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“They’re so crass.”
I sit in the dark, watching the film and ignoring the way my eyes burn.
The movie is beautiful, but it’s hard to focus on it with the criticism playing in my head.
It’s not even that they hated me or my work but that Annie took a chance on bringing me in for this and I can’t stand the thought of letting her down.
At the end, I’m swept out into the foyer with the others. Industry insiders cluster in groups, drinking and gossiping and laughing. I take snapshots of the art for social.
A few guests congratulate me when I tell them I’m the artist.
Which ones hated it? There’s no way of knowing.
I skip the lines of people heading for champagne and duck outside. It’s warm in early October, the light breeze lifting the hairs under my up-do.
My phone is heavy in my hands as I stare at the photo I posted earlier of the portraits, back when I was proud and confident.
I click back into my texts and hit a contact.
“Pink,” Clay answers.
It’s the single syllable that unleashes the floodgates. Silent tears stream down my face.
“How’s your event?” he asks.
“Great.” I swallow. “Okay, not great. Someone hated my art.”
“They’re morons,” he says evenly.
My mouth works for a moment as I glance around the alley. “You haven’t seen the portraits. I only posted them on social, and you’re not on social.”
“I check yours.”
That revelation takes a moment to settle. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He sounds caught out, as if he might already regret telling me. “Point is, it’s not about you, it’s about them. People hate on me every day. Look at a single article, a single post from the team or any of the news outlets. It’s full of judgment.”
I frown, swiping at my cheeks. “Is that supposed to make it hurt less?”
“I won’t tell you how you’re supposed to feel. What I will tell you is I’ve been there.”
The moon is full, just visible when I pace toward the back of the alley in my sparkly heels.
This is what it feels like for Clay. Every single day.
For the first time in a long time, I feel as if I understand a piece of him that he hides from the world.
I feel as if he wants me to.
“Where are you?” he asks at last.
“Alley beside the theater.”
“You got a new thing for alleys?”
I snort, his warmth contagious even from hundreds of miles away.
“Maybe I do.” I bite my cheek. “Where are you?”
