Page 3 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“You think you do.” This time I let my annoyance creep into my voice, but was met with a soft smile. His détente smile.

“How are you?”

But I wasn’t playing. “No.” I shook my head and turned away. “You lost the right to ask me that when you sent me that text.”

I heard his startled inhale.

“What do you want, Sameer?” I asked again.

“When I saw the painting, I knew I had to see you. I needed to. Love and Loss, that’s not just you. That’s us.” His words came hurtling at me like a swarm of locusts, stinging, biting, bringing devastation in their wake.

My body bubbled with rage, and I jumped to my feet. “It’s mine,” I said, barely managing a steady tone. “The painting is mine, the pain is mine, the labor is mine. You own it only because I was foolish enough to let it go.”

“It’s mine now.” No smug smiles or power moves accompanied that statement, just a calm, steady gaze into my eyes.

“Well, enjoy it. It’ll be delivered after the exhibit closes.”

I turned on my heel, but he came around swiftly to block my way.

“Tara—”

“Look, I only agreed to this meeting out of respect for Dr. Hadden. I knew it was you the moment you overrode my refusal to sell. I was inclined to cancel it, but Dr. Hadden thought it would be unprofessional. She isn’t aware of our history. I’m here as an artist, and you’re my patron. Nothing more.”

It took a moment, but a nasty sneer came to rest on his face. He pulled himself upright into his tall figure and thrust his left hand into his trouser pocket. “All right, if that’s how you want to play it, tell me about this painting I bought, Ms. Kadam.”

I wanted to scream with frustration, but I had to concede. He had won this round. He had always been clever, but I felt compelled to add cunning to the list. That didn’t mean I was giving in easily. “Didn’t you just say you knew exactly what it was about?”

“Don’t be a smartass, Ms. Kadam. My twenty-five thousand dollars have bought me at least the privilege of having the artist explain her work to me.”

Another completely expected googly, rubbing his wealth in my face. I was tempted to roll my eyes as I walked away from him and toward the wall.

“Love and Loss,” I began dispassionately. “Created in the post-impressionist tradition, it flirts with colors and contrast, darkness and light to—”

“I can see that. I’ve studied art,” he interrupted with blatant condescension. “What does it mean to you?”

“Meaning is a private relationship between the viewer and the piece. It’s not my place to—”

“Yes, reception theory. I don’t need you to recite Barthes and Hall to me, Ms. Kadam. What emotions have you tried to capture?”

“Sameer…” I hated myself for pleading this way.

“Yes, Ms. Kadam. I’m waiting.”

I quickly added “cruel” to my running list and zeroed in on his eyes, searching for a glimmer of compassion. “This painting represents a time when my life changed completely. In an instant, everything good, everything I valued was taken. I lost a dear friend. I almost lost my father. It depicts my grief as much as it captures my joy. This painting is a prayer. It’s my way of seeking forgiveness and redemption.”

An eerie silence engulfed us as I continued to look into the eyes that I had once loved. Light brown with tiny specks of amber and chocolate. They reflected the sorrow I felt in my heart.

“I’m sorry about your father.” His soft voice broke our trance.

“No, you’ve lost that right too. You left without a word. Without an explanation. Without a thought of what it would do to me. I meant nothing to you. Disposable, replaceable. Who did you replace me with, Sameer? How quickly?”

He closed the distance between us and held my shoulders. “You think I saw you as replaceable?”

Behind the dilated black pupils, his eyes were brown and familiar.

“I was never enough for you. Not rich enough, not sophisticated enough, not socially acceptable. Was it the realization of my caste status that finally drove it home for you? Or was it my class position? Or was I just a body you used until you were bored?”

His eyes widened with horror. “How can you use such vile words? You know what you meant to me.”

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