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“Going there tonight is a great idea,” Candice says. “You’ll look like a bombshell, you’ll fangirl over Mac’s pottery while totally ignoring Kevin’s dumb, pretentious paintings, and then you’ll catwalk out of there without even giving that asshole the time of day.”
I have to admit, when my sister says it like that, it does sound pretty good. So that’s how, an hour later, I end up in front of a previously vacant store which has been transformed into a bright gallery with all-white walls. When we pile out of Jen’s car and stand outside, the door bursts open.
My mother stumbles out. “It’s terrible in there. Not worth it.” She points to the car. “We should go.”
I frown. “What?”
Candice’s eyes are narrowed as she meets my mother’s wide-eyed gaze. “What are you talking about, Mom?”
“Terrible exhibit. Terrible art. Waste of time.” She turns me around and pushes me toward the car.
“Mom, stop.” I shake her off. “What’s gotten into you? If it’s terrible, won’t it be more entertaining?”
“No. Awful. Waste of time.” She spins me around again and I sidestep her, only to see Dorothy and Margaret in the doorway.
They both shake their heads. “It’s a bust, ladies. Let’s go to the Cedar Grove for a drink.”
I exchange a glance with the girls and plant my hands on my hips. “What the hell is going on here?”
My mother wrings her hands. Let me repeat that: my mother, Lottie Viceroy, the woman who has never been unsure of anything in her life, wrings her hands. “I really think it’s best if you don’t go in there, honey,” she tells me. “It’s…it’s Kevin’s stuff. It’s bad.”
“Bad, how?” I ask, a pit opening up in my stomach.
“Just…bad.” She jerks her head to the car. “Please, sweetheart?”
I stare at my mother, and finally shake my head. “Nothing he can do is that bad, Mom. I just spent two hours getting ready while I let these girls convince me this was a good idea. I’m going in there.”
Dorothy sucks in a breath and looks at Margaret, and they finally step aside for me to walk into the gallery.
The first thing I see is Mac’s work. Three vases are displayed on their own white, knee-high pedestals, each of them more gorgeous than the last. They’re huge—almost as tall as me—all sweeping curves and fluted openings. The first reminds me of the vase I broke, but it’s about three times the size. It’s painted in deep purple and navy blues, with splatters of a starry night sky. There’s some sort of metallic glaze in the starry splatter, making the whole thing twinkle like a true night sky. The middle vase is all bright yellow and orange and vibrant green, like a midsummer’s day. It has two big, gracefully curved handles. The third vase is breathtaking. It’s tall and thin with a rolled top, glazed to look like a sunrise—or maybe a sunset.
I stop short, breathless.
I had no idea he was capable of this. The pieces he made for Four Cups are simplistic compared to these three vases. There’s no other way to describe them but pure, soul-shattering beauty—made by his own strong hands.
“Wow,” Simone says beside me.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Oh, that ass,” Candice mumbles from the other side, and, frowning, I follow her gaze to the far wall.
And my stomach bottoms out.
Four massive canvases are displayed on the back wall of the gallery, and I know Kevin’s work the moment I see it. Oil paint, all vibrant colors and hyper-realism.
He painted me.
The first canvas is me in bed, wearing my favorite pajamas, a silky, olive-green cami-and-short set that used to cling to my body in a way I liked. He’s painted me lying on my side, all soft curves, my clothes hiked up high over my hips and my breasts nearly spilling out of my top. It’s…vulgar. My nipples are poking through the fabric, the straps falling off my shoulders. My hair is spread over the pillow in a wild halo. I stare at it, heart thumping, feeling oddly, horribly violated. He took a moment of vulnerability—when I was literally asleep in his bed—and presented it to the world. He put me on display.
The second canvas is me, crying with slashes of red and black behind me. Mascara is streaked down my face, red lipstick smudged. I look like a fucking mess.
The third painting is a depiction of me walking away, Katie held over my hip as Toby walks beside me with his hand in mine. There are suitcases beside us, and I’m looking over my shoulder, through the canvas, the picture of an angry, venomous woman.
And the fourth canvas is a self-portrait of Kevin, head in hand, tears spilling down his cheeks, hair disheveled. Pathetic and sad and in need of sympathy.
Together, they tell a story, and the story is: She was perfect when she was meek, quiet, asleep, until she blew up and took my kids away, leaving me on my own.
“He’s literally painted himself as the victim,” I say, stunned. My voice is muted, far away. Somehow, my feet have carried me closer to the canvases, and I laugh when I see the price tags. “He wants twenty-five hundred dollars for each of these.” I turn to Candice, who’s standing beside me with her hand over her mouth.
