“Hi,” I say cautiously as I join him in the elevator car. “Were you coming up to see me?”
What were the odds?
His cheeks stain red. “I was heading out to get some fresh air, and I saw the elevator was being called to the eighth floor. I hopped on just in case it was you. I just thought I might see you for a minute,” he finishes, naked longing in his voice.
I have wanted him to long for me for ages.
And now he does. And it doesn't feel good. It feels hollow and empty and sad.
I’m not sure how to reply to that. I was thinking of calling you feels cruel now, like I would be leading him on. I wanted to talk to somebody. And that somebody is you. Why is that somebody you? Why is it always you?
I opt for a smile instead.
“How's the prep for the show going?”
I don't have to bring it up. He's asking all on his own.
So I answer him honestly. As we arrive on the ground floor, I admit, “I’m nervous about it.”
He steps off first, waits for me.
“Are you heading to the office?”
He shakes his head. “I’m still working from home.” He stumbles over that last word and corrects himself. “Here, the apartment. I was going to get a coffee.”
“Oh, I was—” I cut myself off.
He looks surprised. “Are you also going to get a coffee?”
I nod. “And then I was gonna go for a walk, and think about why I'm nervous and what I need to do next and how to get ready for this, how to maximize the opportunity.”
I’m blathering, but I want him to ask the next question, too. I don’t want to have to invite him to join me.
Will he? I don’t know. This is what we are now, two strangers who were once lovers, who were once married, who are still married. Strangers married to each other. Unsure of what to say next.
He searches my face. “Do you want to talk about any of that? It sounds like a lot to consider.”
“Yes,” I say. Feels good to be honest, that simple, single syllable, yes. I want to talk about it.
And then I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I went off. “Actually what I want is to get coffee and go for a walk. I think better when I walk. Does that make sense?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunching. He's so big, next to me. I used to love his size, and then I started to resent it. And now it's just a curiosity to me. What does it feel like to be him, so big next to me, taking up so much space and not knowing what to say.
“Is that too weird for you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Not weird.” He smiles. “It’s nice, but I don’t want to overstep. If you’re open for company, I’d love to be a sounding board.”
18
Luke
We get our coffee and then head down to the waterfront. It’s cold today, but bright, and she’s bundled.
I’m less prepared than she is for the wind coming off the lake, but that’s what the hot beverage is for, and I shove my other hand in my pocket.
Grace gets right to the point. “One of the other artists in the show suggested something that has taken up residence in my head, like maybe it’s a genius idea, or maybe it’ll dilute my brand.” She does a backtrack first, and explains some things I maybe knew, but didn’t really pay close attention to. How she sets up her art auctions online, which pieces she sells at set prices, and how she manages more people wanting those commissions than she can ever keep up with.
“I mean, I make a really nice revenue stream from prints and merchandise, too. That gives everyone a chance to own a version of a piece, while still maintaining the rarity of the original item.” She takes a deep breath. “But the possibility of earning three or five times the commission on a major item, simply by creating a few of them…”
“It’s tempting.”
“Very.”
“Is that the only way you see to scale your business?”
“Outside of brand partnerships? Yeah, probably. As long as I’m the sole producer of the art, there will be limits. So I can focus on the reproducible parts, like merchandise, or I can work harder. Or faster, or both.”
She makes a face, and I chuckle. “No, you don’t want to do that.”
“Right? But I also don’t want to copy Damien just because he mentioned it. I’m just antsy. I want to make the most of this. I’ve tried to get a show for three years and galleries just wanted nothing to do with me. When Alex introduced me to his partner, it was a dream. Damien doesn’t seem to have the same nerves here, so I think, whatever he’s doing, maybe I should do.”
“There are probably other artists out there who look at you and say the same thing, though.” I take a sip of coffee. “Something we tell companies before they’re ready to go public, but they’re in that pipeline is, there are other companies who aren’t even there yet. We can forget to look behind us when we’re so focused on what’s the next big step ahead.”
She makes a face. “I don’t like to look back.”
Not when we have nothing but train wrecks in our recent past, no, I bet she doesn’t. “Sorry, that was thoughtless.”
“It’s fine. It’s a generally good point.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Being in the vaguely right vicinity of a topic.”
“Do you remember that sketch of you I drew in university?”
“It hangs in your closet, of course I do.”
“But do you remember…” She trails off. “I don’t know. There was a vibe about that whole project. It was just a club thing, but it consumed me and gave me something to be passionate about. Everything that I have done in my career, and that’s the moment I remember. It was a turning point. Even though it took me thirteen years to really get serious about art, that was the origin moment. After that project, I started taking more art classes, and…”
“You found the thing that would drive you. You just didn’t know it would be a career. But it’s always been your passion.”
She stops abruptly and turns to look at the lake, moving off the path.
I’m horrified to realize she’s crying.
She shakes her head when I try to say something. Whatever I was about to say—it’s okay, don’t cry, I understand—would have been all wrong.
“I’m still young,” she finally mutters. “But I feel like I’ve started my life over again a few times now, and I don’t want to. Not again. I really liked this one, Luke. The loft, the studio, the lake, being downtown.” She turns and glares in the direction of our building, now in the distance.
“I wanted that life,” she yells, startling the joggers around us, and an older couple walking down by the water.
I force myself not to be embarrassed. It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I don’t know why she needed to be quite so loud about it, but I understand the sentiment.
A sinking feeling drags the next question out of me. “Grace, how much of that life is tied up in your art?”
She turns around and starts marching down the path again. Fierce and frightened. Like a kitten, I think, and regret twists my insides into barbed wire.