“Um, Adrian can’t do math either,” Tom said. “I’m not sure he can count that high with his socks on.”
“I took calculus. All the freshman premed classes,” Adrian objected. “I’m just not awidget factory.” He’d unthinkingly crossed his arms over his chest. He uncrossed them.
Caroline gave him a long look that disputed that point. “You make paintings and sell them. How is that any different?”
The server arrived with their food before he couldformulate an appropriate answer, dropping stacks of pancakes and piles of eggs and bacon around the table. Caroline slid her computer to the side but did not put it away. Instead, using her fork in her left hand, she quickly and methodically sliced her pancakes into squares and just as neatly shoved them into her mouth. The stack vanished into the girl in less than thirty seconds, and Caroline did not stop fiddling with her keyboard for the entire time.
“So, you have ten large and five small paintings as inventory,” she said, tapping two formula cells on the screen with a knuckle. “How much do they sell for?”
Adrian reluctantly told her how they had been priced at Nora’s gallery. Caroline dutifully input the numbers.
“And how much did they cost in materials to make?” Caroline asked, clearing out a second set of rows.
Adrian rubbed his chest. “It... varies.”
“You don’t know?”
“No,” he said, hoping that was a good off-ramp for the conversation.
“Then how do you know if you’re making a profit?” Caroline asked, exasperated.
He gritted his teeth and shook his head.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said when Caroline didn’t look away. “I appreciate the concern, but you don’t need to worry about my art career.”
“Well, as your sugar daddy, it’s my responsibility to set you up for long-term financial stability—” Caroline began.
Adrian had to break off the conversation to kick Tom under the table when he started convulsively laughing at the idea of Caroline pensioning Adrian off like an aging Regency-era mistress.
“What?” Caroline demanded. “I’m sorry, I thought you’drather make a living as an artist than an escort.” Her mouth spread out in a long flat line.
“ ‘Roxanne,’ ” Tom crooned. “ ‘You don’t have to put on the red light.’ ” His giggles became nearly hysterical.
Adrian kicked his shin again, promising certain death with his eyes. He inhaled sharply through his nose and then breathed out through his mouth, remembering that he owned every decision that had brought him to this position.
When Tom had shut up and he was reasonably under control, Adrian again tried to decline Caroline’s assistance.
“This model doesn’t really work for an artist,” he said, leaning in and pointing at all the rows for marketing, lease, salary, and other expenses. “My gallery does all of this. I just deliver the paintings and hope they sell.”
“You don’t, like, market them?”
“No,” Adrian said.
“You don’t have your own website or mailing list or...?”
“No,” he repeated, abruptly wondering if that might have been a small part of the problem.
“So, you need a new gallery,” Caroline said.
“Yes.”
“And you need to choose one that will do a good job selling your paintings.”
“Yes.”
“And I bet they’re all different in terms of commission, price, and customer base?”
“Yes,” Adrian agreed. “That’s definitely the next step now that I’m no longer under contract. Then I just have to focus on painting.” Presumably, he would someday be in the mood to paint something again. He’d spent hoursstaring at gray wash on canvas the day before, unable to remember what he was trying to say about the dead bodies oozing in the foreground.
