I let out a long, soulful breath. One that fills the soaring space with emotion. It’s an ache I can’t seem to ever quite eradicate despite my best efforts. The air around me shifts, as heavy as the emotions I feel, and I want to reach for something. Anything.
When my cell phone rings, I give a little jump. I have no idea who’s calling, but my hands are covered in clay, so I really don’t feel like answering it. But I take a peek to decide to at least see who it is. I walk across the room and see a number I don’t recognize.
I figure it’s probably not a telemarketer because they always call from area codes outside the city. I quickly wipe my hands and slide the red bar on my iPhone, “Hello?”
“Henry?”
“This is.”
“It’s Meadow Hughes.”
Of course it is. Like a sexy apparition being called forth from the depth of my tortured artist’s soul. “Hi, Meadow.”
There’s a pregnant pause where I wonder what she wants. Hope fills me, even though I know it’s about to be doused. She’s not calling because she wants to see me. She’s calling because she wants something from me. “Hey, I’m just calling because I wanted to see how things are going for you.”
“Everything is going pretty good actually. I sold a vase online yesterday.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Thanks.”
“And I also wanted to see if you had given any more thought to having a showing at my gallery.”
I take a deep breath, irritated at the words as they thicken the air around me, contorting it into a dark cloud.
“Henry? Are you there?”
“I’m here, it’s just that… I don’t want anything to do with a bunch of random people.”
“Why not?” Surprise litters her voice. And something else. Something I don’t want to acknowledge because it sounds a lot like censure. I don’t like pushy people manipulating me for their own selfish agenda.
“As I told you before, it’s not my thing. I don’t like to be around a bunch of people who enjoy talking about art but don’t understand it. Who don’t afford it the reverence it deserves.”
“I understand where you’re coming from. But art is meant to be shared.”
“You just don’t give up, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure you’re not a lawyer?”
She laughs, and the sexy sound soothes my frayed nerves, scabbing over the raw spot. “Don’t we have enough of those in Manhattan already?”
“True.”
“Henry, if you say yes, my assistant and I will roll out the red carpet for you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
No, it sounds like begging.
“I’m not a celebrity.”
“I beg to differ. Everyone is talking about you from the Lower East Side to the West Village.”
Her voice wraps around my heart, tugging me toward her even when my better judgment pulls me backward with silent warnings. “If you haven’t noticed it yet, I really don’t like all of the attention.”
“I get that but… come on. It’ll be fun, and people are dying to meet the man behind the one of a kind pieces you create. I know they are.”
“But I’m not exactly dying to meet them.”
“Henry, please… don’t make me beg.”
“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”
That soft laugh again. “I’ve been told that before.”
Meadow’s lush curves call to me like a siren, so I’m pretty sure that rejection is completely foreign to her. But not me. I’ve had my share of battles going back to my childhood. My past looms dark behind me, so close it nips at my heels most days, and I have to run faster to keep it from catching up to me.
“Henry? Are you there?”
I shut my eyes against the sexy grit in her voice. “I’m here.”
“Good. It just sounds like the line went dead.”
“I’m here, I’m just…” I don’t even know how to finish.
“What?”
The intercom for the door buzzes. “Meadow?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you hold on a sec? Someone’s at the outside door.”
“Okay.”
I head across the room to the intercom and press the TALK button. “Who is it?”
A man’s voice answers, “Delivery for Mr. Henry Garrison.”
“I’ll buzz you up.” I press the DOOR button. Delivery? I wasn’t expecting anything. I wonder what it could be. Sometimes I forget that I order art supplies online until they arrive.
“Henry!” I hear Meadow’s voice through the cell phone.
“Hey.” I pick it up and put her on speaker. “I’m still here.”
“If this is a bad time…”
I carry the phone out the front door with me. The elevator stops on my floor, and the doors slide open. “Hold on.” Then a courier steps from the elevator holding a big envelope. He holds it out. “I’m gonna need you to sign for this, please.”
“Thanks.” I sign my name, and he hands me the envelope. “Meadow, I’m still here…”
“Like I was saying, you should seriously think about it.”
Curiosity driving me, I open the envelope and see a letter written on my landlord’s stationery. I quickly scan it. My eyes get wide when I read the line that says: “Please be advised that effective July 1st, the monthly rent for the premises you now occupy will be increased to $8,000.00 per month.”
“Shit!” I shake my head in disbelief! Really? They’re jacking up my rent by two thousand dollars with only two months’ notice. It feels like I can’t breathe.
“Henry?”
As my heart sings the song of panic, I forget that she’s on speakerphone and can probably hear the strength of my meltdown. Taking a deep breath, I press the tip of my tongue against my teeth, then slow down the pace of my speech. “Sorry, Meadow. I wasn’t talking to you. I just–”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s a long story.” My personal business is none of hers since we barely know each other. Regardless of how many times she’s appeared in my fantasies, that doesn’t forge a proper connection.
“Are you okay?”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. “I’m still breathing, that’s what counts.”
“So, what do you say? Are you gonna have a show here?”
I look at the letter in my hands. “Sure.”
A full ten seconds pass before I hear her shocked voice say, “Wait a minute, is that a yes?”
Please, Lord. Do not let me live to regret this rash decision brought on by a fucking letter.
“Yes.”
“Great! I’m really looking forward to this. You won’t regret it, Henry. I promise.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to believe the promises made by women. But I want to give this one a chance. More than I’ll ever admit. “I hope not. I’ll hold you to that.”
A sexy laugh rips through the phone and hits me straight south. The lure of Meadow Hughes has climbed my self-imposed walls to land safely on the other side. I’ll think about it later, once I get her off the phone so I can be alone with my rioting thoughts and emotions.
“I love when my artists hold me accountable.”
“How many people do you think will be there?”
“We have a big email list, and we know a lot of buyers so I expect a good turn-out. Hundreds probably.”
Hundreds? I imagine myself trying to talk. Trying to remember names. Trying not to have a panic attack and embarrass myself.
I look at the damn letter again and force myself to speak. “Okay.”
“How about we meet up sometime to discuss the details?”
Thoughts of Meadow in every inch of this loft overtake my senses, pushing a question from my mouth. “You want to come back here? I could show you my latest piece. I think it’s the best one yet.”
“Actually, I was thinking maybe we could grab a bite to eat. You do eat, right?”
Disappointment h
its me square in the chest. And a gnawing suspicion that I’m not going to like what she suggests next. “Sure.”
“There’s this restaurant in TriBeCa.”
Damn it. I knew it. “I’m not really into–”
“It’s got the best seafood in Manhattan. Do you like seafood? If not, we can go to–”
“Seafood is fine, it’s just that I’m not–”
“Great, I’ll have my assistant make reservations for us. Does next Friday work for you?”
I take a deep breath. She’s a living, breathing steamroller. But the interesting thing is… I don’t mind that much.
So, one dinner in a restaurant. Eat. Talk. It’s been a long time since I’ve put myself into that situation. Maybe…
“That’s fine.” I say the words before I can change my mind.
“Okay, I’ll see you. Shannon will email you all of the details. I’m really looking forward to working with you, Henry.”
“Me too.”
Although, I’m not sure I’m telling the truth.
I hang up the phone. I just said yes to two things that are way out of my comfort zone… a gallery show with hundreds of humans capable of speaking at me and dinner at a fancy restaurant in TriBeCa. But it’s not like I could argue with her. In this artist/gallery owner relationship, she’s the boss by contract.
I stare at the damn letter from my landlord that’s giving me heart palpitations and pissing me off. Raising the rent by a damn third should be criminal. It probably is against the law, but I don’t have the money or the time to fight the injustice in court.
July looms right around the corner. The thought of having to move out flashes before my eyes, creating bright white dots of anger. The loft studio is perfect for my art. And where would I go? New York is so fucking expensive. I doubt I can even afford a cheap place in Queens. Crawling back to my mom is not an option. Not now. Not ever. I’m almost thirty, for Christ’s sake.
I know that I can pick up the phone and ask my parents for a loan, but that feels like failure too. I’m determined to stand on my own. I have to be my own man. I dread the mere thought of that phone call. Living in a ditch might be more palatable than running back to Mommy and Daddy.
I wonder if there’s anything else I can do for some extra money. I’m definitely gonna need it. I sure hope that Meadow knows what she’s doing, and her promises mean something, at least to her. Right about now would be an excellent time to make some serious money at her gallery.
My mind drifts back to that perfect day years ago when I moved into this loft, filled with hope and inspiration. Determined to make my work my life. I was fresh out of grad school and making a name for myself as an artist. Even though I received every art scholarship I applied for, it felt so good to write the check for the first month’s rent and the security deposit on my own.
My parents weren’t too crazy about me moving to the big city. They thought it would be a good idea for me to come back to Connecticut and work there, close to my family. But I showed them that I was more than capable of thinking for myself. Not that it made me special. What kid doesn’t yearn to spread their wings and fly?
But now… I’m about to get shot out of the sky and tumble to the ground in a heap of failure unless I do something fast.
Since I moved into this place, my focus has been all about my art. Sometimes, I would stay in the loft for weeks at a time, just creating… barely leaving at all except to get some food for Verdi. Barely sleeping or eating, either. Not much has changed since I first moved in. The thought of leaving rips through my body.
Even though I don’t own the place, every inch of it feels like home… from the wooden shelves I’ve built to the chips on the kitchen countertops. For the longest time, I thought I would live here forever. Well, maybe not forever but for many more years… until I find a girl and fall in love.
If I find a girl and fall in love. Become a father. That dream seems even further away now, fading into the distance, no longer outlined dark enough for me to make out the borders.
I’m sure that any woman who comes along will want a space that’s a bit more kid-friendly. But that’s not to say that I can’t keep this one for myself. Me and my future wife could buy a house or a brownstone, and I could still come here and work every day. Utilize the loft only as a workspace and quasi-gallery to show my work to guests.
But since my love life only exists in my mind, all of it seems unlikely. And while the landlord puts the squeeze on me, I’ll flounder a few days, not sure if I can even stick around.
I ball up my fist in frustration, itching to punch something.
Chapter 7
Meadow
As I close up the gallery, Shannon types on the laptop. I kick off my flats and slip into my high heels, hoping they’ll make my short legs look longer. I’m only a couple inches over five feet tall, and I’m so jealous of the supermodels with legs like saplings.
Shannon gives me some major side-eye. “Somebody’s trying to make a good impression.”
Nothing gets by him. Sometimes that’s good, like when I need a hug or support. Sometimes it’s a fly in the ointment when I don’t want a lecture. “It’s not like that, this is just a business meeting.”
“Business meeting, my fine ass.” He chuckles and his nostrils flare. “Those are red bottoms.”
“You’re reading way too much into it.”
Shan clucks his tongue and words aren’t needed to decipher his feelings. He knows. “You’re the one wearing fuck-me shoes to a business meeting. Do you have condoms?”
I shake my head. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“Thank me for calling you out on your bullshit? Helping you walk the straight and narrow? Making sure your tender heart doesn’t get trampled to death? Making sure an artist’s spawn isn’t implanted in your moldy uterus?”
I snort. “You’re too much.”
“And you wouldn’t want me any other way, girlfriend.”
“You’re probably right.”
He snaps the laptop closed with a resounding click. “I hope you have fun tonight with Mr. Garrison. And I want all the juicy details. Please make sure there will be juicy details.”
“There will be details, but none of them will be juicy.” I smooth some invisible wrinkles on my jeans. “We’re just ironing out a few things for his big show.”
Shannon waggles his eyebrows. “And then he can iron out a few of your kinks. Ever heard of yoni massage?”
“Shannon, seriously!”
He playfully swats my butt. “We both know you’ve got a lot of kinks to work out. You could definitely use some kinky de-kinking.”
“Not in the slightest!”
His eyes twinkle, but his words are probably true. “But seriously, I like your look for today. You’re working those skinny jeans and that flirty blouse.”
Looking down at my outfit, I hope I’m not trying too hard. Something about this night seems more important than it actually is. It’s just dinner with a client, nothing more. “Thanks. I’m trying… but not in the way you’re thinking. I only want to make a good impression.”
“The night always begins with a good impression… then it ends up with a blow job.”
Flames of heat blaze my face underneath the force of my blush. He can’t be serious! That’s so unethical, I can’t even bear to think about it.
Except I can think about it. And I won’t admit even to myself that I already have. “Shannon!”
“Woman, these lush lips spit the truth.”
I ignore his lewd comment. “So, what are you getting into tonight? Please tell me you’re going to behave. Just like I am?”
He shakes his head. “No can do, senorita. I’m hanging out with Josh.”
My mouth forms a little oval of shock. “Really? I thought he was getting too serious for your taste.”
“I never said that I didn’t like him.” Shan leans back and crosses his legs. “I’m actually crazy for him. And it’s a little weird because I c
ould see myself settling down… eventually. The key word in that sentence being ‘eventually.’”
“Of course.”
“But he made reservations at that new sushi place in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Sounds like fun, enjoy your date.”
“Enjoy yours too.”
I stop in place and put my hands on my hips to give my warning glare a little extra punch. “It’s not a date.”
“Henry is hotter than hell, Meadow. I’ve seen his pictures online. Of course it’s a damn date.”
The corners of my mouth tug upward before I can temper my expression. It’s not a date.
It’s not.
“Isn’t it possible for two people just to meet and discuss business over dinner?”
“Not in fuck-me heels with red bottoms, jeans that hug every curve of a luscious ass, and a cleavage exposing ruffled blouse. Not in my universe.”
I let out a laugh as we walk outside. I lock the door and slip the key into my purse. “I am looking forward to picking his brain a little bit.”
“Did you say, giving him head? You are so naughty.”
A woman on the sidewalk glares at us before she hurries by. “Clean your ears out, Shan. You know that’s not what I said.”
“Well, all I know is that if you don’t want to date him, I would happily make an attempt at converting him. Red Rover, Red Rover, send Henry on over.”
I laugh and shake my head. Any trepidation I had over this meeting flies away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Shannon.”
“Bright eyed and bushy tailed. With juice… bring Shannon the juice!”
I huff a sigh as we go our separate ways. Shannon heads toward the subway, and I cross the street to hail a taxi. The rush hour traffic winds and stalls around me, horns honking everywhere like little blasts of vehicular anger. I stand there for what feels like forever.
When a driver finally pulls over, I hop inside. He’s a middle-aged dark-skinned man who speaks with a Caribbean accent, “Where are ya goin’, miss?”
“Greenwich and Reade Street please.”
Mansplainer Page 6
