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The dark-haired man shakes his head like he’s waking up and reaches for his wallet.
“Oh my God.” Marie clutches at my arm. “I don’t know what to say. If he comes over here—I don’t know what tosay.”
“He’s not going to come over here.”
Her grip relaxes. “What?”
“He’ll buy from the owner, not from you. But don’t be surprised if he comes over afterward to talk to you about the piece and shake your hand.”
“But it’s—but that one—”
“He picked out the moody one.”
“I didn’t think anyone would choose that one,” she whispers.
“It’s okay,” I whisper back. “It’s great work. It will make great foreplay.”
“Daisy, it’s a painting of an approaching storm!”
“Haven’t you ever had an orgasm?”
Marie dissolves into laughter. “Oh, no. I’m never going to make it here.”
“You already made it here.”
“I mean…here.” She waves a hand at the men and women attending her show. All of them have money. I can tell by the clothes. By the way they stand. By their faces as they take in the work. People born to wealth have a certain kind of aura. I would know. “I’m not like these people. I’m not even like you.”
“Ouch.”
She puts a hand on my arm, apologetic. “I just meant this iseasyfor you. You know what to say. You know all the jokes to make.”
“I would save the orgasm jokes for friends.”
Marie’s eyes light up. “Are we friends?”
I laugh like it’s a hilarious joke, but a little part of my heart dies. “Of course we are. That’s why I’m at your show.”
“Of course we are,” she echoes.
Of course.
The gallery owner calls to Marie, and she squeezes me, a tight, close hug, and lets go. “I’m so glad you came. If I don’t see you, I’ll text you, okay?”
“You’d better.”
She flits off into the gallery.
I smile after her, hyperaware of my expression. Marie doesn’t think anyone noticed her, but everyone in the room saw her come over to hug me, and now they’re taking the opportunity to stare.
I’m used to the staring. On average, it takes people thirty seconds to figure out what’swrongwith me, and another thirty seconds to figure out if their eyes are playing tricks. To wonder what kind of a freak I am. Then, if I’m very unlucky, they’ll connect me with my dad.
Don’t misunderstand me. He’s one of my favorite people in the world.Nobodyhas a better dad than I do. But when I’m recognized as his daughter rather than a woman with monstrous eyes, some people feel entitled to ask questions. Sometimes personal questions. Sometimes, if they’re particularly pushy, they’ll make requests.
Usually, those requests involve delivering a message, or arranging a phone call or a meeting. They’re too scared to ask him themselves. They’re not afraid to botherme.
I’m not into that.
So I make zero eye contact with the people in the gallery. I put my champagne glass on an empty standing table and slowly, casually make my way to one of the gallery assistants. One of Marie’s bigger, more expensive pieces reminds me of the beach where I learned to swim, so I buy it and give the assistant the address to deliver it to my house.
