smile.
“You left it with me,” he shrugs.
“You can have it,” I respond before spinning to look back at the painting. Anywhere but his multi-colored irises. I’d found myself flicking between them, rememorizing their two shifting colors—one an arctic blue and the other a mint green. Both icy.
He steps up to stand beside me, looking at the painting as well. We both pretend it’s supposed to be there, when in fact, it was supposed to be left behind. In the past.
“So, you and him”—Devlin tilts his head closer to mine—“this is something you do?” He gestures to the painting.
My limbs buzz with a righteous anger. “It’s none of your business.” I stay in front of the painting but turn my head to the side, looking away from him.
I can feel Devlin hesitate. Then he asks, “Does he know what he’s doing?”
I snap my glare back to him. His audacity is beyond measure.
“Does he know what he’s doing withyou, I mean.” He nods toward me.
I can feel my pupils melting into molten pits as I try to burn him down with my stare. My chest rises and falls twice before I’ve gathered myself enough to speak.
“Look, Devlin, what’s in the past is in the past. You’re not the only one who gained something from our…”—I wave my hands in the air and pluck out the word he’d used earlier—“collaboration.” I jut my chin forward in defiance. “I learned what I want, and I pursued it. End of discussion. And hisname,”I finish, “is Anton.”
A new wave of energy rolls off Devlin, but I watch him reign it in. He steers in a slightly new direction.
“So... Anton,” he says, as if rolling the name around in his mouth. “He’s your?—”
“We’re seeing each other,” I cut in. I can see him nod out of the corner of my eye.
“Are you okay?”
Something about the tone of his voice, the lace of concern through it... it bothers me. I spin on my heel to face him directly.
“Yes, I’m okay.”Or Iwas, on my way here, I think. “Why would you ask that? Why are you even here?” Finally, I break.
