Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“At the end of the day, it’s all about how the viewer interprets the art,” I finish. “If you don’t connect with this painting or artist or style, that’s okay. There’s no wrong answer.”
“You mean I don’t need to change my opinion on modern art? Lucky me.”
“What is your opinion?” I bite back a smile because I’m sure I already know.
He shrugs. “Too much effort to figure it out. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy with my art. Show me something pretty I can figure out without needing a master’s degree.”
“You should try to understand it, but that’s different.” I try not to laugh. “But hey, you’ve got your preferences, and I’ve got mine. That’s what I love about this stuff.”
“When will we see your stuff here?”
I gasp. “Not in this lifetime!”
“I mean it, woman.” His eyes flash and my face heats. “What are you up to now? That’s what you’re doing, right? Art? You must have a style, some big project in the works.”
There’s a different edge to his voice now. Light, still teasing, but genuinely curious. He wants to know what I do.
Oh boy.
A wave of uncertainty washes over me again, that cramp I get whenever I think about the future. Or what the hell I’m going to do with it if the egg brings me some giant windfall.
I don’t have a plan beyond keep on keeping on.
I haven’t committed to anything.
Yes, I want to double down on my art career and push myself creatively, but I haven’t figured out what that looks like.
Holden stays silent, waiting for an answer.
I appreciate the way he gives me space to think.
But hey, what’s the harm in the truth?
“I don’t know yet,” I whisper. “I’ve been working on a few things. If I don’t have to grind for rent money, that’ll be a big help. I can focus on the stuff that’s near and dear to my heart.”
“Can I see?”
Oh God. I freeze.
“Cleo, I’m serious.” His gaze intensifies, making me feel small.
“You won’t laugh?”
“Laugh?” His eyebrows dart up. “Never.”
Weirdly, I trust him.
Art that hasn’t gone public feels so personal. A little detached but also too intimate, like sending an emotional nude.
If someone doesn’t like it, if they politely turn their nose up, it’s hard not to get wrecked. When it’s your big, expressive baby in progress, every critique feels like being dragged over a cactus patch, no matter how well intended.
I pull my phone from my bag. “I’ve got a few photos I can show you.”
We sit down on a bench.
I feel his body heat, all radiating warmth and oddly safe.
Luckily, I saved them in their own folder, so they’re easy to find on my cloud gallery. I pass my phone to Holden so he can scroll through it.
It’s a mess of old art that stretches back years. A few detailed charcoal sketches from college, my early oil paintings, a canvas with abstract ship-shaped lights disappearing into an infernal darkness.
The last one captures his eyes the longest. He doesn’t swipe it away with his thumb.
“You don’t like it, I’m sure. Too modern,” I whisper.
“No, it’s moody. There’s a lot of detail and contrast. That caught my eye.” He zooms in, and I hold my breath.
“That project took forever. I was trying to go more abstract for this show in Boston my junior year.”
“It feels sad,” he says.
“I suppose it is. Just a little. I wasn’t in the best place then.” I take my phone back, awkwardly staring at the screen. “Anyway, it had a sad ending too. It didn’t get a lot of notice and I threw it in storage. I’m toying with selling it now, if it can ever find a buyer.”
“You should keep it,” he says, staring at the Lam painting in front of us again. “What’s your favorite medium? You’ve done a lot of experimenting, so you must know.”
“Actually… I’m still working that out. Anything but sculpture, I’d say.” I try not to stick my tongue out. “I do a lot of custom texture art for home décor. Gives me a little more depth to work with than painting.”
Holden’s gaze sharpens. He knows exactly where my aversion to sculpture comes from.
Ugh, my daddy issues are showing.
“Sometimes, I like art that’s a little less personal. The stuff that needs to be marketable comes easy. It’s my main income, so I probably take it more seriously, too.”
He nods silently as we stand and head into a theater room, searching for a bench in front of the large screen. It’s dark, only the flickering light illuminates the space.
Holden’s hand brushes the small of my back to guide me so I don’t fall as he settles in. The benches are small, and we take the seat next to the wall. I squeeze in until his bulk grazes my side.
Tingles.
It must be that stupid, intimate conversation we just had that makes it feel like static charge.