“Especially after tomorrow.” It was a promise I was eager to keep. To show him every day just how little my feelings for him had to do with his asshole of a father.
For now, though, I would settle for lifting him onto this counter, slotting between his knees, and showing him all the ways I cared for him without the complication of words.
19
LUCY
Ishook my hands out at my sides, trying to get rid of the nerves that were raging in my stomach.
Here I was, at Mr. Vender’s Valentine’s Day exhibit. He’d stopped by while my painting was still draped in black fabric, as the crowd lined the sidewalk outside the gallery to wish me good luck and praise my father for recommending me for the show.
The problem was, he didn’t know that it wasn’thispainting underneath the cloth, butmine.
I’d made the decision this morning before I could second-guess myself. I’d taken one look at the pastel, lovey-dovey painting that made me sick to my stomach, then to the painting that was genuine, authentic, and showcased whatever was going on between Knox and me, and I couldn’t go through with it.
At the end of the day, my dad had volunteered me as the artist, so I couldn’t take the painting that wasn’t me and display it to all of Sweetwater Bay and the greater Boston area.
Instead, I took the one that had my heart in every paintstroke, the one I’d seen behind my eyelids last night as Knox took me to my bed and made me feel a part of the moon and stars, and that distorted space where he and I overlapped.
“Lucian?”
I turned in time for my dad’s hands to land on my shoulders, strong and heavy.
“You’ve made me proud having done this for our family,” he boomed, “I put out your name, for your benefit, and you’ve risen to the challenge. You’ve done your part in bringing our family and the Venders together.”
He was taller than me, which I’d found intimidating since the first time his expectations landed on my shoulders. This was how it felt: the physical weight of the family, the risk of his disappointment.
Maybe I’d made a mistake. I could feel a chill seep into my bones, a cold dread.
“Thanks, Dad,” I exhaled shakily.
The doors swung open, and the murmuring of the outside crowd became a boom that thundered in my ears, shooting my pulse sky high.
My hands began to shake at my sides.
“Breathe,” Dad instructed, lifting his hand to mimic breathing in and out. “You’re representing our family now.”
I nodded, swallowing and forcing deep breaths into my lungs. “Yes, sir.”
This gallery was different from some others. Where others had a track of hallways and rooms winding throughout it to encourage privacy for certain works and the continued movement of guests, this gallery was one large room, with my painting as the focal point across the hall.
And it was time to take my black drape off.
I suddenly didn’t want to.
Dad steered me to stand beside my painting, and he gripped the cloth as the patrons started milling about the space.
“Here we are.” He pulled off the black drape, a sharp grin on his face, and revealed my painting.
Something that very much did not fit the bright whites and pastel pinks of what every other artist had included in their piece for a Valentine’s Day exhibit.
Dad’s face fell, eyes widening as tension cut through his entire body.
My hands really were shaking now.
“Lucian,” he hissed, his voice quiet so we wouldn’t be overheard in the loud room bustling full of people—people who had money and influence, who would take one look at my painting and see how out of place it was.
I hung my head. “Dad. I–”
