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I suddenly feel sick. My stomach rolls and I hang up, tossing my phone onto the bed as I run into the bathroom. I dry-heave into the toilet, trying to slow my racing heart. If I had a brown paper bag, I’d huff in and out of it to quell my anxiety. Instead, I force myself to focus on a spot on the back of the toilet seat and take deep breaths as I hover there, trying to calm down.
What is happening?
What in the world have I done?
I slide down to the floor and wrap my arms around my legs so I can drop my forehead to my knees.
That was bad.
Whatever just happened on the phone is the opposite of what I wanted to happen. I left Walt’s apartment today because I didn’t want him to see me like this. I don’t even recognize this version of myself.
I laugh because it’s all so hysterical. I’m hysterical.
I’m hysterical because I’m in love.
I’m in love with a man I just shouted at repeatedly before hanging up on him.
This is so bad. Worse than bad. Abysmal.
Twenty-Eight
I don’t fall asleep easily that night. I tangle up in my sheets, rolling back and forth, onto one side and then the other, staring up at the ceiling, pleading with my body to cooperate. In the end, I fall asleep half-sprawled across the bed, so deeply out of it that, at first, the sound of my phone ringing is incorporated into my dream.
Then, with a rush of adrenaline, my brain says, Wake up! Get your phone!
My eyes pop open as I reach across the bed to grab it and read the screen, only to sag in relief once I see it’s Nadiya and not Walt.
“The show is on!” she says when the call connects.
“What?” I ask, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
“Yes! We’re rearranging the schedule, bumping the other artist and getting your canvases custom framed as we speak.”
I jolt up to a sitting position, throwing my hand over my mouth.
“Holy shit.” I cringe. “Sorry! Pretend I didn’t say that.”
Nadiya laughs. “Listen, I have a few things I need from you. First, a short bio. You might have seen Anya’s the other night. If not, check out our website—it’ll give you an idea of the format we need. I also have a few French journalists who’d like to conduct interviews with you to accompany their write-ups. I know that might not sound like fun, but it’s the best way to get your name out there, so you just have to grin and bear it.”
“It’s fine. I’ll manage.”
“Also, I know you’re still having your lawyer review our contract—”
“She said she could send it back to me earlier than expected. Hopefully I’ll have it signed for you later today.”
“Good. Lastly, I’m going to email you the confirmation for your flight once my assistant books it. I think you should be in Paris at least a few days before the show so you can acclimate and help with final details.”
“So this is really happening?” I sound dumbfounded.
“Yes,” she stresses. “It’s happening. When can you get me that final piece you’re working on?”
“Tomorrow. I think. I’ll work like a madwoman today.”
“Good. Call Stein Gallery when you’re done, ask for Mark. He’ll have one of the guys come pack up the canvas for shipment. Call if you need me, but I might not be quick to respond as I’m about to get on my flight now.”
I wish her safe travels and then we hang up. For thirty seconds, maybe a minute tops, I’m ecstatic over the news, dreaming of seeing my art hanging in the Stein gallery in Paris. Then, I look up from my phone and my cold, empty hotel room stares back at me. My eyes dart from my makeshift studio by the window to my suitcase with clothes spilling out over the side.
The excitement from my phone call with Nadiya doesn’t seem to have the staying power I was hoping for. My current situation refuses to be ignored.
Paris! I remind myself.
Walt, my brain responds.
This lonely hotel room drags me back into a foul mood I can’t seem to escape. I slide off the bed and fling open the curtains, hoping to see a glimmer of sunlight. It’s a foggy overcast morning though, weather that matches my mood.
I have a lot of work to do on my last piece, but I need to eat something first. I throw on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt and head down to the hotel lobby to pick through their breakfast offerings. Watery eggs and processed pastries are pretty much my only choices, so I spoon some eggs onto my plate and fill a Styrofoam cup with as much coffee as it can hold.
At a table in the corner, I eat and flip through a New York Times someone left behind. In the arts section, I’m not so surprised to see a small feature on Anya’s show from two nights ago. There’s an accompanying grid of photos from the event that highlight her work as well as notable New Yorkers that were in attendance. My heart skips a beat when I see one of Walt and me. I lean down to study the image. In it, we were looking at Anya’s final piece in her show, the adaption of Van Gogh’s Chair. The photographer caught us from the side. I take up most of the frame, but Walt towers a head taller than me on the other side, his hand pressed to the small of my back. I was leaning into him, something I don’t recall doing at the time. We look relaxed together, comfortable in each other’s arms.
