Page 83 of The Unfluencer

A whip of wind outside the door seals the moment. We’re still, hearts beating, listening, waiting for it to break. Thankfully, it does.

Whitney rubs her arms as she walks away, trailing slowly down the aisle, and slides out the first wire-mesh panel. Vibrant oil on canvas.

It’s a Kehinde Wiley.

“Portrait of Nelly Moudime II.” She turns back to me, beaming, wistfully admiring the use of color and pattern, the same way structural framing just speaks to me. It’s her purpose. “His World Stage series always leaves me in awe.”

I straighten, drawing my shoulders back, settling into her world, content just to witness the kaleidoscope of emotions flicker across her beautiful face as she observes each piece, taking her time to “absorb the storytelling,” she says. The way her brow furrows. The small breaths. Her hand pressed tenderly to her heart.

It’s so intense, how she appreciates Sherry’s prized collection, silently interpreting where she drew her inspiration. Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kara Walker, Betye Saar, Kerry James Marshall, Sam Gilliam, and Alma Thomas. Her direct influences, when she never believed she was influential.

At least half an hour passes before Whitney reaches the last six rows.

She exhales.

What she’s seeing are oil paintings. About a dozen. Luxe Ladies across the seasons. No rhyme or reason to them that I could discern. Some repeats, plus one self-portrait. All an explosion of dark, rich colors, layered with evocative storytelling, challenging parasocial and classicist stereotypes and embedded with celebrated pop culture references.

“They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen, Warner,” she says breathlessly. “I’ve got chills.”

“Yeah, I told you.” I pull in air through my nose, releasing it slowly out my mouth. “Pictures wouldn’t do them justice.”

“Why are they here?” Whitney asks as she whips around to face me, and there might as well be twenty miles between us instead of twenty feet, the way she’s looking at me. I don’t know what she sees, but she doesn’t say anything else. She takes long, unsteady strides back to me, her fiery gaze piercing.

And then we’re inches apart. She smells like fresh laundry and raspberries. All I can think of is peeling my clothes off her and using them as a drop cloth so we can make love… right here, on this floor.

Lord, give me the strength.

“You never answered my question,” she says.

She means the kiss. But I can’t resist.

“They’re here because…” I shrug and give her a faraway gaze, killing her with a long pause. “This bunker allows for protected storage from outside elements. Everything is aligned, labeled, and archived for easier access, say, if I were to seek out a gallery to exhibit—” Whitney swats my chest, and I catch her hand, laughing.

“You know what I meant.” She tilts her head, eyebrow raised, signaling for me to continue.

I nod, slowly piecing together our story, letting my smile fade.

“I do.”

As soon as those two words come out, my first thought is, wasn’t this the point of twenty questions? To peel the layers back, to step forward without knowing the ending, to let the story find me? Isn’t that what Dr. Bellamy meant? In their own way, Mom and Greer, too. And, not as subtly, Nacheline.

Love, romance, adventure, life—all of it.

Wager be damned.

And just like that, my heart’s involved. The need to voice my feelings is so overwhelming, I feel the blinders locking my tunnel vision in place.

“That kiss wasn’t what you think⁠—”

A loud pounding at the door cuts me off, stealing the moment from us again.

Our heads snap to the door.

“Dammit.” My mind races, scrambling. I shift on my feet, annoy by the rattling handle. Should I take this as a sign that every time I get close to telling Whitney how I feel, something happens? Damn. “It’s probably just the wind.”

“Uh, I thought you said your favorite movie was Indiana Jones,” Whitney scoffs.

“It is.”