Page 32 of Selling Innocence

“Why work that hard? Art is easy.”

“Maybe for you, it is. For the famous, talented Vance Moore, it’s all so simple. For the rest of us, though? We have to practice and learn and give it our all or we’ll never make it.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, the action making him appear older. I knew from the stories that he was in his late twenties, but that was about it. Magazines constantly covered him, but it was more about his exploits with women than anything else. In fact, I’d rarely seen an article discuss his art in years, and even those had been focused on older work. “You’ve got money. You could buy your way into the right gallery. An education is about making your art better, but succeeding in the art world is about who you know and how much you’re willing to sell yourself—that’s it.”

His words were so cold that I shivered, the temperature in the car having plummeted to match his mood.

He’d never been sweet or caring, but these words rang hostile.

It wasn’t a flip, not like Char, but instead like I’d peeled back a scab and exposed a deep wound to air. He reacted the way an animal protecting itself would.

Which showed it would be best to avoid that conversation.

“You look nice,” he muttered, his tone sullen.

Was he trying to apologize for snapping at me?

No, he isn’t the type to say sorry.

“Thanks,” I offered, afraid to do anything to make us slip back into the tension from before. “It’s been a while since I dressed up.”

“Not a lot of chances at college?”

“Nope. They have dances or mixers sometimes, but those are casual. I also don’t go.”

“Why not? Isn’t that part of the whole student life? Don’t you want to make the best of your years here?” His voice almost came out like an ad for the college.

“I like my life to stay quiet.”

“You also didn’t have anyone over to your place that we could tell. Makes me wonder why you’re working so hard to keep other people away. Some people like Char or Tor are just private people who value their solitude. You, though? You’re more like me, like Hayden. You like to talk, to be around others, to listen to them. Why deny yourself that?”

I stared out the window at the lights that streamed by instead of at him. It made the rest of the world feel fake, like a movie screen playing outside the car, just a figment of my imagination. Instead, it was only Vance and me in the whole world. Maybe that feeling got me taking. “I’ve moved around a lot in my life because of my father. I never got to set down roots or become part of a community. The only people I cared about either left me or risked themselves for me and got hurt. I learned that letting people get close to me never did them any good, and it hurt too much when I was left all alone again. It’s better to keep things casual.”

Vance didn’t answer, taking so long that I turned toward him. We sat at a red light, the engine idling loudly, and he stared right at me as though I’d said something that made no sense.

I kept my mouth shut, not sure how to make the moment better, how to laugh off the truth I hadn’t meant to utter aloud.

I had no idea how long we remained locked in that moment together, lost in the words I’d said and the many I hadn’t. Why was it that Vance always looked at me as if he understood? As if he got even the things I hadn’t said? It made me feel far too exposed?

A honking behind us broke the spell, and I looked forward to realize the light had changed to green, long enough ago that the other lane had already gone.

Whatever Vance might have said died in his throat, because he turned his attention back to the road and sped the car along so quickly, the momentum pinned me to my seat.

And, as it had done so many times, that glimpse of Vance made me wonder just how much of himself he hid.

* * * *

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Vance didn’t ask the question with the same attitude Char would have. Instead, every word out of his mouth felt like an invitation.

“You’re unfair.”

“Oh yeah? How so.” He smirked and set his arm on the table between us, leaning in.

The restaurant we ate at was incredibly nice, the sort of place I hadn’t gone in a long time, not since before my father’s death. In the year since then, I’d eaten, best I could, as a college student. I’d enjoyed ramen places and diners and fast food.

The freshman twenty is a real thing.

“You’re rich, famous, handsome and talented. It’s unfair that you’re charming, too. No one person should have so much in his arsenal.”

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