Page 109 of Black Ties and White Lies

I clap my hands together, standing up and hovering over him. “We’re done here. I’ve said what I have to say.”

I’m standing in front of the door when Carter finally speaks up. “Wait,” he calls, turning to face me. “If I do as you say. If I disappear—you won’t tell him?”

I give a curt nod. “I’m being gracious to you, brother. You deserve much worse than what I’ve done. It’s best you remember that.”

Pulling the door open, I escort myself out of his office.

Now that that’s handled, I can only hope that it’s only Carter that’s out of Margo’s life. I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle if I’m also cut out of her life as well.

I’m reelingfrom excitement when I walk back into the penthouse. I was seconds away from spilling the good news to Ezra in the car when I thought better of it.

No matter how upset or disappointed I was with Beck, he was still the first person I wanted to call when Camden Hunter agreed to display one of my pieces.

My work is going into Camden’s gallery. I’m still too stunned to believe it. There’s a red mark on my arm from where I pinched myself the entire car ride home to make sure I wasn’t in some elaborate dream.

It’s a miracle he even got to see my work after I’d fumbled for so long as I tried to get the paper to lay flat. He eventually put me out of my misery and put paperweights on the corners so he could see the piece.

When he’d asked for details on the piece, I’d stuttered and jumbled my words, but my point got across.

He’d shockingly been really impressed with the concept.

I’d shown him one I’d created almost a year ago when I’d been visiting New York with Emma and Winnie. We’d been walking and gossiping about one of the girls who lived in our dorm who was about to be on some reality TV show. I’d been listening to Emma rattle on about how she may give a reality dating show a go when I’d noticed this man reading a newspaper on a bench.

He was elderly, his hands wrinkly and almost purple. He’d worn a newspaper hat and a coat with coattails. He even had a pipe slid in his mouth. Next to him sat a fresh bouquet of flowers neatly wrapped in tan butcher paper. I’d wondered why he was alone and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I’d obsessed over him so much that I eventually returned to the bench, wondering if I’d find him there again. I wanted to ask him everything about his life, to figure out why he was sitting there alone with the flowers.

When I returned, I was disappointed he wasn’t there. I felt sad and defeated. I wanted to know everything about him. Why was he always alone? Who were the flowers for? I became obsessed with creating a new life for him in my head. One where he didn’t sit alone. One where he had a partner sitting next to him holding the flowers.

In my rush of sadness, I almost missed the plaque that was on the back of the bench. I’d leaned in and read the name and dedication over and over. It was for someone who had passed away—a memory bench. I’d read everything on the internet there was to know about the woman whose name was forever etched in stone.

Come to find out, the man sitting there was her husband. They’d been married fifteen years before the woman passed away in a car accident. He’d later found out she was pregnant with their first child together after they’d tried for countless years to have a child. He’d been a billionaire, heir to one of the top communication companies in the world and had sold some of his share in the company to his brother after the accident. He still partially owned it, but he didn’t want the control he had before. The man never remarried. Apparently, every Saturday he’d sit on the bench and buy her flowers, claiming Saturday was always her favorite day of the week, and she wouldn’t go a week without getting fresh flowers throughout their house.

I mourned the loss of his wife with him, even though we were complete strangers.

I hadn’t talked to Emma or Winnie for a week when I’d drawn the piece. On one side, there’s the man on the bench with his flowers sketched in pencil. The other side I completed by painting it, bringing it to life with the colors.

It was the life I’d imagined for this man—for his wife and their unborn child—if only reality hadn’t been so harsh.

The bench had been continued from the black and white sketch to the painted portion. In black and white he’d read the newspaper alone, but in color, his wife sat next to him, holding a bouquet of flowers. They’d both looked down at their grandchildren playing at their feet.

Camden said he loved it. He’d asked so many questions about the man, about the concept of me reimagining a life for the man who was a stranger to me. It sparked a conversation about most of my work. How I take someone I see, someone who's a complete stranger, and imagine what their life is outside of that moment in time that I saw them.

He said he wants to eventually discuss the opportunity to do an entire show based around my concept.

I still can’t believe it.

I’m so lost in the excitement for the day that I almost call out for Beck to tell him the good news. I stop myself, realizing that I’m alone in the large space. It seems eerily quiet. My feet start walking toward the room Beck and I shared on their own accord. I just want to spend a few minutes there. To see if it still smells like him despite the fact the house cleaners had already come by for the day and cleaned.

I’m about to step into the room when I notice a door a few feet away from the bedroom left slightly ajar. I’ve never gone into the room. Beck said it was an office he never used, so it never interested me. But now with him gone, I’m curious what’s in the space, and why he doesn’t use it often. Whatever it is, the house cleaners must’ve been cleaning in there and forgot to close the door all the way.

I can’t help myself. My curiosity gets the best of me as my fingers push against the wood door, pushing it open. I take a cautious step inside.

I’m taken aback by what I see.

This room isn’t an office. At least not in the stereotypical way. It’s a studio.

Anartstudio.

“Oh my god,” I whisper in awe, taking steps deeper into the room. My eyes don’t know what to land on first. I marvel at the scene in front of me, wondering how long it’s been the dream studio for an artist. AndwhyBeck has a state-of-the-art studio when he’s not artistic in the slightest.

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