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“Is this the face you want to represent your gallery?” she asks, cynicism peppering every word.
“Yes.”
I supposed she wasn’t expecting such a fervent yes.
Melinda’s eyes narrow, assessing me.
I glance down at my left arm, and without thinking, I remove my arm from the blazer I’m wearing and roll up my short sleeve to show her the monitor on my arm.
“I’ve been wearing this thing in one form or another since I was ten years old,” I confess. “I got it after a trip to the ER because I neglected to take my insulin with me to school because some of my classmates made fun of me,” I tell her.
She looks from my arm to my eyes. The skepticism is still evident in her eyes, but it’s dimmed slightly.
“I’m not comparing what it is you’ve been through to my living with type 1 diabetes. All I’m explaining is that I know what it’s like—even a little bit—to be othered. To feel different from everyone around you. And to not have a meaningful outlet to share that with anyone.”
Melinda slowly nods as she slides her sunglasses back over her eyes. I don’t take it as her pulling away from me. It’s more like she’s not used to being in public for too long without her disguise.
I get it.
We all wear masks in one form or another.
“I won’t ask you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. My gallery will feature women who have something to say through their art. But for one reason or another the world has shut them down. At my gallery, your voice will speak loud and clear. Through the canvas.”
I can’t see them, but I feel Melinda’s eyes reaching out to mine. “What’s the name of your gallery?”
A smile crests on my lips. This is the first time I’m revealing the name of my gallery to anyone.
“Stolen Voices,” I reply, satisfaction filling my heart.
CHAPTER30
Monique
“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Diego asks with a crease in between his brows. I know why he’s asking. My blood sugar numbers have been wonky this morning. Even after I’ve eaten my numbers are lower than normal.
However, I feel fine, and for now, I’m not going to stress too heavily about it.
“I’m great,” I say with excitement. “Melinda has agreed to let Stolen Voices feature her work. We’re going to visit some more wonderful artists at the fair today. And I get to spend the rest of the weekend with you.”
I press a finger into his chest and run it up to his chin. A small chill runs through me from seeing how Diego’s eyes darken.
He drops his head and presses a kiss to my lips. “You’ll tell me if you weren’t feeling well, right?”
I press my lips together. That slight disdain for my own ailment and the way it invades even my most peaceful moments prickles at the edges of my mind. I do my best to ignore it.
“You will be the first person I tell if I start feeling off,” I tell him. “Let’s go,” I say with urgency, in part just to change the conversation. We’re meeting Melinda and Ben at the diner again so I can see a few more of her paintings.
After that, the plan is to spend the day at the art fair. There will be more artists today since it’s Saturday and I can’t wait to see them all. With Melinda, all of my slots for opening night featured artists are filled, but I can always find artists for the future.
“Art awaits!” I say with a little twirl as I head to the door of our hotel suite. Diego went above and beyond the room, of course. When I told him as much, all he did was kiss me breathless and tell me that he wanted an even better room but this was the best suite available within a ten-mile radius of the art fair.
He chuckles as he follows me out of the room. We spend the first hour of the day with Ben and Melinda at a local park since Melinda didn’t want to go to the fair. Melinda warms up to me, but she keeps her face hidden whenever Diego is near. Only once he and Ben go off on a separate trail does she lower her hoodie.
Little by little, I find out that a fire, when Melinda was ten years old and she was home alone with Ben, caused her scars. Right before we leave, Ben pulls me aside and reveals that Melinda got the scars after she ran back into their home when she realized he hadn’t made it out.
He was only five years old at the time. She was able to get him out right before a piece of the roof collapsed on top of her.
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her,” he tells me with emotion welling up in his eyes. “Our parents …” He trails off and shakes his head. “Drugs and their fucked-up relationship meant more to them than we ever did. She’s all I have.”
