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But it takes me a really long time to stop picturing his face in my mind.
At some point in the middle of the night, I hear an alert from my phone. I pick it up just long enough to see that it’s from my new match. With a smile, I roll over and go back to sleep.
The message will still be there in the morning.
Besides, part of my new focus on myself is making sure I don’t dive into any new relationships too soon.
By the time I wake up in the morning, the sun is streaming into my apartment, and most days, I’d spend the next few hours getting some artwork done.
This morning, however, I pick up my phone and settle back down into my comforter.
Let’s see what Bacchus320 has to say.
Like most dating app conversations, it starts off generic enough—hello, how are you doing, are you local, that sort of thing.
Then we move on to the slightly more personal information
Bacchus0320: What’s your first name? I’m Leon.
I pause. I hate my real name, but at the same time, telling him I go by Rebellion seems a little too personal. So, in the end, I go with the truth.
RebellionArt770: Lacey.
Bacchus0320: I love the art on your profile. Is it yours?
RebellionArt770: Yeah, I’m hoping to turn it into a career someday.
Bacchus0320: Who are some of your artistic influences?
I think that’s a good sign. This is the point in the conversation where a lot of guys would go straight to sexting. I roll my eyes as I remember some of the worst examples—like the guy who asked me my name and then requested a picture of my feet.
Eww.
This guy is different. His questions about me seemed genuine, and his questions about my art were pretty thoughtful for someone who’s not an artist himself.
Even if he admits that he doesn’t know much about the artists I name—Egon Schiele, René Magritte, Yayoi Kusama, George Condo—he seems interested in what I do and why.
That’s more than I can say about James, who treated my art like a hobby.
Dean also tells me he’s new to Atlanta and doesn’t know much about the city yet—but he doesn’t make the mistake of suggesting we get together too soon.
Overall, I’m impressed enough that I don’t want to quit chatting with him when Control gives me a call.
With a sigh, I answer the phone.
“I need you to come over to the clubhouse early today,” my father tells me.
I roll my eyes but keep my voice calm. It’s never a good idea to piss off Control. “Sure,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I want you to paint the meeting room at the clubhouse,” he says, his voice brooking no argument.
“Okay,” I say, a little confused by his tone—I’ve spent my whole life using the clubhouse walls as a canvas, periodically painting over them and starting fresh. But always before, it’s been on my own schedule, not because Control wanted me to.
“Good,” he says. “But I want you to paint it some normal color. Nothing frou-frou or fancy.”
I clench my teeth. This is more punishment, I realize. He’s angry with me for daring to go against his plan, so he’s trying to discipline me by forcing me to destroy the art I created on the building the club owns, just like he destroyed the artwork in my portfolio.
Still, I manage to reply with nothing more than an affirmative murmur.
