Page 85 of Deliverance

“You’re fine, though? Right? The two of you?”

My relationship with the woman who gave me birth is difficult to describe using an uber popular term—complicated. It’s more than that. It’s an intricate web of various emotions woven from years of secrets and lies. In a way, I’m glad my mother isn’t here to see what I’ve become.What Rhys made me.

“We are.” I offer Santiago a smile. “I think she’s just terrified of the city. I’m going to see her on Thanksgiving anyway.”

“You need some down time.”

“Amen.” A bubble of soft laughter escapes my throat.

“I kinda despise the woman, but give her a hug from me when you’re there. At least you still find time to meet up.”

Santiago’s family is estranged. His parents, both strict Catholics, could never accept him for who he is. He’s been on his own since the day he turned eighteen.

“I’ll do that.” I nod and check the time on my phone. “I have to do an interview. Will you wait for me on the patio? There’s an open bar. Then we can share a dozen caprese bites.”

“Go do your thing. Be fabulous.”

“I’ll find you later.”

He blows me a kiss and starts walking down the corridor toward the main floor.

Gerard is a Frenchman to the bone.

He’s dressed to impress and polite in a thoroughly formal way, which comes as a pleasant surprise since I didn’t expect to actually enjoy his company. Most interviewers are unnecessarily pushy; some—if they write for larger publications—can also be obnoxious. I met a few of those early on. Self-proclaimed know-it-alls who didn’t care to check the facts or ask the right questions. Perhaps this is why I despise the press.

Sadly, there’s no way around this catch-22 for someone like me. If you want the coverage, you have to play with the big guys.

That’s exactly why having a conversation with a person who’s done his homework is like a breath of fresh air. And in L.A., fresh air is a luxury.

Once the interview is over, I return downstairs with every intention of finding Santiago, but instead, I find that the first wave of guests has already arrived. They’re milling about the main room, their faces taut and composed. Most of these men and women are involved with the art community. A couple of minor celebs mingle in the cocktail area, eyeing my old pieces and sipping their champagne.

But these aren’t the people who the event is essentially organized for. They don’t and aren’t supposed to know it, but they’re just extras. The background. The necessary filler.

The real guests—the ones whose PR companies Tina already made arrangements with—begin showing up a little later. And some A-listers probably won’t be here until after the Basalt Room opens its doors to the public.

I lift my gaze to the darkening sky and inhale deeply, trying to get all the oxygen I can. Every muscle in my body grows painfully tight and an unwelcome flash of panic shoots through my chest.

You’ve done this before, Drew,a voice in my head whispers.

You bet your ass I have. And I shouldn’t be this nervous. I made my peace with the cruel reality of this industry a long time ago. I told myself that I wouldn’t let the opinions of others sway the direction of my art, but deep down, I care. And that’s the problem. Because caring means weakness, which is something I can’t afford to have.

“There you are,” Lucia calls from behind a group of men who apparently don’t know I’m the artist and continue their hushed bickering. She pushes past them with a happy beam. “Tina needs you. There are a couple of people she wants you to meet.”

“Right.” I force a smile but it’s no match for hers. “I forgot about that part.”

“You look stunning, by the way.” For someone who was born and bred in L.A., Lucia is too nice. She says what’s on her mind but doesn’t scheme like many women of power in this city.

“Thank you. I’m glad you think I can dress myself for an event without a stylist’s service.”

Lucia covers her mouth with her hand and giggles, her ginger curls bouncing in the air. “Tina seems a little more anxious than she usually is.”

“Trust me, I feel just as anxious and even a little violent.”

“Well, at least you don’t show it.”

Oh, I have years and years of practice. If I can take a beating with a straight face, I can pretend to be dumb and happy for a few hours. I can hide almost any emotion. And that’s exactly what I do—put on the mask of aloofness that L.A. loves so much on its artists—and do my rounds.

There’s a lot of hand shaking and a fair share of small talk. The names, however, hardly register. That’s Tina’s job. She’s the one who remembers. I’m the one who laughs at lame jokes and lets strangers touch me.

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