Page 114 of Muddy Messy Love

Heat and the faint scent of jasmine hit me as I step over the scuffed threshold and into the first massive gallery. Paintings fill the lily-white walls with squares and rectangles of colour, and rows of black spotlights track across the ceiling to illuminate them. The space is calm and sophisticated, yet nausea swirls in my stomach. In twenty minutes, my soul will lie bare for strangers to judge. My intimate thoughts and feelings will be shared like a Christmas feast. My bleeding carcass may well be eaten by vultures.

I wander to a standstill centre of the room, dizzied by the thought. Creativity whips the air like cream, and every breath infuses the visual feast into my blood. Abstract art, pop art, realism, romanticism—all theisms—surround me, big and small, while soft jazz music curls around my ears.

I float over to the biggest painting on the south wall.

The Reckoning

Artist: Leila Lockhart

Medium: Oil on canvas

“Wow,” I whisper, picturing my meagre work next to this. I glance up at Cole, who’s equally mesmerised. “I am so screwed.”

He gives my sweaty hand a squeeze, and it’s then I realise I’ve gripped his this whole time. His mouth tugs into a filthy smirk. “Later you will be.”

I swat him. “Stop it. I’m trying to be anxious here.” But that’s what two weeks of earth-shattering shacking-up sex does. I thought it would satiate, but we only want more. Moreskin to skin. More late-night chats. More deconstructing each other’s innermost thoughts without exchanging a word. More…everything.

His pale-green eyes glimmer. “What can I say? Being here to witness my girlfriend step into art scene stardom does it for me.” He leans down, dragging his nose up from the nape of my neck to my ear. “And then there’s this dress.”

I shiver all the way down to my ruby-painted toes but abandon his hand to smooth out the satin and calm the fuck down. I know what he’s doing—trying to smother my nerves with desire—and I love him for it. But my fight-or-flight response is the strongest thing about me. It’s Muhammad Ali in his prime. I’d need to be knocked out or die for it to ever dim before it’s good and damn well ready, and adding a layer of lust only frazzles me more.

“Avery, Cole, you’re here!” Gloria sweeps into the room, her energy as vibrant as the art. She ushers us over with a frantic hand. “Come, come, you must see the display.” Then dashes off into the next room, her high heels echoing against the polished pine floorboards. Mine do the same as I follow, my steps shaky despite my having finally conquered them. This is it. The night I’ll know if I fit anywhere in this crazy world.

Gloria steps aside as she enters gallery two, and my breath hitches. I take a few tentative steps into the room, then stop to drink up the magical scene. Each one of my clay babies stands on a pedestal behind scarlet rope, with uplights and downlights accentuating each line, press, and crevice. And theglaze… Brilliant rainbow colours shine through tendrils of clay hair. Kissed by light, copper and stainless-steel glimmer. Banners and plaques, displayingmyname, hang everywhere. I dig my nails into my palm, searching for pain. “Am I dreaming?” I ask Cole.

One corner of his mouth tilts up. “No, Angel, you’re not.”

I turn to Gloria. “This is incredible. How can I ever thank you?”

She picks up my hands and kisses each of my cheeks. “You just did. And by the end of the night, I’ll be thanking you.” Gloria winks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to schmooze and wallets to pry open.”

I laugh. Right now, I don’t even care if nothing sells. Seeing this—my work on professional display—is all the hope I’ll ever need.

I move slowly from piece to piece, stepping out of my familiar perception to see my work in the light others will. Discreet silver plaques request I do not touch, but I’m tempted, if only to check they’re real. They sit in sequence fromGirl, CrushedtoShattered MindtoThe Cowered Child,toChild, Joy, andWonderrespectively, followed byGirl, Take Me. And then there’sHigh Heart Symphony: the centrepiece of the collection. The one that hugs my heart. Cole and me, our copper hearts and bodies entwined. It was a premonition in the end, as if creativity from its unearthly realm knew what would become.

God, what if it does sell? That didn’t seem like a real possibility until now. My stomach cramps. It’s like selling a piece of me, albeit for stupidly good money. That’s what I have to remember. If tonight pans out, I can start my life.

We float through the school collection, finishing at the hand-painted bowls and vases, and I’m lost for words. Cole slips an arm around my waist and tugs me into his side. “Whatever happens, I’m proud of you. I know this wasn’t easy.”

I turn to face him and slink my arms around his neck. In heels, I’m only two inches shorter. Our sparkling eyes connect and do that silent thing they do, as if our souls are the ones who talk. We’re the only two people in the universe…until hands cover my eyes from behind. I freeze.

“Boo,” says the familiar voice.

Grinning, I yank down Jen’s hands and pull her into a big hug. “You’re here. Thanks for coming.”

“As if I wouldn’t,” she says.

Scarlet curls nest at the top of her head, pinned in a loose bun, while a slinky black dress skims her curves. Then there are her cherry-red eight-hole boots. Classic Jen.

“Hey, Liam,” I say with a smile. He ducks in for a hug. Without much fat on his bones, it’s kind of like hugging a spindly tree. But Liam is a tree I love.

“Been a while, little lady. Too busy for us now?” He cocks an accusing brow as he lets me go, but a lazy grin counters it.

“I’m sorry. I’ve missed you guys.”

Tonight, his glasses are neon blue, and black trousers graze his ankles, showing off pineapple-print socks that match his suspenders. Yep, suspenders. “Sure you have.” He winks, then looks at Cole. “Hey, man. You must be the smokin’ hot lawyer I’ve heard about.” He looks him up and down, exaggerating awe. “God, they weren’t wrong. You’re beautiful.”

Cole laughs. We all do. “And you must be Liam. The car enthusiast.”

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