Page 54 of Love Finds Home

Elle

Do you know whathappens to an artist who can’t follow through on a gallery opening show even when it’s her own fucking gallery? She gets blackballed. Talked about behind her back. Treated like a pariah in her own social circles.

You would think ‘Pop Culture in Abstract’would be an interesting flex of artistic talent. That the door is wide open for different interpretations of what pop culture means to the different artists selected for the show. And you’d be correct. The other artists being featured have submitted amazingly colorful and bright masterpieces that comment on today’s obsession with celebrities and brands, television and movies, music and fashion. And what do I have? I have canvas after canvas of noir. Dark, emotional, almost violent paintings. What the fuck am I going to do?

When the knock comes at the door, I jump three feet off the floor and let out a small scream. I don’t even look through thepeephole. I fling the door open, flinching when I see Ranger standing there looking like a God in jeans and cotton.

“Elle?” he asks, but I’ve already started pacing and talking to myself again. “Elle?” he tries again, but I just wave him off.

It’s not until he grips my shoulders that I’m able to stop, and the look of worry in his eyes almost breaks me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything. Nothing. I don’t fucking know!” I half-sob. “I don’t have a single fucking painting that I can place into this show, and it’s my show!”

I know I’m rambling. I know he has no clue what I’m talking about, but it feels good to get it out there.

“Whoa-whoa, slow down,” he tells me, which as we all know never works.

“Slow down? I can’t slow down! Don’t you understand? I have three days before I leave and I can’t leave because I don’t have any pieces I can add to the show! This could ruin me. Do you understand that? It could fucking ruin me, close my gallery. Jorge would be out of a job, and I can’t do that to him. He needs this job! And I love my gallery and my studio, and this studio, too! And could you imagine my mom and dad? What will they think of me when I’m nothing but a fucking failure and I have to run back to them to save me?”

I’m full on sobbing now, my chest heaving, a panic attack damn near consuming me.

“Tink.” Ranger calls me that horrible name. “Listen to me.”

I shake my head, crossing and then uncrossing my arms.

“I said listen to me. Right fucking now.”

It’s the demand in his voice that has me looking at him. Still struggling to catch my breath, my eyes focus on him.

“That’s better. Everything is going to be okay.”

“But—”

“I said, everything is going to be okay. Trust me.”

I gasp out a laugh that turns into a shriek when he scoops me up into his arms and starts walking.

“What are you doing?” I smack his shoulder. “Put me down!”

“Can’t do that, Tink.”

“Don’t call me that.”

His smirk grows. “Why not? Do you not like it?”

“You know I don’t!”

He sits me on the countertop in my small kitchen area, stepping between my knees and gripping my chin with his thumb and forefinger. “There, you’re down.”

“Why am I sitting on my kitchen counter?” I ask.

“Because you got something,” he brushes his finger across my cheek with his other hand, still holding my chin, “right there.”

He steps away only long enough to grab a paper towel and dampen it. When he’s standing between my legs again, he starts to gently wipe off my face.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” He gives me a challenging look, but I don’t say anything. I’m too stunned that he’s being nice to me. When he realizes I’m not going to interrupt him, he continues. “We are going to get you cleaned up. Then we’re going to look at what you have and see if we can fit it into the theme. Maybe you just need another set of eyes.”

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