Page 19 of Where I Should’ve Been

Three days of my brain spinning like a broken record over a million different things.

Dad’s last voice mail to me before he died.

Past conversations with my father about the galleries and his will.

Logan’s face when I told him I quit.

Logan telling me he’d known about Dad’s plan with the galleries for a whole six months and how I was painfully oblivious the entire time.

All that thinking, and still, I’ve done absolutely nothing to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.

For someone who’s made a career out of crisis management and high-stakes openings, this particular limbo feels like the earth’s gravity has disappeared and I’m floating around aimlessly while the world below keeps spinning.

Ugh. I really need to get my shit together.

I glance at my phone out of habit—the fast-paced life I left behind creeping into my subconscious even if I am in a small-town respite—and the three texts I haven’t read or cleared from my littlest brother taunt me once again.

Logan: Breezy, call me.

Logan: Please.

Logan: Just talk to me so I can explain. Groveling via text is so disingenuous.

It doesn’t matter how many times he texts or calls or pleads; I have no desire to respond.

Dimming the screen again, I walk toward the gurgling, faintly misting coffeepot as it finishes its brew, waiting not so patiently for the beep of finality before stealing the pot and filling a cup for myself. I sit down at the big farmhouse kitchen table across from my sister-in-law and niece and soak in the smell of dark roast and vanilla creamer.

They’re trivial in the grand scheme, but in the little moments like these, they help—as does the sight of Norah feeding Autumn breakfast while my niece giggles and smiles in her high chair.

“Bee! I eat! I eat!” Autumn exclaims as a big plop of yogurt drops from her spoon and onto the floor.

“Good job, Autumn,” I say as I flash a secret smile at Norah. “You’re such a big girl.”

“Big gurl! Me! Eat!”

This kitchen is all wide-planked wood and barely filtered sun, a mocking, far cry from my sleek Chelsea office, and there are no ringing phones, no Richters or Rothkos or Warhols, and no interns with clipboards—just my sister-in-law in one of Bennett’s favorite flannels and my giggly niece trying to feed herself yogurt with a spoon.

It’s not the gallery, but it is art. And I work hard to center myself enough to take it in.

The warmth. The comfort. The homey feel of a family and its love.

As Norah patiently helps a very determined Autumn, I mull over the most shocking part of my life imploding—that I don’t hate this moment as much as I should or thought I would. That it’s a joy to be getting so much unfettered time with Autumn. That strangely, the tension I normally carry deep within the walls of my chest has eased.

When Summer was this age, I was too busy jetting between galleries, juggling exhibits, and trying to impress a father who never saw me. I missed so many breakfasts like this one. So many “I eat!” moments.

I’m glad I’m not missing these.

Heavy boots on hardwood signal the arrival of another, and I recross my legs in my cashmere pajamas and billow my shirt to make sure I’m decent.

“Morning, ladies,” Bennett says, his voice still rough with sleep as he ambles into the kitchen, stopping at his girls. He’s wearing one of his usual paint-stained Henleys—smudges of blue or pink or sunflower yellow that never quite come off littering the fabric in ways reminiscent of Bennett past. The Bennett who was a part of the canvas both literally and emotionally.

“Dada!” Autumn squeals as Bennett leans down to touch his lips to Norah’s. When he returns to full height, I lift my coffee in the air in salutation.

“Morning.”

“Morning, sis.” I smile at the moniker, reveling in the feel of being something so simple.

For years, I managed Bennett’s career and his emotional well-being in ways that went well beyond the normal call of duty. I was the agent, the assistant, and the go-between during his most difficult years as he turned down seven-figure checks for his paintings and declined MoMA exhibitions without blinking. I was the call of desperation while he poured everything he had into Summer and her complex medical needs. I was the last stop before the inevitable outcomes of jail, bankruptcy, or worse.