Page 12 of I Love My Mistake

Chapter Eight

At His…Our… Studio

Danny’s waiting at the door when I walk up holding keys already in my hand. He returns my smile and does a quick scan of my body as I approach, a glance he tries to hide…but I saw it. He’s good looking for a redhead (it could go either way with men). He’s fit and dressed in a long trench coat over slacks and a button-up, the cut and fall of the fabric indicating quality all around. “Well, hello again,” he says and opens his arms in a hug; open and friendly and strong.

I squeeze back, and release him to open the door. “You beat me here!”

There’s humor in his eyes. “Good. I’m very competitive.”

I playfully raise my eyebrows as the lock gives way. “Oh?”

He grins, “Practically ran from the subway.”

I laugh and walk in, him following behind. The familiar smell of candles smacks Michael into my mind. I push thoughts of him away and take off my coat, put it on the hook. It’s only 5:00 p.m. Michael won’t be here until after 8:00 p.m. if he even comes at all tonight. It is Saturday, after all. He probably has plans with someone he actually fucks.

“This way,” I say, as we walk up the stairs. As if there’s any other way to go.

“Can’t wait,” he says. Is he looking at my ass? He must be because it feels hot there, and I’m the type who can feel things like that. I’m a little psychic, thanks to my grandma. Freaked my momma out, some of the things I said, because it surely skipped a generation, as she had none of the gift. But… a woman doesn’t have to be psychic to know a man is checking out her ass as she walks up the stairs in front of him.

I look over my shoulder and sure enough, his eyes dart up quickly. Pretending I didn’t notice – regardless of the warmth I now feel down there – I step onto the studio’s floor, and warn him, “I don’t want you to get too excited. I’m learning. I’m getting to where I need to be. It’s just...” I shut myself up and look away, and then back to him. Why did I say that? Keep your insecurities to yourself!

He smiles. “We’re our own worst critics, aren’t we?”

I give it a thought and agree, “I guess we are.”

He takes a look around, nods his approval, then shoots a look my way and smiles that winning smile again. Michael has probably not smiled in one year as much as this dude has smiled in three minutes.

I wiggle my shoulders and laugh, “Well, anyway, you’ve got me nervous.”

Danny laughs and follows me over to where I’ve got my work propped up against each other. He waits a comfortable distance away while I pull out my canvases one at a time and lay them against the wall, spaced inches from each other. My heart is beating so hard. I’m blinking too much, but with my back to him like this, he can’t see. When I’m finished, only half the wall’s floor space is filled and I become very aware that I haven’t done enough. Michael would have filled up both walls, and here I am with only seven. I have to work to swallow the golf ball that’s forming in my throat from anxiety. We’re both facing them, and I can’t see him because he’s standing back.

I turn and walk to where Michael left a pack of smokes on a table. I take one out and light it, inhale and stare at nothing, waiting. There is only silence for what seems like a million years. Does he hate my work? Oh God. I have no talent. I know it. It’s something my inner demons have tried to convince me of for years. That’s the reason so many paintings have been tossed away or painted over. Why didn’t I listen to the fuckers? This is torture. It’s not too late. I can go wait tables and go back to school. Study psychology. Or something having to do with people…

Then, “Wow.”

I blink and suck in room-air; I can’t turn around yet.

“Nicole,” he says.

I take a long drag off the cigarette, hating how it tastes but clinging to it anyway.

“Nicole?” he says, with more volume.

Shields up! Man the gates! All men on deck! I turn around thinking I look cool as snow, having no idea that my shields have abandoned me.

“Mmm?”

He walks to me and there’s something in his eyes I can’t understand because the demons have me in their clutches with their snickers of unworthiness, self-hatred, and aloneness.

“Your work is incredible.”

I don’t understand. “Sorry?”

“It’s really great. I feel something when I look at it. I can’t always say that – and I always want to. It’s what art is all about, right?” He smiles again. I nod. He walks back to my paintings and looks again. “I think this one on the left – the first one – this one is my favorite.”

My eyes dart around to nowhere in particular as I shove my half-smoked cigarette into a near-empty wine bottle of Syrah.

“You like which one best?” I ask, coming to stand beside him.

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