James grunts. “My old personal trainer.”
His answer doesn’t quite satisfy my weird jealous streak. Personal trainers can still be sexy ladies with six-packs. Which again, doesn’t matter—even if this trainer was a Margot Robbie lookalike who got James sweaty in more ways than one, she’s in the past.
Ugh, I have to ask him, or my imagination is apparently going to run away with me.
“Yeah? What’s your trainer’s name?” My voice doesn’t sound as casual as I wish it did. “I should send them a thank-you note.”
“Rodney,” he says. “Old army guy, helped me through a back injury back in college.”
“Rodney,” I repeat with satisfaction. Sounds like a guy with zero Margot Robbie resemblance. “Next time you talk, tell him I love him.”
“I’m not sure I’m supposed to facilitate my wife’s love affair with another man,” he grumbles.
“Hush. Rodney deserves my affection.”
I lean back against him, closing my eyes and feeling more content than I have in a long time. If there’s no purple block on the schedules, a massage from James might just be the next best thing.
25
MAURA
One Week Later
My teeth dig into my bottom lip hard enough to break the skin. It's an old nervous habit, because apparently my body would rather feel pain than anxiety.
The Whitmer has transformed, its white walls covered in my paintings. It looks just like I dreamed. One wall is warm and fiery, full of lively, red-accented pieces. The other side has darker, moody paintings, withThe Thunderstormat the center.
Bringing them together isWarm Front, the name I gave to the massive painting I’ve been working so hard on. It almost fills the wall it’s on, and Sydney and I decided to leave the white space uncovered rather than squeezing in two small paintings. If it works the way we think it will, people will linger here the longest, taking in all the details and shades.
Right now, of course, nobody’s looking at it.
Sydney just unlocked the door, but apart from her, her assistants, and two servers holding full trays of wine glasses, I'm the only one here. Oh god, what if I'm the only one who comes?What if not a single person comes to my solo show’s opening night except for me?
“They'll come,” Sydney says, answering the words I didn’t say out loud.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I mean, I'm a new artist. Nobody's ever heard of me. There might not be a single person in Toronto who cares about my art.”
“That's not true.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because my office got all the RSVPs. Even if only half of them actually show, we’ll still have a nice, mostly full party.”
I sigh. “I hope so. I don’t even care if they just come for the wine. I just don’t want to be the first solo artist who nobody wants to see.”
“Enough of that,” Sydney says brusquely. “If you don't trust your own talent, trust mine. If I think your work is good enough, it's good enough. End of story.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. Trust me, I know my taste is impeccable. I've been doing this long enough to know the difference between true art and wall fillers. What you made…” She gestures at the paintings around us. “It’s true art. The kind people want to see.”
I smile shyly. “I wish I was as confident as you are.”
“You're feeling all the same things every artist who displayed here feels,” she says, patting my arm. “In the kindest possible way, you're not special. You're even being a little cliché. So relax. They'll come.”
I laugh despite myself. “Well, I wouldn't want to be a cliché.”
The door opens, and two eccentric-looking women in brightly colored caftans enter. I don’t recognize them, but clearly Sydney does, because she calls out, “Sydelle! Laura! How lovely of you to come.”
