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But it seems like he’s not even going to let us have that.
“Well, if you change your mind,” I say, looking up at him, “I know everyone will be so happy to see you. Me, more than anyone.”
Alden nods. Slowly, painfully, his hand drops from my cheek.
I almost force myself to leave it at that, but I can’t. I need to know. Bolstering myself, I ask, “Will you be here when I get home, Alden?”
He looks mildly surprised by my question.
“I’ll be here,” he says.
His answer should reassure me, but as I walk the four long flights of stairs down from my apartment, worry still nags at my chest. There’s a very real possibility that he just lied to me, thinking he was protecting me from hurt. I can easily see him justifying it, saying that he wanted to keep me focused for an important day of work. It would be just like when he lied about his paintings not being dry—a lie told out of so-called necessity.
Goddamn it. If he breaks my heart like this, I’m never going to forgive him.
I try not to think about Alden during my commute to the gallery. But of course everything reminds me of him. I see a billboard with a photo of mountains on it and the wordESCAPE; I pass by an art supply shop with oversized tubes of paint hung in the display window; every large man I pass stupidly gets my hopes up that it might be him.
And when, eventually, I show up at the gallery—well, there’s even less chance of getting him off my mind. I’m literally surrounded by Alden’s paintings, which have been pulled out from temporary storage in the back room so we can hang them up for the show tonight.
Kristina is in the middle of a phone call in her office when I arrive, but Cory is sitting behind the reception desk, scrolling on his phone as he mindlessly sways in the swivel chair.
“Hey, girl,” he says idly, not looking up from his phone.
“Hey.” I glance toward Kristina’s office. “Is everything okay?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Kristina’s just pissed at her tailor or something. The suit she wanted to wear tonight isn’t ready yet.”
“Ah.”
Cory’s thumb pauses on the screen of his phone and he raises a pair of curious eyes to me. “Areyouokay? You seem stressed.”
I glance again at Kristina’s half-open door. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Man trouble?”
“I’ll tell youlater, Cory,” I say under my breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kristina’s door fling open, and then she storms out of her office, the fury practically smoking off her.
“Everyone always has a goddamn excuse for everything,” Kristina mutters, rubbing at her temples. “Good morning, Sasha.”
“Morning.”
“Let’s start getting these paintings hung, yes?”
Over the next few hours, Cory and I assist Kristina in determining the best layout for Alden’s show. You wouldn’t think that the arrangement of the paintings would have such a drastic effect on the viewing experience, but it really does. Every piece of artwork is in dialogue with the ones that surround it, and a single painting set in the wrong place can throw the balance off.
In other words, Cory and I spend the morning repositioning the paintings over and over and over again.
I’m not complaining. It’s part of the process of putting together a show. And, of course, it’s part of my job. These are the dues I have to pay. Someday I’ll be standing where Kristina is standing, calling the shots in my own gallery.
“Switch those two,” Kristina says, pointing at two side by side paintings leaning against the west-facing wall.
Cory and I make the switch. As we turn to face her again, I half expect Kristina’s frown to deepen and for her to tell us to switch them back. Instead, her lips level into a straight line, and she gives a nod so subtle you might miss it.
“That’s good,” she says, slowly surveying the whole room. “Okay. We’re all set.”
Byall set, Kristina means that Cory and I can now actually hang everything up. And maybe this is a lame thing to brag about, but when it comes to hanging artwork, Cory and I are a freakin’ dream team. We’ve got measuring, marking, and nailing down to a science. In no time at all, we’ve got all of Alden’s paintings hung, all of them perfectly level and placed.
“God,” sighs Cory as the two of us stand in the middle of the gallery, taking in the final result. “His paintings are something-fucking-else.”
