Page 73 of Shattered
CHAPTER 20
Melissa
I had dropped off my paintings the week before, leaving it to Beth,my mother, and Cheyenne, the gallery owner, to hang the pieces of art properly. This wasn’t Cheyenne’s first time with a debut showing, and I was confident that Cheyenne wouldn’t let Beth control every decision. I had given them a set of thirty, like Cheyenne had requested, knowing that there was a significant chance that not all would be put on display.
But what they had placed was less than half of that. None of the portraits I had done of the servers at the Dahlia District. None of the experimental trees I had created for Rourke. The only paintings that were fit for display, were the impressionist-style coastal views.
This was the part of my authentic self that was acceptable to my mother. It was okay that I painted, as long as it was only this. Socially acceptable. Beautiful. Mainstream. Normal.
Why hadn’t I trusted my gut?
“It looks fantastic, doesn’t it?” Beth said. I held back the urge to scowl at her, to run my sharp fingernails down her face. I could be kind to my mother. I could be good to her for once. I could show her that I had grown up, even if she had stayed the same. “You did such great work, darling.” She wrinkled her nose, glaring down at my bare shoulders, the tattoo on one side and the scabbed circle on the other. “You brought a shawl, right?”
“None,” I said. A deliberate rejection. Those words were freeing.
“I’m sure Cheyenne has something in her office to help with your modesty.” Because my shoulders were showing? I scowled then, but she had already taken my elbow and ushered me towards three glasses of white wine waiting on a hightop table. The three of us, Cheyenne included, clinked glasses, toasting to a promising debut.
The last time I made a toast with someone, I had to kill him to prevent him from murdering my friend. I doubted I would kill anyone tonight, but I had thought the same thing last time. My stomach rolled, making me feel queasy.
As the guests came and mingled, I pretended to be no one. Kept my face in my phone. Off to the side. It was easier that way. Part of me wondered if I had self-sabotaged my own showing on purpose, to prove something to myself. That I would never be good enough. That maybe I never actually wanted a showing with the pompous elite of Sage City. Maybe I simply wanted to create art. Nowadays, I could even give up the desire to make money off of it, as long as I got to paint what I wanted.
Maybe I had given up a long time ago. I knew that it wasn’t worth fighting my mother to see this authentic image of myself when she would never see it anyway. Or was I so desperate to have Beth’s approval again, that I didn’t care what she did when it came to the showing?
But I did care. A lot. It was hard to admit, but her acceptance of only one kind of art was heartbreaking.
Maybe it wasn’t about what would sell or not sell. Maybe it was about Beth continually reminding me that I wasn’t good enough. That this was the only image of me that she accepted.
I was supposed to give a speech, thanking everyone, as well as giving an analysis of my works, but my final draft wasn’t right anymore. Most of the paintings I had highlighted weren’t on display. I stared at the words on the screen of my phone, and the urge to hide in the bathroom began to build in my stomach.
Beth took my elbow once again, putting a black jacket in my arms. I tucked it under my elbow. I might not have stood up to her when it came to the paintings, but I wasn’t going to wear that damn coat.
“Did you send your speech to Cheyenne?” she asked. I shook my head. “Youdidwrite one, right? I reminded you several times—”
“I wrote one,” I said. I quickly sent it to her email. “It doesn’t apply now.”
Beth looked at her phone, scanning the speech. “Oh.” She sighed, then rubbed my back. “Why don’t you let me do the speech, darling? I have plenty of practice public speaking at the academy. I can think of something important to say.”
“It’s my showing,mother. Not yours.”
I used that word like a dagger, knowing that the tone would make up for using such a familial term. “That isn’t true, is it?” Beth raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I secured the slot at the gallery. Most of these people,” she gestured around us, “are my friends and colleagues. I picked the paintings out of what you sent us.Ihung and prepared all of them for display, whileyourefused to answer my calls.” She lifted her chin. “This might beyourart, but this isn’t only your showing. Other people put hard work into it.”
I closed my eyes, hiding the fact that they were about to roll out of my skull. Beth squeezed my hand and excused herself. I stayed still. She was right. Damn it to hell, my mother was right. I could have answered her calls. I could have been more involved. But I wasn’t.
Someone tapped my shoulder and I spun around, coming face to face with Garrett. His tan suit with notch lapels, decorated with a subtle plaid pattern, and flat front slacks fit him well. Under the soft lighting, his skin, despite the dips and grooves in his cheeks, was luminous.
“You’re here,” I said. I had forgotten that I had invited him.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“It’s just…” I looked around. How to explain that this—this exquisite gallery,The Loft, the exhibit designed to make it seem as if the artist was obsessed with the Sage City coast when really, those paintings were created for the sole purpose of profit—that this wasn’t what I wanted? That I didn’t know why I had accepted the offer in the first place.
Was it the chance to get my mother’s approval? The chance to prove myself to her? With his hands in his pockets, he gave the gallery a once over. “I’ve seen most of these,” he said.
“Sort of. The ones in the gallery room in the Terrariums are still up there.”
“Ah.” He pointed at the paintings. “So this is your passion?”
“Excuse me?”
