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“I’d be happy to help.”
“Thank you, Dylan,” she says, smiling. “Speaking of Waffles, I better get home and feed him. He won’t be happy that I made him wait for his dinner tonight.” She hesitates as her eyes trace my face, lingering just slightly on my lips.
Unable to helpmyself, I close the gap between us, allowing my lips to briefly graze hers.
“Mark my words, Marlow Taylor, when we finally get a moment to ourselves, I’m going to do much more than kiss you.”
21
MARLOW
THE PAST WEEK AND A half have gone by in a blur.
I stayed true to my word and locked myself in my studio to work on my art, only breaking to watch Lola in the mornings and take Waffles on his daily walks. I can’t pinpoint if it was by sheer determination, my recent inspiration, or a combination of both, but I was ecstatic when I finished a day earlier than anticipated.
While riding high on my professional achievement, my personal life is in a dry spell.
The day after our talk in his kitchen, Dylan had a massive setback at work and has been putting in long hours at the office and spending his free time with Lola. I’ve only seen him when he’s running out the door or up to his home office for a conference call.
I considered telling him about my art exhibition, but when he told me he had another last-minute business trip later this week, I decided not to bring it up. He didn’t specify if he was going to New York again, but even if he were, I didn’t mention my show, afraid that he would feel obligated to go. He said his parents are watching Lola while he’s away, so my plans for the weekend never came up.
It’s late afternoon, and I’m rifling through my fridge in search of something to eat. I polished off the last of Dylan’s delicious homemade meals over a week ago, so I settle on a ham and cheese sandwich. I gather all the ingredients and put them on the counter, while I call Gavin. I forgot to give him the exciting news this morning about finishing the collection on time.
“Hello?” he says with hesitance.
“Hey, Gav. Are you with a client? I can call back later.”
“No, now is fine. You’re usually trying to avoid talking to me, so I’m a little nervous to hear why you’re calling me three days before your exhibition. Is now a bad time to remind you that most galleries require artists to send their paintings weeks in advance?”
What I appreciate most about The Artist is their focus on promoting the artist rather than specific pieces of art. This means a collection isn’t unveiled to the public until the night of the show.
“I’m very lucky to work with an exceptional curator who doesn’t stifle my creative process.” It doesn’t hurt to butter him up when he’s in one of his moods.
“Now you’re sweet-talking me, which I don’t usually mind, but it makes me think you have bad news to share.”
“It was touch and go there for a while.” I tuck my phone in the crook of my neck while I lather a piece of bread with mayo and mustard. “Dylan’s nanny quit, so I’ve been watching Lola in the mornings, and I was down with the flu a week and a half ago. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I was in the worst creative slump—”
“Babe, you’re rambling, and I’m going to develop an ulcer if you keep talking.” His voice is panicked. “Hold on, did you say you’ve been nannying for the GQ hottie? How could you keep such a valuable piece of information from me?” Gavin gets easily distracted when gossip is involved.
“Would you rather talk about my next-door neighbor or get an update on the paintings?”
While I wait for his reply, I add a slice of cheese and several pieces of meat to my sandwich and fold it in half. I switch the phone to my other ear and hop onto the counter.
“Depends on if you have good or bad news,” Gavin says. “I’m going to need a stiff drink if it’s bad news. And before you answer, let me remind you that the demand was so high for this show that we had to make it a ticketed event.” When I don’t answer right away, his distress kicks in. “Marlow? For the love of god, please put me out of my misery. Were you able to finish the collection?”
“You can relax, Gav,” I say in between bites of my sandwich. “The shipping company picked up the paintings today and they will be delivered to The Artist tomorrow morning. I also emailed over the photos for the programs a few minutes ago,” I tell him proudly.
I omit the fact that it was a close call and I barely took so much as a coffee break to finish the last three pieces ahead of schedule. I had concerns about the last painting not drying in time to ship, but thankfully it did.
“I’m so damn proud of you, babe. I can’t wait to see them in person. This calls for celebratory champagne. Matthew and I are taking you out when you get here,” he declares.
“I’d like that,” I say.
“Did you invite anyone to the show? Please tell me if I’m overstepping,” he rushes out.
“Gav, you’re one of my dearest friends. You can ask me anything,” I reassure him. “I sent an invitation to my mom and dad, but they never got back to me. I’m going to check in with them after this.”
I’ve invited my parents to every show in the past, but they always have an excuse for why they can’t come. It would mean a lot if, just for a single night, they could pretend to be proud of my accomplishments. I guess that’s too much to ask. Although I can anticipate their likely response, that won’t stop me from checking in. As an eternal optimist, I find it hard to resist holding out hope, even though disappointment is inevitable.
