Every ounce of energy seemed to concentrate on my breathing. I’d internally schooled every receptor in my pathetic little nervous system. All I wanted was for my body to give me this one shot at normalcy.
Like a helpless bubble on a wave, I rode the anxiety. It peaked and crashed, blissfully falling off sooner than expected. My body’s functions rebooted and came back online.
The room drew into focus. The beautiful man was a balm to the torment. I studied him—his eyes, his face. Like a ballerina finding her balance, I fixed my gaze on him. He anchored me, and I allowed myself to devour the moment.
Being near him was breathtaking. He was attractive from across the room, but now, up close, it was a high-definition experience. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and his facial hair was freshly groomed. I had a powerful urge to reach out and touch his cheek, his hair. I wondered how soft it wouldfeel... and thatgaze.
Most eyes were rather boring, all one shade of gray to me. But not him. Nash’s had flecks of variation, like the way it looks when glitter catches the light. His long, dark lashes were almost dewy, skin smooth and fresh.
He loomed over the deli counter, making it seem like a low table. His sister was the same—tall and stunning, with dark hair like his and a body I envied.
I’d always been small, which I attributed to my anxiety. When you’re constantly on edge, enjoying food is a challenge. I disliked feeling full, scared of getting sick and mortifying myself in public.
As a child, certain food textures bothered me, too. Something else my parents hated about me. They’d get angry that I wouldn’t try their fancy canapés, or flavor-forward dishes prepared by our chef. Heaven forbid.
If I didn’t eat it—then I didn’t eat. That was the punishment. As I grew stubborn, it also became my way of challenging their control.
Bill nudged my hand, and I looked away from the refrigerator, coming back to the present. He’d finished cleaning every bit of the treat from his face, paws, floor and anywhere else it could linger.
Mr. Beans let out a long, languorous yowl. It was time for his food now, too.
Pouring out the tuna bisque packet for Mr. Beans, I let him eat it on the counter so Bill wouldn’t harass him.
I grabbed the Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the cabinet and poured myself a bowl. I plunked myself down at theisland, eating opposite Mr. Beans, yet far enough that his fishy breakfast smells wouldn’t reach me.
I’d planned on a quiet day, maybe cleaning my studio and getting it ready for a new project. I wasn’t sure yet what word or feeling would spark the next idea, but I had a couple of months to figure it out.
Later, after dark, I’d walk over to see how the show’s dismantling was progressing. The crew would already be there. By tonight, they’d have the entire space painted in lighter colors.
A text arrived. It was from Cat. I picked up my phone to read it while eating.
Cat:Great show, Sybbie! I can’t believe it! We cracked the half-million mark with that sale!
I choked as milk and cinnamon shot into my nose. Half a million? The highest my art had gone for previously was ninety-thousand.
The negotiation process was obviously not in my wheelhouse of responsibilities. Where I was trying to remain inconspicuous, it also meant being out of earshot during that moment, too. Plus, I liked the surprise of it—the reward for all the anguish.
I fumbled the phone in my hand.Holy Van Gogh.
Few living artists had sales like that. I mean, I knew of the duct tape banana guy, and of course Jeff Koons. But the circle was small.
Me:Really? ??
Cat:Really!
Three dots were bubbling on the screen for a while, stopped, then started again and stopped. There was a doozy coming. I needed time before she dropped the bomb I knew she wouldn’t back down from. She wasn’t blind. I’d seen her watching Nash and Betty talk to me last night.
Cat:I saw people talking to you last night as though they knew you. Who was that? Have we made friends?
She never missed a beat, and I hated it. I didn’t want to reply, so I got up from my stool and dumped the cinnamon milk down the drain before putting the bowl in the dishwasher. Looking forward to more sugar, I grabbed a bottled Frappuccino from the refrigerator.
My phone dinged again.
Cat:I can tell you’re ignoring me.
I closed my eyes, popped the lid, and took several big gulps. The cold of it was refreshing. Swiping my phone from the counter, I set the Frappuccino down.
Me:I don’t want to talk about it today.
