Page 32 of If You Never Come Back
“You know that DJ Mari Dash?”
“Of course. I love her.”
“She bought one of my paintings and tagged me in her Instagram post. The orders are pouring in.” I click my mouse like a madwoman. “I don’t want to jinx things, but I think this could be big. I got fifty-seven orders on my website just from her post being up for half an hour.”
“Oh my god, cuz!”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
* * *
A monthafter I blew up on social media and I’m still riding the wave. I’m spending my daylight hours painting and sketching, then the evenings processing orders from my website and updating social media.
Already I’m reaping the benefit. I’m earning more money than I ever have. I peek around from behind my easel out the window.
“Holy crap,” I mutter when I take in the dark sky. I could have sworn that just minutes ago, it was daylight.
I pad to the kitchen and pull out a carton of eggs. Scrambled eggs and toast are a sorry substitute for dinner, but I don’t want to do anything other than work. The big break I’ve been waiting years for finally happened. I’ll do everything I can to make it last.
When I finish eating, I contemplate a shower, but as I gaze out the window, I’m taken by the cityscape glittering in the distance. It would make one hell of an oil pastel rendering in my brand-new sketchbook.
I open the drawer of my desk, lift up the sketchbook, then freeze at the sight of what’s underneath.
Wes’s face. Wes’s beautiful, flawless, perfectly angular face stares back at me in black and white. It’s a charcoal rendering of him, my favorite one that I’ve ever drawn. I lift the corner of the sheet up to reveal his perfect face once more, this time in watercolor. My favorite painting of him and my favorite sketch of him, hidden away all this time.
The evening when Wes and I made things official replay in my mind like a highlight reel. I swallow, but the inside of my mouth and throat are so dry, I end up coughing. So, so foolish.
It’s the stranger in the red and black flannel moment from last month, but with a dagger to the heart added in for good measure. I wasn’t ready to see Wes’s face this close, this clear.
These are paintings, images—nowhere close to the real thing, but they still look exactly like him. The only thing worse would be him in the flesh right next to me. And if I want to continue moving on, I have to get rid of everything Wes around me.
I pull out my camera, place the artwork on the floor, adjust the lighting, and take photos. Then I upload them to my website along with information about dimensions. The blank spaces for the title of the works stare back at me, burning my eyes. It’s never been this hard to title my own work.
But this time is different—it’s personal in the worst possible way.
So personal is what I go with.
Wes, watercolor
Wes, black and white
The truth and nothing more.
I grab two large envelopes from my stash and shove the drawings inside of them. Judging by how quickly my other work has been selling, these two will go quickly. But I don’t want to accidentally catch glimpses of them in the meantime.
I stack the envelopes in an empty box and sit at my desk once more. With my heartbeat and breath finally steady, I pick up a pencil and my new pad. Just the graphite tip hitting paper focuses my mind. The texture, the soft sound, the blank space filling with lines. Such a simple movement, but it gives me so much. It centers me and cleanses me all at once.
And right now, at this moment, I need that more than anything.
* * *
If I hadMari Dash’s phone number, I’d call her so I could tell her thank you over and over. Because of her, I’m spending twelve hours a day painting, sketching, filling orders, mailing orders, designing and selling prints, taking on more commissions than I ever thought I would—and I couldn’t be happier.
Every day since she posted my painting on her Instagram account two months ago, my phone has been dinging nonstop with alerts. It sounds every time someone on Twitter or Instagram tags me in a photo with whatever art piece of mine they’ve just purchased. Other famous influencers that are connected with Mari online have been buying my work and posting photos online, which has cascaded into even more sales.
I move from the cross-legged sitting position on the floor and sprawl flat on my back to stretch. I should go for a run or do some yoga on the floor right now, but I’m not even close to interested. I scan the floor, smiling at the pile of cardboard boxes and packing materials that surround me. Around my make-shift studio space lies a dozen canvases swathed in paint or charcoal, drying before I pack them up and mail them.
I’ve been up since six this morning; it’s currently just past noon, and this is the first break I’ve taken. I’m sore, exhausted, sleep-deprived, and deliriously happy. Because finally, my dream is coming true. I’m a full-time artist who can pay my bills with just the income from my artwork.
