“I’m not going back to medical school,” I say, but he keeps talking as if I’m not even there.
“I never held high hopes for your intelligence, but this gallery as you so eloquently put it, will fail and then you will further sully your mother’s name.”
Even sick from radiation, he is brutal and harsh. The mention of my mother hurts, and I close my eyes, praying for patience.
“And the neighborhood will never bring in the type of clientele to make the sacrifice of your success worth it. The shop next door is decrepit and clearly filled with criminals.”
My father turns, and the moment he sees Stone standing inside the front door, he stops. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the 6,000-square-foot space.
My father dismisses him quickly, turning back to me. I would laugh at the disgust on my father’s face. Yes, the neighborhood is filled with a criminal, one in particular that I had sex with for 72 hours straight. A naughty part of me wants to tell my father that. Let him know that I’m sleeping with a man he would hate, that the man he so easily dismisses is also a respected businessman in the neighborhood. That Onyx and Riggs are my friends.
I see the moment his eyes scan everyone else, including his own nurse, Randy, who, for him, is a servant, an employee. He looks at Julian, who is on the other side of the gallery, adding hooks to one of his sister’s installations currently lying on the ground. He disapproves of his tattoos. His punk rocker vibe and backwards hat. He would have easily dismissed Jacinda’s long,rainbow-colored dress. The bangles on her arm. Her Carhartt jumpsuit is covered in paint. The huge gauges in her ears. She’s magnificent and one of the most beautiful black women I’ve ever seen, but all my father would see is the superficial. Not her degrees, not her passion, and certainly not her talent.
So I push down the residual embarrassment I always feel around my father. His cruelty has always been part and parcel of my relationship with him, but something stops the feeling from multiplying inside my chest. Maybe it’s the feeble stoop of his back. A beanie covers his head, hiding the sparse hair still left on his head. He doesn’t look well today, and as much as it would be easier for me to let him continue berating me, I don’t hold back my immediate response. The old Camryn feels far away. The new me feels free, unleashed.
“This neighborhood is fine. And my education wasn’t wasted. I’ve learned all the skills to run a business. Which is what I am. I’m a business woman.”
His grunt makes me roll my eyes behind his back. He looks around in distaste. “Just how much of a return do you think you will bring in?”
“I have two shows lined up and from my thirty percent commission. I’m going to bring in a decent amount.”
“You will charge fifty percent.”
“No.” That will mean Jacinda and other artists who use my gallery won’t get much of a return on their art. He narrows his eyes, and I narrow mine right back. Standing up to him has never been easy, but I’m done bowing and scraping my knees on the floor to keep the peace.
“You have no clue how to run a business.”
“Maybe not, but this is my gallery, Father, and I’m doing it my way.”
I lift my chin, and he doesn’t say a word.
“I expect you at the gala in two weeks, Camryn. Make sure you are dressed appropriately.” He looks down at my clothing, and I hate that I see disappointment in his eyes. I no longer dress the way he deems appropriate. The obsession he had with me looking neutral. Non-threatening. So, my overly bright clothing. The artistic Korean streetwear style I’ve been leaning more into would probably not sit well with my father, who, due to his experiences, has shunned much of his Korean heritage in favor of adopting more Western ideals.
With that announcement, he simply walks away from me to the exit. Randy slowly follows. My shoulders slump, and I feel the sting of his actions, tainted by everything my father said. Stone heard every word, and so did Julian.
“You okay?” Julian whispers next to me. I turn and stare at him, almost forgetting that he was there. He touches my arm.
“Yeah.” I swallow down my anger and disappointment.
“Who’s the guy?” He whispers to me, suddenly. “He’s a scary fucker.”
Stone is still in the same spot. His eyes were trained on us. How do I explain Stone? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not really even my lover. Lover connotes that we have some sort of continuation. He’s not a one-night stand, technically, either. We spent 48 hours together. Is he my friend? I don’t know. I thought we were developing something the weekend I spent with him, but he told me there were no tomorrows with us. So I tell Julian the truth. “He’s an artist. He did the mural.”
Julian lifts a brow, and for some reason, it feels like he doesn’t believe me. “He did that mural? The goddess one? Of you?”
“Yup.”
“Then he’s not just an artist.” Julian air quotes and smirks.
I sneak a glance at Stone, my focus going to him involuntarily.
“It’s him, right?” Before I can respond, Julian looks over my shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the reason you didn’t go out to dinner with me.”
Stone leans against the wall. Not saying a word, just watching me. I can feel that stare. It does what it always does. It makes me feel hot and itchy. The need to hold his gaze. I don’t shy away from it now. I want to look at him, let him see my annoyance, my desire.
