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“Don’t call me again unless it’s to give me your location so I can beat your ass.” I end the call and then block the number.
That better be the last time I hear from anyone on that side of the family. There will be hell to pay if it’s not.
Anger boils the blood in my veins, but I force myself to walk it off. I exit Monique’s building and send her a quick text.
Me:Where are you?
Mo:The gallery.
I head straight to her gallery.
The unlocked door causes me to frown once I reach the storefront. A few of the back lights are on as Monique stands in the middle of the huge space, her back to me.
“Why is the door unlocked?” I ask as soon as I walk in. She should know better. It’s after dark, and while this is a safe and busy neighborhood, she can’t be too careful. I lock the door behind me.
“Mo,” I call when she doesn’t respond. I move to stand in front of her. She continues to stare at something over my shoulder. Though the lights are low, I can see the water in her eyes.
“Babe—” I don’t even get the question out before she wraps her arms around my waist.
“This has to work, Diego,” she says into my chest. She’s not crying quite yet but she’s on the verge.
“There’re so many of them,” she says.
“Who?” I cup her face.
She pulls back and glances around the room.
“Them.” She gestures toward the blank wall. “The women who’ll be featured here. The ones who no longer have voices or took years to find their voice. Even if I could stuff this place full of those artists, there will still be so many women whose stories will never be told.”
She turns to face me.
“So many who’ll never be able to share for whatever reason. What do I do about all of them? What if this gallery doesn’t work out?”
There’s a clawing desperation in her voice that calls to me.
“Baby, did something happen?” I ask, knowing I’ll take on anything or anyone she needs me to.
She blows out a breath. “I had dinner with my mom, and it reminded me of a call I had at the crisis center today. It was …” She doesn’t finish. “I can’t say.”
I ball my hands into fists. A part of me hates that she does that kind of work. Yes, I know it’s valuable and very much needed, but it seems to often take a negative toll on her. I know she’s volunteered at these places for years.
However, I think she realized that it bothered me that she did it because over time she stopped sharing about her volunteering with me.
Not that she would tell me much anyway, with the need for confidentiality and all.
“I want this place to mean something, Diego.” She meets my gaze. There’s a deep pleading in her eyes. “It needs to mean something. I owe it to …” She trails off.
“You don’t owe anyone,” I say just as passionately. I take her face between my hands. “Your gallery will be everything you envision it to be. Not because you owe it to anyone but because it’s yours. Your passion for the artistry of the women who’ll be featured here will come across to anyone who passes by this place.”
I don’t just say that to make her feel better. I tell her this because it’s the truth. I know no one will go as hard for the artists in this gallery as Monique will.
“Do you really believe that?”
“We don’t lie to one another, do we?”
She shakes her head.
“Then believe it.”
