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“Still, not interested.”
He sighs, and thankfully, drops the subject altogether.
And for a far too brief moment, we just sit back and listen to the music flowing in from the speakers of the bar. But just like most good things, it comes to an end.
“Why don’t you want to do it?”
There it is. The big question of the day. The thing that’s been on my brother’s mind since we left Dr. Smith’s office.
“Would you want to do it?”
“If I were you?” The incredulity in his voice annoys me. “Yeah, I would want to do it.”
“Did you even hear the risks?” I question. “We’re not talking some minor little surgery here. This is serious shit. This could literally mean life or death for me.”
“Yeah, but you’re a painter, Ans. A fucking artist,” he says quietly. “And we both know losing your vision was like losing your soul. As far as you’re concerned, you might as well be dead already.”
I wish I could refute his words. I wish I could call bullshit.
But the truth is, I’m a shell of the man I once was.
Some might say a painter’s most important asset is his hands, but I disagree.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, and once those windows are closed, darkness seeps in and spreads its roots like ivy. And without a soul to inspire and connect and create, hands are just hands.
Fucking hands I can’t even fucking see.
Ansel
“Well, look who finally decided to grace me with his presence.” Unfortunately, my assistant’s far too cheery voice is the first thing I hear as I step foot inside the entrance of my office and studio on the Upper East Side. “What’s it been? Two? Three weeks?”
Her enjoyment makes me grimace, and my grimace pulls at my temples and, like a domino effect, the hangover headache that’s been beating against my skull all morning is magnified.
“Apparently, not long enough,” I retort and she laughs.
Last night, I let whiskey take the wheel. And while she proved to be quite the enchanting beauty then, this morning, she’s serving up quite the sucker punch.
It took me a good two hours to get myself moving, shove enough coffee, ibuprofen, and toast into my body to quell the urge to vomit, and call Hank, my driver, to pick me up and bring me here.
Obviously, besides the whiskey last night, it’s the worst idea I’ve had in the past twenty-four hours.
Lucy smacks her lips, and it sounds like a cat having a seizure. Good God.
“Are you chewing gum?” I ask with distaste.
“Yep,” she answers and, as if the revolting sound isn’t enough, my mind fills with an old memory of her sitting by the sleek desk in my front office, chomping on Bubble Yum like a heathen.
“Spit the gum out,” I order.
“So,” she says, ignoring my command completely, “do tell what brought you in on this rare occasion.”
“Certainly not your office decorum.”
She doesn’t respond. Not with words, anyway. But I’m almost positive there were a few rude gestures.
“You’ve left me nearly fifty voice mails about assholes wanting to buy my paintings.”
“Huh. Who would’ve thought fifty was the magic number that would finally drag your cranky ass into work?”
“I’d say it’s lovely to see you again, but we both know I’d be lying,” I retort with a shadow of a grin. “And that wasn’t a blind joke either.”
When it comes to Lucy, she is, hands down, the worst assistant who has ever assisted anyone. But what she lacks in proficiency and actual work ethic, she makes up for in the ability to handle my dickish tendencies.
Whatever I dish her way, she throws right back at me. The girl has the kind of backbone that would make even the biggest macho bastard look like a pussy.
And, the icing on the cake, she doesn’t have a single sympathetic bone in her body.
Lucy cares about herself and no one else, and she’s far too self-involved to help anyone else.
It’s those qualities that have kept her on my payroll despite the nature of the last year.
I know I’ll never sense pity or sadness in her voice. I’ll never feel like she’s going out of her way to accommodate me. Honestly, she’s about the only person in my life who hasn’t changed the way she treats me.
All of a sudden, the truth hits me, and I almost trip over my cane.
It’s kind of a horrible discovery to find out I might actually like her.
“Don’t be such an ass,” she responds through a laugh. “And, for the love of God, make some decisions. Sell your paintings. Don’t sell your paintings. It doesn’t matter to me. But please figure it out, so I don’t have to keep fielding all of these calls.”
“It’s tough, isn’t it, Luce?” I retort. “Having to answer actual calls and do work.”
If I were a betting man, I’d give some damn good odds that she’s rolling her eyes right now.
