You should be proud of yourself, Henry.
And I am. My self-confidence has increased so much since I met Meadow. Like she’s my muse and inspires me to be a better man. There were times when I felt nervous, and I wanted to retreat to the comfort of my inner shell, but every time that happened, I just glanced across the room at Meadow, and I felt this burst of courage. It was like an other-worldly experience.
Who was that guy chatting with art enthusiasts and describing his pottery process?
The new and improved Henry Garrison.
I smile at the thought of how the night ended. Holding Meadow in my arms and making love to her was like the icing and the sprinkles on top of the cake. But once again, she insisted on leaving before the sun came up. Meadow always does that, denying me that one last part of her as if something awful will happen if she doesn’t hold on to her independence. One of these days, I’m gonna talk her into staying with me the whole weekend… maybe for the rest of our lives.
When I think about how much I love Meadow, I get overwhelmed. I’m dying to tell her again, but I’m determined not to scare her off. I know I’ll be able to share my feelings in time. Relationships take time to develop and move forward. At least that’s what I’ve heard.
After I get paid from the showing, I plan to send my landlord a check for a few months of rent in advance and then I want to use the rest of the money to surprise Meadow with a long weekend trip. I’m sure I can find a nice place in the Hamptons to rent out for a few days. It’ll be perfection. Meadow and sandy beaches. I can’t think of anything more romantic than moonlit walks on the sand as we hold hands and talk about life.
My phone rings. I stand up and walk across the room. My heart skips a beat when I see Meadow’s name light up the screen. It’s almost as if she was reading my mind. I’m starting to feel that we’re in sync like that. Whenever I think of her, she’s thinking of me at the same time, and our connection continues even when we’re apart.
I want to answer the phone, but my hands are covered in clay. I hurry over to the sink to wash them. By the time I finish, the phone isn’t ringing anymore. I call Meadow right back. It goes straight to voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, I wait a minute and call again. Still no answer.
I hope everything is okay. What if it’s an emergency? I start to think the worse. Then, I hear my door buzzer. I’m not expecting anyone, but I walk over to the intercom and press the button.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
Meadow. I smile wide, excited to see her. “Come on up.”
As the seconds pass, my excitement mounts. There’s no doubt that things are getting more serious between us. I can’t wait to kiss her from head to toe and lay her down on the bed. Scratch that… I’m feeling carnal, I hope we don’t even make it to the bedroom.
Standing in the open doorway, I listen to the elevator stop. A few seconds later, Meadow steps off of it looking gorgeous. But something in her demeanor seems different. Off. It’s hard to put a finger on what’s wrong, but her expression is tragic.
“Hey, Henry.” Her voice doesn’t hold the same confidence as before.
“Hey.” I wrap my arms around her. Her body feels so good close to mine, and she smells great as always. I nuzzle into her hair.
“How have you been?”
“Last night was really something, right?” Even though she’s not acting herself, I can barely contain my excitement over how well the showing went. And why should I have to with her?
“Right.” She pulls back, looking up into my face. “Did you read the review in The Times about the showing?”
I shake my head. “I don’t subscribe, and I really don’t go online that much. I still don’t even have a Facebook page even though it would probably help with sales to have a better social media presence.”
She takes a newspaper clipping out of her purse. As she does, her face grows clouded again.
Dread churns in my stomach. “What does it say?”
She hands it to me. “Here.”
I read the review. Greg Silverman’s words are a gut punch. My hands start shaking, and it feels like I can’t breathe. I ball up the newspaper and throw it in the trash.
“That’s exactly how I feel about it,” she says, anger tightening her voice.
I haven’t been this angry in years. I’m sure that my face is beet-red. A fraud? The bastard called me a fraud.
It’s my worst nightmare come true. Rage crawls up my spine and into every cell of my being. I feel like I’m about to explode, and I can’t let the woman responsible for this travesty see it.
I glare at Meadow. “G-get… get out!”
Her eyes widen into saucers. “Huh?”
“J-just go!” As I open the door, my heart races. I stutter more since meeting Meadow that I have in years. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, and all of a sudden, I’m that awkward homeschooled kid with metal braces who can hardly talk. If she stays, there’s no way I can stop myself from imploding. I have to get her out of here before I’m completely humiliated.
“But, Henry–”
“None of th-this would have happened if I hadn’t d-done the sh-sh-showing. G-go!”
Sadness stains Meadow’s eyes as she walks out the door. I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t let her see me like this. I need to be alone. I close the door, pressing my forehead to the cool wood.
I wait for the sound of the elevator. Instead, she knocks, and I close my eyes.
“Henry!”
I stay quiet, listening.
“Henry, open up! Can we please talk. Please! It doesn’t matter if you’re stuttering. I don’t care about it. I only care about you.”
I don’t say a word because I don’t feel like myself anymore. I love Meadow, and I wish I could talk to her, but the only thing I feel like doing right now is crawling into a hole and disappearing.
“Greg Silverman is full of shit! You can’t let that review get you down. You’re super talented… Henry, please… please don’t shut me out!”
A tear slides down my face that I can’t stop. I know I can’t open the door now. There’s no telling what Meadow will think. She’s such a strong, take-charge kind of woman. I know she doesn’t want anything to do with a stuttering crybaby.
I step away from the door and allow the emotion to flow out of me without interruption. When people call me out on my work, call me a liar and a poser, it’s like a knife to my very soul. How could anyone think that my work is mass produced? It defies all logic.
“Henry! Henry!” She knocks louder.
Based on that stupid review, I have no doubt that my career as an artist is all but over. The end. My lifelong dream… gone in a flash on the wings of predatory lies. It’s hard to stomach the mere thought of it.
After about ten minutes, Meadow finally walks away. I’m relieved when I hear the elevator take her downstairs. Even though she’s gone, my emotion storms within me.
Verdi wakes up from her nap and walks over to me. She can probably sense that I could use a little comforting. I pet her furry head. “H-hey, girl.”
I cover my mouth. Damn! Not the stuttering. With Meadow gone, I thought it would disappear too. But something tells me it won’t be so easy this time. Will I need speech therapy again? God, I hope not. The thought of starting all over makes me want to puke, and besides, I can’t afford it now anyway.
What’s gonna happen to me? I know that the art critics for The Times can destroy careers. What if nobody wants to buy my art anymore? Will I end up having to move back with my parents?
I grind my teeth together until they squeak at the thought of that. I’ve worked so hard to establish my independence. How in the world can I ever go back? But if I can’t be an artist anymore, I don’t know what else I can do or be. Pottery is all I know.
Some artists get teaching jobs, but even that will be impossible if I can’t communicate with people. I’m embarrassed and ashamed. I can still remember how people looke
d at me in public before my speech therapy. The thought of experiencing that again makes me contemplate never leaving my loft.
None of this would have happened if I hadn’t done that damn showing. My career was doing just fine before. I should have followed my gut instinct and told her no. But I was blinded by my attraction to her, which now I’m starting to doubt.
If the Universe wanted us to be together, to get a happy ending, why would my being with her cause my downfall? If I had just stayed to myself in my bubble of safety, Greg Silverman never would have walked through the door last night and my life would not have fallen into pieces.
If I don’t have my art, I don’t have anything.
I step back into the studio. I turn off the happy and upbeat music and settle on Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.” I need something much darker to match how I feel inside.
I step up to the potter’s wheel and mold the clay. But I’m so furious that I press my fingers in deep and destroy my beautiful vase. It is a mess as it spins around. I really don’t care. It matches exactly how I feel inside.
Destroyed.
Chapter 19
Meadow
One day after Henry shut me out of his life, I walk to the subway. I’m not sure if I can weather The New York Times storm right after the credit card debacle, but I will pull myself up by my bootstraps and soldier on. Agony about the review contains only a sliver of my emotions. The rest of my turmoil surrounds Henry and our relationship. I can still see his expression as he shut the door on me. The pain in his eyes might haunt me for the rest of my days.
I wanted to take him into my arms. Even though I’m not big on relationships or love, I can’t deny that I feel something deep for Henry that tugs at my heartstrings in ways I never expected. Okay. I’ll admit it. I really care about him.
I might even love him.
My heart broke all over when he started stuttering, knowing I’m the cause of all of his turmoil. If I’d have just left him alone in his loft to create his art his way, none of this ever would have happened. But I had to do what I thought was best, even if it wasn’t what was best for him. I had to run my mouth and my own selfish agenda. I’m officially an asshole.
I thought Henry had morphed into a new man. Now, I realize my error in judgment. Henry’s a work in progress, just like every other human being walking this planet. He only got as far as I pushed him, under the guise of it being for his own good when really it was for my own financial gain.
I have to be honest with myself. Silverman is a real piece of work, but it was even worse to witness Henry’s reaction. What happened to the sensitive, affectionate artist I used to tease for his constant “mansplaining?” The man I opened my art gallery to and shared my bed with became unrecognizable in an instant.
Silverman’s going to pay for hurting Henry. I have always been the kind of woman who believes in doing whatever it takes. I’m more determined than ever to deal with Silverman once and for all. He’s a boil on the ass of the art community that I love, and I just have to find a way to lance him and drain the puss. Once the infection’s gone, I can deal with the personal fallout of my actions. If Henry never speaks to me again, I wouldn’t blame him.
But I do care about him. I do. And I’m going to try to get him to see that.
I make my way down the subway steps and stand on the platform, tugging my bottom lip between my teeth. “Did I say that out loud?”
I look around at all of the strangers waiting for the train. They don’t even see me or my lips moving as I talk to myself. That happens so often in New York that nobody even notices or cares.
It’s hot, so I pull my hair off my neck and into a high ponytail. I’m relieved as I see the train approaching. I step onto an air-conditioned car. It’s so crowded that there are no seats, and I’m forced to stand and hold on to the metal bar.
I’ve done my research, and I’m pimped out for revenge with my black slacks, white blouse, and killer red heels.
I am woman, hear me roar.
Forty minutes later, I arrive at The New York Times headquarters. I’ve been to this building a few times through the years but today is a very different occasion. It’s not a Christmas party. The receptionist, a young man with enough hair gel to stock a salon smiles at me. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to see Greg Silverman,” I say.
“Your name, please?”
I hesitate. I know I can’t tell him my real name because that cowardly bastard, Silverman, would never show his face. I grin and say, “Linda Russell.” I hold my breath, hoping that the receptionist has never seen Linda before. She’s a well-known art critic, far more famous than Greg. I hope my plan works and that he’s flattered that someone of Linda’s caliber would pay him a random visit.
“Just a moment, please.” The receptionist picks up the phone. “Hello, I have a Linda…” He glances up at me.
“Russell,” I prompt.
“I have a Linda Russell here to see you.”
“Please have a seat.” The receptionist smiles. “Greg will be right with you.”
“Thanks.” I sit down on the comfy couch. My heart races as I plan my verbal crusade on Henry’s behalf. For my plan to work, I need camouflage. I grab The New York Times off the coffee table and hold it up to my face.
A few minutes pass. Maybe Greg is busy, or maybe he knows I’m not Linda. I’m debating how much longer I should stay.
“Linda?” His assistant’s chirpy voice calls out to me.
I clear my throat, never moving the newspaper an inch.
“Right this way…”
I bring the newspaper down a bit and get a glimpse of her walking toward Greg’s office. I follow her. We’ve probably met in passing, and on a normal day she’d know on sight that I’m not Linda, but she never turns around to really look at me. Instead, she keeps right on shuffling along and even calls over her shoulder, “What an unexpected surprise!”
If you only knew, I think as she leaves me at his open door.
Greg spins around in his office chair and spears me with a lethal glare. His eyes widen into saucers when he recognizes me. “What the–”
“Silverman, you’re a disease.”
His face turns fifty shades of red. “I have a right mind to call security on you right now. You’re… you’re… trespassing!”
“Well, you’re lying! Who do you think you are, writing those awful things about Henry?”
His smug expression is enough to send every single cell in my body trembling with an anger I’ve never known. I’ve never wanted to slap a man more in my life. Not even Jessie. “Every word of it’s true, and we both know it. That would explain why my review went viral as of nine o’clock this morning.”
I roll my eyes. “This is a public office, you vindictive little bastard.”
“Please, Meadow. Spare me your distasteful curses. You know you blew it as well as I do. Imagine, trying to pass off a fraud as a creator of beautiful and relevant art. You should be ashamed of yourself. I, for one, am going to rejoice when the NYC art community is rid of you and your little protégé poser.”
I step back and stare. “What makes you so damn hateful?”
“Hateful?” He chuckles, and it’s a maniacal laugh that goes straight from his mouth to my heart like a sharp knife. “If you considered that hateful, you should have seen the unedited version of my review. Too bad it had to be shortened to fit the column. You can thank my bleeding-heart editor on your way out.”
“One of these days, you’re going to rue the day you lied about Henry Garrison in a major publication. It’s defamation. It’s slander. I’m going to consult an attorney. You should be very, very afraid.”
His eyes narrow, and I can see he’s a tad bit worried about my very real threat of litigation. “Come on, Meadow. I really tried to do you a favor. I told you not to give Garrison a showing, but you insisted. Please don’t stand there as if I didn’t warn you. You brought this all down upon yourself by not capitulating
to someone who knows substantially more than you do.”
Like a slap to the face, I realize who the real mansplainer is in this twisted tale. I’ve had it all wrong.
“Greg, really!” I glare at him. I want to leap across his desk and wring his neck, but I don’t need jail time on top of financial uncertainty. I storm out of his office and make my way to the elevator.
“Have a good day, Linda.” The receptionist waves at me.
“Yeah, right,” I say under my breath as I get on the elevator. “This day couldn’t get much worse.”
By the time I step outside, I know I’ve succeeded in escalating the situation. I can almost feel Greg Silverman’s eyes on me, watching me from a window upstairs, plotting how to accelerate my demise. In my haze, I bump into a guy wearing a designer business suit.
I gather my composure and puff out a huff of self-righteous indignation. The torpedoes are coming in, and I don’t have access to a bomb shelter. Bootstrapping my last shreds of courage, I hop on the subway and take the train to Pathways.
As if on cue, it starts to rain as I walk the streets, and of course, I don’t have an umbrella. I run as fast as possible in my heels and step inside of the gallery. Shannon is there, drinking coffee and looking pensive.
“Going for the sexy drowned rat look today?” He winks.
“Very funny,” I say, unamused. If he wants to tease me relentlessly, he can pick a future date and pencil it in on my calendar.
“Good thing I was on time today, boss.”
“I had some business to take care of this morning.” I take my compact mirror out of my purse and check my reflection. My mascara runs in rivulets down my cheeks. I wipe it up with a tissue.
“What business required ‘fuck me’ shoes?”
“No, these aren’t ‘fuck me’ shoes. Today, they’re ‘fuck you’ shoes.”
He smacks his lips together. “I’m lost.”
Mansplainer Page 15
