by R. R. Banks
“What?” I ask, giving him a wry grin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you kind of sound like a girl with a crush,” he says and laughs.
My mouth falls open. “What? That's bull.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is!” I snap. “I despise the man and everything he stands for.”
His smile softens. “I hear your words,” he says. “But, I don’t see the same conviction in your eyes.”
I snort and shake my head. “Please,” I say. “You're just seeing what you want to see.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I reply, sounding outraged. “You're probably the one that has the hots for the guy. Now you’re trying to project it on me –”
“I don't even know the guy,” he interjects with a laugh. “Until you mentioned it, I had never heard his name before.”
Okay, he's got me there. It's not like real estate developers regularly make the front pages of the papers or tabloids or anything. Not unless they do something outrageous or illegal. And if there's one thing I've learned about Colin, he's not the type to do anything outrageous. And he certainly doesn't strike me as the type to willingly commit a crime. He seems about as straight-laced and buttoned-down as they come. A straight arrow if there ever was one.
“Fine, whatever,” I say. “But, you're wrong.”
Cesar has his phone in his hand and is staring intently at the screen. I crane my neck to see what he's doing, but then sit back, figuring it's one of his flavors of the month. Cesar isn't big on monogamy. I like to think he just hasn't found the right one yet, but he seems to be enjoying the single life. Maybe a bit too much, but there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a bit enviable even. I do hope he meets someone special, though. If there's one person who deserves to be happy, it's Cesar.
“Okay, so maybe I am projecting,” he says. “That man is drop dead gorgeous.”
He holds the phone up so I can see one of Colin’s publicity photos. As if I need to see it. The man's face is practically permanently seared into my mind. If I close my eyes, I can picture that strong, masculine face, and tightly corded body. Which, of course, leads me straight back to my fantasy, starring none other than Mr. Anderson himself.
“Yeah, I know what he looks like,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Why are you blushing?” Cesar asks, his tone distinctly amused.
“I'm not!”
I laugh, but I feel the heat burning in my cheeks, and know he's right. Damn it. I avert my gaze and fidget with the napkin on the table. I feel Cesar's eyes on me. The unwanted attention makes me squirm in my seat. I grab my fork and take a bite of my Eggs Benedict – mostly to avoid having to say anything for a minute or two.
“You know I can read you like a book, don't you?” Cesar asks, his voice filled with barely contained laughter.
“Yeah, don't remind me,” I mutter.
“Babe, there is nothing wrong with being attracted to the man,” he says. “Hell, I am. He's beautiful.”
“Then maybe you two can hook up.”
Cesar laughs. “If I thought he batted for my team, believe me, I'd take a shot at him,” he says. “I'm pretty sure he's not, though. Pretty sure he's not even close to playing the same sport.”
“You never know.”
“I have a sense about these things,” he says. “And how often am I wrong?”
I can't stop myself from laughing, the embarrassment making me feel flushed and awkward. “Shut up,” I say. “You're not helping.”
“Bailey, why not see if there's anything there?” he asks. “A man doesn't go out of his way to save your job – especially after what happened – if he doesn't have some feeling behind it.”
“Yeah, but that feeling was probably pity,” I admit. “He probably knows what happens if I get fired, and he doesn't want to feel bad for forcing me out on the streets this close to Christmas. I'm sure he only did it to ease his own conscience, not because he's actually a decent human being.”
Ugh. Christmas.
My least favorite time of year. I grew up dirt poor. My parents would spend any money we had on drugs and alcohol. Needless to say, we barely had enough to eat most days, so frivolous things like Christmas were just that – frivolous. There was never money for gifts or anything like that.
When I was eleven or twelve, my parents decided they'd had enough – that they simply weren’t cut out to be parents. They decided that they'd rather live their life unencumbered by a child, so they dropped me off at my grandmother's in the middle of the night and took off. I sat out on the porch all night, in nearly freezing weather, sobbing my eyes out, too ashamed and embarrassed to wake my grandmother up to let me in. She found me the next morning, nearly frozen to death.
Life with my grandmother was never easy. She was poor too and having an unexpected mouth to feed only made things tighter. But, we got by. I was never short on love, just the material things – which I learned weren't that important anyway. My grandmother, an artist herself – died while still very obscure. She fostered my own creative drive, and helped me explore the different mediums, testing things out until we found one that suited me.
We started off with sculptures – which is what she did. My grandmother collected old, discarded items and made the most beautiful works of art with them. I wasn’t suited for it, nor did I have passion for it. So, we moved on to other art forms before finally settling on painting. The brush and colors resonated with me. I found that I could genuinely express myself through my work.
In those early days, most of my work tended toward the darker side of life and emotions. It wasn't exactly bright colors, flowers, and rainbows. It was brooding and moody. But that shouldn’t be too surprising, given how I'd been discarded like a piece of trash.
It wasn't until I got to high school that I took a shine to photography. There was – and still is – something about being able to capture a unique experience, or somebody's essence, on film, that engages my mind. That speaks to my soul.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I believe it's worth much more than that. You can tell a story – an epic tale – with a well-framed, well-crafted picture.
Of course, being poor, my grandmother didn't have the money to set me up with any proper equipment. One teacher, Mr. Crandall, knowing I couldn't afford it, set me up with a camera and all of the equipment I'd need. He gave it to me and let me work it off by doing chores around the photo lab – something I was more than happy to do.
When I told my grandmother, she was appalled. She was a proud, self-made woman who was never comfortable with gifts or charity. She viewed handouts as a personal affront and refused them on principle. She was always gracious about it, of course, but her belief was that if we couldn't afford it, we didn't need it.
I remember being absolutely devastated when she told me we had to take the camera set-up back. She said we'd figure out a way to get me what I needed – code for, I'd have to do without. It broke my heart when my grandmother took me to the photo lab at school to give it all back to Mr. Crandall.
My grandmother was as gracious and thankful as she always was but explained that although we appreciated what he was trying to do, we simply couldn't accept it. Mr. Crandall patiently explained to my grandmother that I have a real gift for the art form. That I see things in a way others don't. He told her that I was his most promising student and it would be a shame if I couldn't explore my creativity over something as silly as pride.
He told my grandmother that he believed I desperately needed the creative and emotional outlet my art provided me.
It was the first and only time I ever saw my grandmother backtrack and accept a form of charity. It was also the first and only time I ever saw her tear up. I remember telling her that I'd work off the cost of the camera, and the rest of the equipment, by completing chores around the photo lab. She made sure to tell me that I needed to work extra hard, to never give Mr. Crandall grief
about anything, and above all, to become proficient at my art.
Whether it was working for Mr. Crandall, or my photography, she said I needed to be the best I could be. And that I should use all the passion I can muster to get me there.
My grandmother was the toughest, most caring woman I've ever known. I shudder to think what my life would be like – what I would be like – if my folks hadn't dropped me off at her house that cold winter night all those years ago. Which is why I try to live my life in a way that would make her proud – and be the type of person that would make her smile.
“Why do you hate this guy so much?” Cesar asks.
“Because everything he stands for is anathema to what I stand for,” I say. “If we were in a superhero movie, he'd be my archnemesis.”
Cesar laughs. “Who even says words like archnemesis or anathema anymore?”
“Oh, so now you're going to mock my vocabulary?”
I laugh along with him and push the food around on my plate with my fork. “I'm not wrong, though, if this were superhero world, Colin Anderson would be a super villain. Consider him the Bane of my existence, my archnemesis. No question about that.”
“Listen here, Batman,” he says. “Don't you think you're judging Bane a tad too harshly?”
“How do you figure?”
“He's just a man doing what he's paid to do. At the end of the day, he's just doing his job.”
“Jesus,” I say and roll my eyes. “Now you're starting to sound just like him. ‘I was following orders.’ Gee, where have I heard that before?”
Cesar tosses a grape at me. It hits my shoulder and bounces away. “He's hardly a Nazi,” he says. “He's a business owner, and has to do what his clients want him to do.”
“I can't believe you're defending him!”
“I'm not defending anybody, Bailey –”
“You're supposed to be on my side, Cesar.”
“Honey, you know I'm always on your side,” he says, “But, you should also know by now that I'm never going to sugarcoat things. It's because I love you that I'm going to tell you when you're being an idiot. And in this case, you're being an idiot.”
“He kicks poor people out of their homes,” I argue. “He tears down their homes and puts them out on the street.”
“Look, I don't know exactly how all of this development works,” Cesar says. “But, from my limited, non-professional understanding, his client gives him a project to work on – and a location. Colin has to do what his client wants, or his business goes under.”
“There are more humane ways to do what he does,” I say. “There have to be.”
“Such as?”
I sit back and take another swallow of my drink. I honestly don’t have an answer to the question. I don't know how he could do his job in a more humane, kinder way. All I do know, is the mere thought of these rich assholes coming in without any regard for those less fortunate, discarding them like trash – elicits a visceral reaction in me.
I relate to the plight of the poor well. Perhaps too well. Has my own experience made me lose all objectivity? My passion for the cause, I always believed, was one of my greatest strengths. It drives me to make a difference. But, am I being unfair? Am I painting everybody with the same broad brush?
It's true that I don't know Colin. The only times I've interacted with him have been in adversarial settings that usually broke down into some sort of verbal spat. I truthfully don’t know what kind of man he is. But I can't shake my attraction to him. Maybe there are some redeeming qualities in him. Maybe, a deep part of me senses something good in him. Just maybe, he's not the same sort of heartless, greedy cretin I'm used to butting heads with.
Or maybe, I'm just rationalizing it all in my own mind because I think he's gorgeous.
“I didn't think so,” Cesar says, interrupting my train of thought.
“That doesn't make you right,” I say and chuckle.
“Doesn't make me wrong, either.”
Cesar drains the last of his drink and looks at me as he sets his glass back down. Obviously waiting for me to come around to his way of thinking. To admit that he's right, and that my assessment of Colin is overly harsh and unfair. He may be right, but I don’t want to admit it.
“It's pointless anyway,” I say. “Even though you're wrong, and I'm not crushing on him.”
“Why is it pointless again?”
“Because he hates me,” I say. “We had a nasty fight.”
“Lover's spat already?” he asks with a chuckle. “That's a new personal record for you. Usually, you wait until at least an hour or two after you get together with somebody to argue.”
“I was trying something different this time.”
“So, tell me. What happened?”
I fill him in on going to Colin's office to apologize, and how it led to a knock-down, drag-out fight. Cesar listens to it all, a bemused smile on his face, and when I finish, he laughs and claps his hands.
“What's so funny?” I ask.
“Honey, that's not a fight,” he says. “That's called foreplay.”
“Oh, the hell it is,” I reply, my cheeks burning bright again.
“I can feel the sexual tension all the way over here.”
“Oh, shut up,” I laugh. “Not even close.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “Then go see him. Apologize for being a brat.”
“I wasn't a brat.”
He cocks his head and looks at me. “Yeah, you were kind of a brat.”
I lean back in my chair, feeling somewhat deflated, and put on a faux-pout. “You're the worst.”
“The most horrible,” he says. “You should go apologize.”
“I have nothing to apologize for.”
“You afraid of the sexual chemistry? The animal magnetism?” he chuckles. “Afraid you won't be able to contain yourself and you'll rip his clothes off and –”
“Okay, you can stop right there,” I laugh, throwing a crumpled napkin at him.
“If you're not afraid of your clothes falling off the second you see him, why won’t you do it?”
“I'm not afraid of anything,” I say. “I just don't have –”
“You kind of do.”
“Well, so does he then.”
“Fine, then give him a chance to apologize.”
“Why are you so bound and determined to put us in a room together?”
He pushes his plate away from him. “Because I think seeing you with a crush is cute,” he says. “I don't see it all that often.”
I sigh. “Because most guys aren't worth expending the energy.”
“I hear that,” he says. “The fact that you’re letting yourself crush on this guy tells me something, though.”
“What does it tell you?”
“It tells me that somewhere in that messed-up wiring in your head, you think he might be worth it.”
“I think you're making a huge leap here.”
He shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”
I finish the last of my mimosa and set the glass down. I know Cesar well enough to know this is something he's not going to let go of very easily. He can be stubborn as hell when he wants to – I’ve seen it more times than I can count.
“You're not going to let this go, are you?” I ask.
“You know me.”
“I do,” I say. “Fine, I'll talk to him. I'll apologize, and I'll prove to you that there is nothing going on between us. Nothing at all.”
“You do that,” he says. “And I'll expect a full and detailed report. The juicier the better.”
“In your dreams.”
“After seeing a picture of that man? You know it.”
I laugh and shake my head. I love Cesar. He's the best. We spend the rest of a leisurely afternoon together, shopping and hanging out. I don't spend nearly enough time with him. At least, not nearly as much as I'd like to. But, we both lead busy lives. It's the price we pay for being adults, having jobs, and trying to get ourselves noticed as artists
.
As we wander around I can't keep my mind from drifting to Colin – more specifically, to the fantasy I had about him the other day. And as that memory surfaces in my mind, I feel myself longing for him again.
Yeah, I need to do something to purge this guy from my head once and for all. We're just too contradictory to each other to ever work out. It’s never going to go anywhere. Better to get him out of my system now. I shouldn't even be thinking of him like this anyway. I seriously need to get my head straightened out when it comes to Colin Anderson.
He’s not my friend. He's not my boyfriend. And he sure as hell isn't my lover.
And he can never be any of those things.
* * *
A few hours later, I'm standing in the Covington Gallery – one of the more prestigious galleries in the city. I wouldn't even be here if it wasn’t for Cesar's cheerleading and the plentiful amount of liquid courage I imbibed during brunch with him earlier.
“Yes, can I help you?”
I turn to the sound of the man's voice. He's tall, wiry, with slate gray hair, pasty skin, and an impeccably-tailored suit. He just reeks of snootiness. I'm half surprised he didn't have me thrown out the instant I walked through the door. Judging by the look on his face, he's still considering it. The man looks down his nose at me, like I’m a living, breathing piece of garbage. Like I’m some detestable, pathetic creature, not worth his time of day.
I straighten my back and lift my chin, returning his gaze with what I hope is defiance in my eyes.
“Yes, I'd like to speak with the gallery manager, please,” I say.
“David Winthorpe,” he replies. “I'm the manger. How may I help you?”
Damn. I was hoping he was one of the peons and not the manager of the place. The scowl on his face is more than a bit intimidating – and a whole lot irritating.
“I saw the notice for the breakout artist showcase and –”
“I'm sorry, the slots are already filled.”
“What?” I ask. “How can that be? The entry window opened like two hours ago.”
“The slots filled up quickly this year.”
