by Lexy Timms
“Actual hearsay,” she said, “until you can prove otherwise. Look, sweetheart, that’s the hook of the whole story. A dead artist with his work being showcased by someone who pulled him off the street is nice and all, but the hook that’ll get the public’s attention is the heroism, the way he saved your life. But it can’t be corroborated, so it’s useless.”
“It’s not useless, and it did happen,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter if it did. If you can’t prove it, it can’t be run,” she said.
I wanted to tell her about Bryan. About how this man’s brother was the man I’d fallen in love with. About how John’s brother had helped me build this gallery and how our connection to him brought us together not once but twice. I wanted to spill our entire story to her to convince her to run it, so I could advertise John’s gallery professionally. I was determined to get her to see it. She might’ve been annoying and snobby for someone who simply wrote on entertainment and pop culture affecting the San Diego area, but I’d done some research on her ever since she first appeared in my gallery.
She had more influence than I wanted to admit, and her article would give us the broadest audience to reach.
That is what John’s artwork deserved, the best chance I could give it.
“I might have another angle you could take, but I’d have to check with the person involved first,” I said.
“I’ll make this simple. Don’t call me back until you have something you can confirm, and by confirm, I mean a paper trail or someone I could call.”
And with that, she hung up the phone and left me standing in my apartment in shock.
Who the hell did this woman think she was? She wasn’t some hotshot reporter with some blossoming career. She was an entertainment reporter with a column that was run maybe three times a week in the San Diego newspaper. She didn’t get to be picky about shit like this, did she? This was a fabulous story, even without John’s death in it.
I tossed my phone onto the couch and wondered if I should even ask Bryan. This was the perfect way to showcase John’s gallery, but at what point did I say enough was enough? I’m sure there were other reporters who would run the story, and I could take my time finding them since we hadn’t set a date for the gallery showing yet.
But for some reason, I wanted to show this Jennifer woman up. I wanted to give her the story of a lifetime, if only because she’d spat it back in my face. Not only would this be good exposure for John’s showcase, but it would also be wonderful exposure for Bryan. Sure, he didn’t do what he did for the exposure, but running an article like this and telling John’s story for the city to read might help with the closure he was seeking.
It wouldn’t hurt to ask, so I rushed over to my phone and called Bryan.
“Hello there, gorgeous,” he said.
“Hey there,” I said, giggling. “Listen, are you free tonight?”
“If it means I get to see you, then yes.”
“How would you feel about cooking dinner in tonight? You could come here, or I could bring stuff there,” I said.
“Why don’t we cook here? We’ve been spending a lot of time here anyway, might as well christen the kitchen while we’re at it.”
I could feel his grin pouring through the phone, and it sent shivers to my toes.
“Perfect. Anything in particular you want to eat tonight?” I asked.
“Could I put you on the menu?”
“I’m serious, Bryan,” I said, giggling.
“What about steaks? We could cook up some nice cuts, make some garlic mashed potatoes, and roast up some vegetables.”
“My mouth’s already watering,” I said. “I’ll hit up the store and be over there around five. That sound good?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “But are you okay? You sound a bit urgent.”
“Well, I do want to talk with you tonight. It’s nothing bad. Just some research I’ve been doing on how to advertise John’s evening gallery showing.”
“Sounds good to me. Let me know how much it’ll cost to advertise or whatever, and I’ll pay for it,” he said.
“One, we’ll split the cost because this is as important to me, and two, if you keep an open mind, we might not have to pay at all.”
“Interesting. I suppose I could hear you out.”
“You suppose?” I asked. “I’m hurt, Bryan.”
“I’m sure I could kiss the wound and make it better.”
“You’re relentless tonight. Should I wear something comfortable?” I asked.
“If by comfortable, you mean easily removed, then it might behoove you.”
“Behoove me? Who are you and what have you done with Bryan McBride?” I asked.
“I’ll see you tonight, beautiful. I’m wrapping up at the office now.”
“I can’t wait to see you,” I said. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, Hailey.”
Chapter 21
Bryan
I was excited about seeing Hailey tonight. Every cell in my body missed her whenever she wasn’t around. I went through the house, straightening things up and changing the sheets on my bed, preparing myself for a wonderful evening in. The permanent chill of the winter months had officially descended on the San Diego area, and going outside had now become a spectator sport. I threw open the curtains in my room, allowing the eventual moonlight to pour in through the windows, so it could coat the body of the woman I was going to worship tonight.
After we talked, of course.
The fact that Hailey was this enthusiastic about the gallery was wonderful. I was looking forward to showcasing John’s artwork and finishing this path of closure I’d careened us both down. I couldn’t imagine how those paintings haunted Hailey every day from the back of her storage shed. I couldn’t imagine walking into my place of work every day knowing that a vital piece of John was just sitting there, collecting dust and screaming out my name.
I set the kitchen table with places for us to sit. I dug around and pulled out some apple-scented candles, perfect for the impending Thanksgiving festivities. I pulled out a sleek bottle of red wine and opened it, pouring it into a decanter that would allow it to aerate while we cooked, and then I started pulling out things we would need to make dinner together.
It was one thing we still had yet to do, and I was looking forward to brushing kisses on her sweet, soft neck.
One thing about Hailey was that she was prompt. She might live her life by her own rules, but if she gave you a time when she was going to show up, she was the person who was five minutes early. So, when my doorbell rang out into my house at a few minutes before five, I smiled and strode over to let her in.
I opened the door and couldn’t help the smile that crossed my face. Bags were hanging from her arms that I took instantly, allowing her to breathe while her fingers regained their blood supply. She was wearing this comfortable-looking floor-length skirt and an off-the-shoulder shirt that boasted of colors and patterns that never matched one another. She had a light scarf around her neck that matched the sandals she refused to give up, and just as I set all the bags up on the counter, she wrapped her cold arms around me and held me tightly.
“I see you still aren’t willing to let summer go,” I said, grinning.
“I just hate close-toed shoes,” she said.
“And coats, apparently.”
I began unpacking the bags while she stole my warmth, and there wasn’t an ounce of it that bothered me. Her body pressed tightly into mine catapulted my heart rate to heights that were probably unhealthy at best. I loved the way she made my skin tingle with her touch. I loved the way she pressed cold kiss after cold kiss onto my back, warming her lips with my clothed skin. I could feel her heart racing against my back while her hands rubbed along my stomach, but when they started to travel down toward my belt buckle, I had to reluctantly grab them and stop her.
“Aww, no fun,” she said, pouting.
“Dinner first. Then recreational activities.”
“Spoilsport,” she said.
“Beautiful.”
I turned around in her arms and wrapped her up in my arms. I brought my lips down to kiss hers, savoring the sweetness of their touch. Despite how chilled her body was, her mouth provided me a warmth that outmatched my own, and soon, my tongue was lapping her up while our bodies pressed tightly against one another’s.
It wasn’t until she moaned that I pulled away, eager to get dinner cooked so I could claim my dessert for the night.
“I can feel your stomach growling against me,” I said. “Did you not eat lunch?”
“I forgot it at home,” she said.
“Then we really need to get cooking. What do you want to cook?” I asked.
“Can’t I just eat you?”
“Oh, beautiful, why do you think I didn’t insist on making a dessert?”
She grinned at me before she reached for the vegetables. She pulled the bag off the counter and sauntered over to the sink, reaching for the cutting board before she plucked out a knife. The two of us began preparing dinner with little to no conversation between the two of us. That was another thing about Hailey I didn’t understand but enjoyed.
The silence that always descended between us was comfortable.
I got to cooking the two wonderful steaks she’d brought just as she slid the vegetables into the oven to roast. She took the potatoes I’d already peeled and started boiling them, and that’s when she finally found her voice to burst the silence hanging between us.
“How do you feel about running an article on John’s showcase?” she asked.
“Like an actual newspaper article?” I asked.
“Yeah. With, like, his backstory and everything?”
She started draining the potatoes while I pulled the steaks from the pan to rest. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about telling John’s story like that. On one hand, it was a wonderful story that deserved to be told of his background and his heroism and how he lived the last few months of his life. On the other hand, he wasn’t here to tell us whether he’d want something like that.
“Honestly? I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“Do you know who Jennifer Skyles is?” she asked.
“Yeah. That’s the entertainment reporter from that San Diego newspaper. She writes about the things going on around the community that she feels relates to us. Pop culture and stuff, I think.”
“She also writes about things like the theater, the opera, and art galleries,” she said.
“You thinking about contacting her?” I asked.
Hailey began to mash the potatoes while I pulled the vegetables out of the oven.
“Well, when the gallery first opened, about a month into things, she came snooping around, asking me questions to see if there was a story on my art gallery. She thought it was nice, but she didn’t think it had a hook to grab her audience or whatever.”
“That’s shit. The story behind your gallery is awesome,” I said.
“It is when you tell them the story of us,” she said. “But apparently, not if you remove the dastardly story of love and betrayal.”
I saw a hint of regret rise in her eyes, and I leaned forward to kiss the side of her head. “Allow yourself forgiveness, Hailey.”
“Anyway,” she said, sighing, “I contacted her and gave her a quick rundown of John’s story. The problem is, part of his story has to be cross-checked.”
She looked over at me hesitantly, obviously gauging my reaction. I hated that she still felt she had to do that. I hated that I’d made her feel as if she couldn’t freely talk to me anymore. My gut sank to my toes while I watched the fear still roll behind her eyes like she was scared that at any moment, she’d say the wrong thing, and I’d toss her back out onto my porch.
I kicked myself while I scooped the vegetables onto our plates.
“So, without corroborating how John died, she doesn’t want to write the story,” I said.
“Well, I sort of told her there might be another angle we could take,” she said.
“What angle’s that?”
“The one about how we met.”
I set the plates on the table while she poured the mashed potatoes into a bowl. She grabbed a serving spoon while I fished out two wine glasses, pouring us each a full glass of wine before we both sat down at the table. The apple scent from the candles was beginning to permeate the room, and I saw Hailey instantly relax as the scent reached her.
I knew she loved this scent. It always relaxed her when she was stressing herself out.
“All right. Pitch me the story you want to pitch her,” I said.
“Really?” she asked.
“Mhm.”
“Well, I’d call Jennifer up and tell her about how you helped me build the gallery, about how you’re John’s brother and how we fell in love. I’d tell her about my art therapy classes and how I was inspired to keep them going, and I’d tell her about your homeless community outreach and how you were inspired to do that because of your brother.”
“No. I don’t want anything about that mentioned. I don’t do community outreach to be praised. I do it because it helps me cope with what happened to John,” I said.
“But if we took that route, then we could simply say John died. Right now, at least the way it sounds, Jennifer’s still wanting to write the fact that your brother overdosed, and that’s not what happened. I don’t feel good painting him in that light.”
“Me neither. Is there a way to leave out my homeless outreach and leave out how he died?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I think part of the hook for her is the fact that John bounced back and forth with his sobriety, some sort of struggling artist wanting to bring beauty into the world type of thing. But I figure if I can give her enough of a story on us, that might be a bargaining chip to leave that part out.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
The two of us dug into the food on our plates. Hailey’s vegetables were astounding, and I couldn’t help but moan while I chewed my first bite. She smiled at the steak, complimenting me on how it melted in her mouth, and we didn’t resume the conversation until both of us had cleared at least half of our plates.
“I guess we were hungrier than we realized,” she said.
“No, I knew you were hungry. I didn’t know I was this hungry,” I said.
“If you signed off on telling her about your homeless outreach, the fact that the gallery was built with a team of them instead of just one would really be something she could use,” she said. “That would be more fuel to the fire that steers her story away from how John died.”
“I just don’t want a bunch of glory,” he said.
“Which is why this is a wonderful opportunity,” she said. “The article isn’t about you. We’re wrapped up in the story because of how John bound us together, but the focus isn’t us. The focus is him and his showcase. The more I can give her on John as a thread that binds us pulls us away from John, the addict who saved my life that we can’t prove because I’m bullshit.”
“Hailey,” I said sternly.
“What? It’s true.”
I saw her sink back in her chair as her fork dropped to the plate. She was still kicking herself, I could see. She grabbed her glass of wine and took a long pull, gulping it down as I reached out for her hand. I took her trembling hand in mine, watching tears rise to her eyes, and in that moment, I knew what was more important to me.
“Hailey, look at me.”
She shook her head before she set her wine glass down.
“Hailey. Look. At. Me.”
She finally turned her beautiful gaze toward me, darkened by the memories of her past while my thumb traced small circles onto the top of her skin.
“What’s more important to me is knowing the truth,” I said. “I know how John died. I saw the truth in your eyes the moment we talked about it in your gallery. I believe you, and I need you to understand that. If this reporter woman is dead set on making his suppo
sed overdose a passing remark to something greater, like his showcase, then I think I can stomach it.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“What I set out to do was find closure and to find the truth about my brother. I didn’t set out to convince the world of it. I simply set out to convince myself of it,” I said. “I’m serious.”
“If we told them about our community outreach and the homeless crew that built the gallery, it might inspire others to do the same,” she said.
“Which is something you’ve always wanted to do, inspire others to be better. This would be a way for you to do that.”
“This would be a way for us both to do that,” she said. “If she likes the article pitch, it would get good attention for community outreach as a whole, attention for the gallery, and attention we can parlay into John’s art debut. But we’ll need to come up with a date for the gallery evening. If she approves it, I’m assuming she’ll want that information on the spot.”
“That’s fine,” I said as I released her hand. “When were you thinking?”
“It’s really more up to you. The gallery’s yours any night you wish. Just let me know what night to block off, and I’ll start calling around to caterers and such.”
“Isn’t that my job?” I grinned at her.
“Well, I want to help you. I know you’re doing it because you want closure, but I guess ...”
“You want closure too?” I asked.
“I think the gallery might help us both,” she said.
“When are the best evenings?” he asked.
“I do have people who randomly come by as I’m closing on Thursday evenings. I’m still not sure why that is, but I think it has something to do with a special the diner runs across the street.”
“Buy one get one free milkshakes.”
“How did I not know that?” she asked breathlessly.
“I’m so disappointed in you,” I said mockingly. “What about a night on a weekend? A Saturday night maybe?”
“That might work. Advertising a gallery evening on a Saturday night would allow me to gauge that as a possible evening to have another art therapy session.”
