Watching for Roger to turn around and hopefully see me, I nodded when his eyes met mine, and he came over.
“One of the guests is very intoxicated and needs a ride home,” I explained. “One that can assure their safe arrival.”
“Intoxicated?” Roger asked, his hand to his lips indicating a drink.
“Not very.” The guy slurred again and swung his arms as if trying to hug me, but he missed. Roger nodded and led the man out by his arm.
Roger would take care of him. He was a nice guy and one of the few people who didn’t stop taking my calls when I publicly became the black sheep of my family. I say publicly, because within the Hayes family they had always considered me a piece of shit.
The Hayes family never thought my mother was good enough to have their name because she was human, and consequently, neither was I, even though I was a shifter. They never pretended to hide it, either. No doting grandparents, no fun aunts and uncles, no attending important events. I was the kid that no one wanted around. It sucked. Not feeling good enough messed with so many avenues in my life.
It was why I never finished college, why I hadn’t had a real job—ever—and why I didn’t trust anyone who loved my art. Not even Roger. Part of me always worried that he gave me this opportunity not because it was going to make him mega-dollars, but because he was trying to be kind.
Roger had known my mother, and from what I gathered, they weren’t friends exactly, but they were friendly. Once upon a time, long before my mother met and married my father, Motherhad wanted to be an artist. She had even attended art school in Paris. Mother had been poised to take the city art scene by storm. But then she met Father.
Objectively, my father was handsome, classy, very wealthy, and intelligent. My mother fell for him instantly and gave up her career without a second thought. Her passion transferred from oil paints to be with the man who stole her heart. And because this was the top one percent and not a family of mere mortals, the expectation was that Mother would be the perfect eye candy, house manager, and companion to all events, of which there were many. She was to be the next Mrs. Hayes.
Mother didn’t think twice about accepting this new role, about leaving her art world behind, and embracing the new one as my father’s spouse. Mother did it all, not once complaining, not even as my father came home later and later, sometimes staying out all night.
Not even as my father did business in cities far and wide, the type of company business that had never been his to manage. Not even as my father had the locks changed as he sat in the bank, systematically removing my mother from all joint accounts. Not even as he left us to fend for ourselves, throwing us money from time to time and calling it good enough.
My father was an asshole. There was no sugar coating that could cover that up. He was a piece of shit, and even as my mother got sick, she never saw it. She was so blinded by her love for him that she excused it all. He gave us a life of poverty to teach us a lesson.
My father might have a net worth with more zeros than should be legal, but he wasn’t worth the air he breathed. I attempted to forgive him countless times. My mother used to say that forgiveness wasn’t for the other person, it was for ourselves, andI wanted that. I wanted to let go of the past and possibly start anew with my father. Especially now that Mother was gone.
Funny thing was, it hadn’t always been like this. When I was young, he put up with everyone’s bullshit and treated me like gold. That was until my mother got sick. It was so easy to blame him for cheating on her and breaking their marriage apart.
But if I looked at the situation closely, I could see that he was pulling away because she was sick and he didn’t know how to handle it. He had planned on their marriage being forever, too. But forever never arrived when disease came a-knocking, no matter how much we wished it did.
“He’s in a rideshare with Emily.” Roger pulled me from my thoughts. “She’s going to make sure our drunk little friend gets home.” Roger wrapped his arm around my shoulder and spoke low. “It will all work out. I promise. You sold three items today.”
“Three? To people I know?” That always made it feel less legit somehow.
“Not that I am aware.” And Roger was both in the know and a lover of gossip. “Let’s get it out of the way, though.” He nudged me. “They’re standing in front of Piece No.13.”
No. 13 didn’t have another name. I had painted it at a dark time in my life and had nearly destroyed it more than once. If Roger hadn’t told me it reminded him of my mother, I’d have done just that. It had been hard to agree to show it, but keeping it would’ve been worse. It was good that it sold.
At least that was what I tried to convince myself as I walked over to chat with a fifty-year-old man trying desperately to grab onto relevance. The young man on his arm couldn’t have been twenty,and the way he over-animated the conversation had me wishing I’d told Roger I couldn’t do this.
“Good evening.” I held out my hand, and the man gave it a shake. “I’m Devyn Hayes, and I was just informed that you are about to bring home one of my favorite pieces. Truth be told, I almost didn’t show it. I was afraid that not everyone would appreciate the emotion it elicited.”
Was I attempting to make the man feel even more self-important, hoping to get him to add another of my works to his tab? Yes, I was. Did it work? Also, yes.
And was I ever grateful? My mother had left me money, but it was gone quickly. I needed the proceeds from this sale to keep me afloat until I could figure out my next move. Whatever the fuck that was.
Chapter 3
Disappointment
Heston
After helping Dad into the car, I took my time folding the walker and shoving it in the trunk. I hated the walker for what it represented; my dad’s failing health and my inability to fund the operation.
Pausing with my hand on the trunk lid, I peered over the top at the non-stop hospital activity and pondered how one place could be the center of so much misery and also joy.
We headed home because Dad needed a nap; I couldn’t even take him to the park and get an ice cream. He used to love sitting by the pond and watching the ducks waddle to the water and paddle over the surface, their heads occasionally disappearing as they grabbed a snack.
I fixed Dad a sandwich using last night’s leftovers and sat with him as he ate. It took a while, one slow mouthful after another, but if I left the room, he’d push the plate aside, saying he’d eaten enough.
