Page 70 of Taking A Chance

His words come out sharp, a side of him I’ve never seen. There’s a look in his eyes that says he’s protecting his friend; he’s trying to right a wrong.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe I’m too stuck in my ways for all of this.”

Ryan and Claire sigh at the same time, both shaking their heads at me.

“Fine,” he says. “But look, he’s in the back talking to a buyer. At least go out front and see his work.”

I cross my arms over my chest, furrowing my brow. No part of me wants to go see his new work. I don’t want to see Natasha splashed across a canvas. Some of the other women he’s painted in the past don’t bother me so much. You can see in the way he paints them that it’s not sexual. But something about her in particular makes me want to rip her face off.

“Come on, Cora,” Claire says. “Let’s at least have a quick look.”

“Fine,” I huff. “A very quick look.”

Ryan hands Claire an invitation card with some information on the back before pushing us out the door and back into the liveliness of the party.

Thanks to the gut-wrenching paranoia associated with the thought of Declan seeing me here, I spend the few steps we have to take peering through the crowd, on high alert.

We slide through the people gathered in front of the main gallery wall, where most of his exhibit is located.

And for a full minute, I can’t breathe.

40

Cora

Ten canvases are mountedto the brick wall in front of me, each with its own light source staged just above it. Claire shoves the invitation card into my hand, backside up.

Zion Gallery Presents:

That Girl, Peony

by Declan Walsh

Tears are already brimming my eyes as I attempt to read through the blurriness. I look back up at the pieces on display.

They’re all me.

The one I sat for—wearing his suit jacket—hangs just left of center. But the rest, I don’t know.

A smaller piece is just my bright red hair, locks draped over a white pillowcase, twisted and curled. Another is of my hands, the delicate lines doing nothing more than folding a napkin. To the right is another; of my legs, one crossed over the other, a spattering of freckles over the tops of my thighs. There’s one of my smile, another of only my eyes. All the canvases have touches of pink and lavender, peony petals and blooms in the backgrounds, sprinkled over parts of me, braided into my hair.

I can’t focus on any single one before the next one catches my eye. Until I come to the small piece dead center. It’s a bird’s eye view of Declan in bed, me lying across his chest, the same way we always went to bed. My naked back exposed, my side profile nestled into him, a white sheet pulled up to our waistlines. His lips rest against my forehead, and it looks as if he’s inhaling the scent of my hair even in sleep.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. All at once, it clicks. This is what he’s been working on. This is why he never let me see it. I can’t stop the tears silently erupting down my face.

“I need to go,” I whisper. “I can’t be here.”

“What?” Claire asks, leaning in closer to me. “Are you crazy? Look what he did. For you.”

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts us. “Is that you?”

I turn to where the voice is coming from, meeting the eyes of a petite woman holding the same invitation I am. Her eyes dart from my face in person to my face on the canvas and back again. She’s pointing at the one of me wearing Declan’s jacket, a smile across her face. That is, until she looks long enough to realize I’m sobbing.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Are you okay?”

“Um,” I say, not certain I feel like sharing anything with this stranger, “I’m fine.” I turn away from her, giving her my back and leaning in toward Claire in an attempt to hide my face. “Get me out of here,” I whisper to Claire.

Claire sighs, turning to lead me out of the crowd, toward the entrance. I do my best not to elbow anyone, not to make waves, just hoping to disappear like I was never here.

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