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And then there is no Cole in my thoughts. There is no room for thought.
There is nothing but pain.
sixteen
I didn’t hear from Ambri for three days, and it rained buckets for every single one of those three days. I worked steadily in my basement flat, churning out paintings of him as a demon. I’d done four so far—all in acrylic, which dried faster than the oils I wanted to use. I still had a few days before the art fair; I figured I could get in two more, and those six paintings plus a dozen or so charcoal drawings would hopefully be enough to fill out a booth.
It amazed me how fast Ambri appeared on my canvases. I painted him as if I were racing toward some finish I couldn’t see. As if he’d vanish from my memory any second.
I paint Ambri so I can keep him when it all ends.
I took off my new glasses to rub my eyes. “This is bad.”
My feelings were a fucking mess. I had no way to think about us that made sense, yet all I could do was think about us. What we’d done—whatI’ddone—the other night replayed over and over in my mind. It was shocking how fast I’d sunk to my knees for him. How desperate I’d been to have him any way I could.
Worse, I was starting to fantasize about him and me doing normal things—late night dinners, strolls through London, him in my bed as the morning light fell across his hair that was mussed because my hands had been in it all night…
“This is really bad.”
I looked to my painting. It was one of the best things I’d done. Every painting of Ambri was the best thing I’d done. Not even my own natural self-doubt—which felt different from the insidious whispers—could deny it. He came alive on the canvas—a monster whose humanity emanated from every bloodless pore and feather. I painted him as I saw him: a light trapped in darkness.
“You’re kidding yourself. He’s a fuckingdemon,” I said, trying to mentally slap some sense into myself. Thinking Ambri was suddenly going to be something he wasn’t was ridiculous.
“This is why I don’t do one-night stands,” I muttered and set my paintbrush down. “Because I get so stupid and over-involved and I…talk to myself, apparently.”
I washed up and climbed into bed, listening to the storm rage. The rain would not let up; I heard it rushing in the gutters and splattering at the window. I’d had to tuck a rag in the cracks to keep it from seeping in.
A metaphor, I thought, my eyes growing heavy. My feelings for Ambri raged like a storm that wouldn’t quit; I couldn’t keep him from seeping in.
Two days later, I wrapped my six frameless paintings in canvas cloth and splurged for a cab to take me to the London Art Faire. The storm clouds seemed like a permanent fixture over the London skyline, but the rain had abated to a drizzle for now.
I followed signs for the vendor entrance, and then a guy pointed me to David Coffman’s office at the end of a long hallway. He was surrounded by assistants in a flurry of action. I thought he wouldn’t remember me, but he shooed everyone out when he saw me at the door, then got up to shake my hand.
“Cole A. Matheson. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure.” I unwrapped the bundle of paintings, and I lined them in a row against the wall of his office.
He rubbed his chin as he walked back-and-forth in front of them, his brows furrowed while I waited with sweaty palms.
I’d done a series of Ambri in a black suit, trying to let the light sources—a streetlamp, the moon, an antique lamp in his flat—define him. His pale skin seemed to glow with an ephemeral light, his black-on-black eyes glinting with a flicker of flames in their depths. In one, he held a beetle in his hand. In another, he stared at the fire, its flames a reflection of those that still burned within him.
But Mr. Coffman stared longest at the last one. Inspired by the rainstorm, I’d put Ambri outside, in a downpour. I’d made him naked from the waist up, attempting to capture the perfection of his body but also the human vulnerability he couldn’t hide from me. To reveal the power in his demonic form but to put him in the rain, sodden and alone. His wings were bunched around his shoulders, water beading on the feathers like mercury. His blond hair was plastered over his pale cheeks, and his eyes faced straight ahead. The only painting in which, when the viewer stared at him, Ambri stared back.
“Jesus,” Mr. Coffman muttered. “I have half of mind to take them all off your hands right now and put you on display only. How much are you pricing them?”
“I don’t know. I figured maybe £450 per?”
A fit of coughing came over him. “Crikey, Cole. You’re green, I can see that. And modest. But you can’t let these out the door for less than £750 each. And this one…” He gestured to the last one. “This one is £2,000 and not a penny less.”
I shook my head. “Oh no. That’s too much.”
“Rather learn the hard way, eh? Suit yourself.” He went to his desk and took up a yellow slip. “You’re booth twenty-one. I’d give you 666 but they don’t go that high.”
He had an assistant named Anne take photos of each painting to print in order to catalogue the sales. Two other assistants took the paintings to booth twenty-one while David and I followed behind. He pressed a few sheets of stickers into my hand.
