Page 70 of There is No Devil

“I don’t want to watch the bodies stack up,” I tell Cole. “We have to do something.”

“We will,” Cole assures me. “Very soon.”

* * *

My show takesplace two weeks before Christmas.

It’s the first time my art will be displayed all on its own, unable to hide amongst other paintings.

I feel the sickest sense of dread as Cole and I drive to the gallery in Laurel Heights, wondering what will happen if no one attends.

I once saw an author sitting alone at a table in Costco with a towering stack of books, and not a single person interested in having one signed. Her look of hopeful anticipation as I approached, followed by crushing disappointment as I walked past, is still one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.

I don’t want to be that author.

“Don’t worry,” Cole says, squeezing my thigh as he turns the wheel with his other hand. “These things are always packed. Especially when I hire even better caterers than Betsy, with enough champagne to drown a horse.”

“That actually comforts me,” I laugh. “If the paintings are shit, at least the food will be good.”

“I would never let you down with food,” Cole promises solemnly. “I know it’s your top priority.”

“I better quit making it my top priority. I think I’ve gained eight pounds since I moved into your house.”

“I like it,” Cole says. “It’s making your tits bigger.”

I slap his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up!”

Cole grabs a handful of the breast in question, sneaking his hand down the front of my top faster than I can smack him away.

“I’m gonna feed you so much fucking cheese,” he teases me.

I can’t stop laughing.

“Please, no. I’ll be four hundred pounds.”

“I want to drown in your breasts. What a way to die.”

We pull up to the curb, too soon for me to spend any more time worrying.

I’m relieved to see that the gallery is already packed with people, including Sonia manning the door in a gorgeous shimmering cocktail dress, and Frank and Heinrich lurking right behind her.

Heinrich pops out to pull me into an embrace. Frank does the same, after giving Cole a stare that is half admiration, half lingering nervousness.

“Thanks for coming!” I cry, hugging them both hard.

“Joss and Brinley are here, too,” Frank tells me.

I assume that means Joanna isn’t. I didn’t expect anything different, but it still stings.

The gallery throbs with the playlist I spent all week picking out.

Cole encouraged me to choose the music myself, even though I wasn’t sure anybody else would like it.

“Who gives a shit,” he says. “It’s what you were playing when you painted the pieces, so the songs will match the work. They already go together, whether you meant them to or not.”

He’s right.

Heart Shaped Box – Neovaii

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