Page 74 of Shattered
“Your passion.” He straightened. “Painting is your talent, right? Your obsession. But none of these have the soul of the portraits in the Terrarium. Or that tree painting.”
He motioned at my shoulder and I reflexively stroked my arm right below where the tattoo was healing.
“How did she take it?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Better than I thought.” I crossed my arms, glaring around the room. The open bar had a constant line and the appetizer table was nearly empty. Who were these people? Why did they care about this? Was it more about seeing who was who, rather than appreciating art?
“How’s your arm?” Garrett asked.
I glanced down, knowing that he was talking about the circle. I had told Rourke about Garrett’s tattoo, but when it came to what I was willing to share with Garrett about Rourke? I wouldn’t budge.
I ran my hand over the bumpy skin. A mark that was so obviously on purpose, screaming this woman was crazy enough to do this to herself, to let someone mark her skin like that.
“It’s nothing,” I said. And yet it was everything, on display for everyone to see.
At the door, two women came in, arms linked, ready to interrupt the conversation. A green-eyed brunette in a white lace dress and a round-eyed punk rock princess, both in more clothes than I was used to seeing them in.
“You finally got a showing!” Iris squealed. She kissed my cheek. “I knew you could do it.”
“It’s about time someone else figured out how much talent you have,” Teagen said. She squeezed my hand. “Nice to see you too, Garrett.”
He nodded at the two of them, and they exchanged looks with each other. “We’re going to pool our money together to buy one of these,” Iris said.
“And hang it right back up at the Dahlia District? Don’t,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I can paint this garbage for free. You can take any one of the paintings from the gallery room in the Terrariums.”
“Now, now,” Teagen tilted her head, “It’s our money, and we want to support our friend.”
I shrugged and smiled. I doubted they would listen anyway. “Thanks.”
Once they left, heading towards the open bar, I turned to Garrett. “For real,” I said. “I can paint you any of these. Don’t worry about buying one.”
“What’s the point of coming, then?”
“I just didn’t want to do this alone.”
Right as the words slipped out of my mouth, a fork dinged on the side of a wine glass. “If I could have everyone’s attention,” Cheyenne said. “Beth Foley, the mother of the brilliant artist, would like to speak on her daughter’s behalf.”
Everyone politely clapped. Across the room, Teagen and Iris leaned against a blank space of wall, whispering to each other as they watched Beth take the space next to Cheyenne.
“Thank you all for coming to support my daughter,” she said, glancing around the room, her expression full of purpose. “I wish my daughter could be here tonight, but as it is the artist’s curse, she’s still in her studio, working on her next brilliant project.” A few chuckles sounded through the room, and I shook my head. She couldn’t even acknowledge that I was there, standing in the room, looking at her. I dropped the jacket on the floor, and the group next to us looked at me, but Beth started talking, and they turned back to her again. She lied because she couldn’t show me off. Was it the tattoo? The circle scab? The fact that she knew I would call her out?
Suddenly I was eighteen years old again, my hands bruised from banging on the front door to my parents’ house. My throat sore from screaming. When I swore it would be the last time I tried with her.
I tugged on Garrett’s arm, his hands still tucked in his pocket. He leaned down.
“Let’s go,” I said.
A few people gave us dirty looks for interrupting the speech, but I’m sure my mother held herself together, even with anger boiling inside of her at seeing me leave the gallery. I kept going, only pausing to make sure Garrett was there following me.
I clamped my teeth shut. A few cars drove by, but the art district in Sage City was mostly empty, save for the few straggling pedestrians on their way back to their cars, or the occasional sedan disappearing down the street. The air nipped at my skin. I was wearing a sleeveless black dress, but I couldn’t hold myself and hide. Not now. I refused.
Garrett handed me his jacket. I began to shake my head but then thought better of it. He wasn’t trying to hide me. I let it hang on my shoulders, Garrett’s body heat radiating from the fabric.
“I hate that none of my portraits made it,” I said. “I hate it. I hate it.”
“Then what are you doing here?” he asked. I glared at him. “This isn’t you.”
“This isn’t me?” I asked, shaking my head. He was just like Rourke, wasn’t he? “How is it that everyone seems to know what they think I should be doing, to be my most authentic self? Except for me.”
