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“Maybe you don’t believe what you’ve heard so far,” I continue. “I know Ben believes in your talent.”
She glances over her shoulder at Ben before dropping her head again.
“The comments on your Instagram posts before it was deleted also prove how talented you are. Also, the fact that I’m sitting here across from you.”
I pull out my phone and open its gallery. I slide it across the table so she can see the pictures. One by one I flip through pictures of me at my former job in New York.
“I worked with some of the best curators around. Not to toot my own horn, but I was damned good at my job as well. I’ve seen talent. I know the difference between someone just running a brush across a canvas and someone who’s working from an internal passion that can’t be seen but can damn sure be felt.
“I feel that when I look at your work, Melinda.”
I hedge, knowing what I say next could make her stand up and run right out of this diner.
“I also know when someone’s hiding. Running from their own destiny.”
She completely stills across the table.
“You don’t know me,” she says, her voice sounding a little stronger but still low.
“No.” I shake my head. “But I don’t need to know you to know that you were born to be an artist. Whatever’s stopping you from reaching your full potential, is something you have to push through.”
I stop as I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth. Those words felt like they came from a deeper place inside of me. As if they aren’t only meant for Melinda.
Shaking the thought loose, I focus on the woman across from me.
“Why are you opening your gallery in Williamsport? If you’re so successful and so good at this? Artists must come a dime a dozen in New York. Why are you doing this here?”
I open my mouth to tell her the truth. That the start-up costs in New York were too high and that I couldn’t get a loan or a grant and I didn’t want to burden my family with asking them for money.
But what I say instead is, “Williamsport is my home. It’s where I was born and raised.” Without thinking about it, I look over Melinda’s shoulder. My eyes lock with Diego’s.
He gives me a reassuring smile, and my whole heart melts.
“It’s where my heart is,” I tell Melinda without taking my gaze off of Diego.
That is the actual truth. I always wanted to start my gallery in Williamsport. Somewhere along the line I lost sight of that vision. I spent so many years running that I convinced myself, I wanted a different dream.
“Home,” Melinda repeats.
I hear yearning in that one word.
“Where’s your home, Melinda?”
Without hesitation, she answers, “The canvas.”
Her answer draws a smile out of me.
“Let me bring your home to my gallery.”
Slowly, she lifts her head. The oversized sunglasses and hair hanging over the left side of her face obscure me from seeing her completely.
I can’t see but I think she’s looking me directly in the eyes. Assessing me.
With a slowness that reveals she’s questioning her own movements, Melinda reaches her hands towards her sunglasses. She pauses for a beat.
Then, with deliberate action, she removes the sunglasses from her face. When she pushes her hair behind her left ear, I see it.
The entire left side of her face is scarred over. Rough, red skin covers the entire half of her face. If I had to guess, I would say they’re a result of third- or fourth-degree burns. My stomach tightens from the unimaginable pain Melinda must’ve endured from whatever happened to cause this.
