by Leah Holt
Fuck this! Stop pitying yourself, Willow!
You chose to close off, you decided to keep yourself boxed in.
That was my doing, all my own unraveling of relationships.
I pushed people away, attempted to keep myself from anyone so I didn't have to get hurt anymore. My brain read into things way too much, and Beth had been the only one to challenge me. She had cracked my shell, while leaving it still whole for protection.
If I didn't have her, I wouldn't have experienced half the shit I did. Kash included.
And tomorrow she'd be a world away.
And I'd be all alone again.
Like I had been for years, alone with my past.
Alone with my memories.
Eyeing my easel in the corner, I pushed myself off the couch. The one and only thing that helped me to release the demons clawing their way through my soul... Painting.
And I had hoards of pictures that I'd painted over the years that echoed my darker days. But this... This wasn't dark.
This was yearning, this was need.
This was going to be my life.
Laying out my most recent works, I grabbed some of the frames I had stacked to the side. Friday was going to be the breaking point for me.
I had to focus my energy on that, get these paintings ready to showcase for the investor my friend Dana set up.
Dana, even though I might refer to her as my friend, was really Beth's friend. Thank God Beth had connections around this city. Dana was a local art dealer, and she knew a man that loved to invest in upcoming artists, and small businesses.
After a few phone calls and a number of emails, Dana was finally able to convince him that I was worth the time.
Sealing the back of a frame, I flipped the image over. My tired reflection gazed back at me off the glass, the weathered and down look still boldly visible.
Get this done. You need to have your shit together or Friday will suck and you'll have nothing left.
That was the last thing I wanted. This was my stand, my feeble attempt to prove to myself that I had talent, and a boring desk job wasn't for me.
I had to make this work.
No. This is going to work.
And I was going to do everything in my power to get this investor to see I was worth it.
He had to. If he walked out and wasn't interested, I'd be screwed.
Positive, stay positive. This will work.
IT WILL WORK.
Chapter Six
Willow
It took me two days to finish framing all my paintings, and just as much time to force Kash to the back burner.
My fingers were raw and pink from sealing the pictures in, small indents rode the bridge of my knuckles where the metal tabs had laid their mark.
The frames I had were cheap and weak, but they were all I could afford. Every penny of my life savings was going into this gallery, and I needed way more to get it off the ground.
Beth called me late Sunday night after getting settled in Paris. And a twinge of jealousy raked my heart.
She had hit it big, a top model with agencies kicking down her door. There were already designers grappling each other over who's clothing line she would wear first.
I wanted that... God I wanted that.
I wanted people fighting for my art, battling for a single piece to hang in their store, their home; aching to have just one work from the great and talented Willow James.
Patience Willow, it takes time. Nothing happens overnight.
I thought about telling Beth what happened with Kash, but I silenced myself. She would've been excited, angry, mortified, all the emotions I didn't want to have to talk her out of over the phone.
Then I would have had to deal with her questions. The wonder of why I didn't take him home, was I going to try and see him, everything I didn't even want to let myself ponder.
Because the answer was 'No.'
No, I wasn't going to let myself get roped into a man who probably rotated through woman like socks on a hot summer day.
No, I'm not willing to be someone's midnight snack on a binge of pussy to feed their hungered cock.
No, no, no. Not Kash, not now.
So what if he made my sex scream with music, so what if he conjured up feelings that I never had, so what if he looked at me with real eyes.
Eyes that weren't just filled with having sex, eyes that called to me, eyes that made me feel alive.
Eyes... His eyes said more than his lips. And it made me forget everything about myself I despised.
The loud grumble of my stomach vibrated through my shirt. I couldn't remember the last time I ate more than a low fat yogurt and a dry bowl of cereal.
With all the crap I needed to get done before my big pitch, food was the last thing on my mind. And now, my body was insisting I refuel, regardless of my pressing time restraint.
Slipping on a sundress, I let the soft material cascade around my body. My thigh was still sore from the new tattoo, and the only clothing that didn't bother me to wear were dresses or baggy pajama pants.
Thank God it's summer and not the dead of winter. Jeans would torment the tender skin, leggings would stick to the ointment, and I'd be a miserable mess.
Hitting the pavement, I made my way over to this little pizzeria I found a couple weeks back. The food was amazing, and it was one of the few places I felt the price was worthwhile.
This city was expensive, and my wallet was growing emptier by the day. Each meager dollar I had left was tediously portioned out for everything I needed. I couldn't afford to splurge, couldn't afford to be mindless with what I had left.
Call me cheap, but money wasn't something I had a lot of, every last dime had to last.
Turning up Fifth street, the crowd had already formed outside Antonio's Pizzeria. The mass of people all chatted among themselves, the delicious scent of freshly made dough mingled with the aromatic smell of coffee from the cafe next door.
Taking my place at the end of the line, I fiddled with my ear buds. I was willing to deal with my awkwardly racing lungs standing in line, but I wasn't going to let my brain get swarmed with the loud mesh of voices all trying to talk over each other.
Music had become my calming facet, the soothing caress I needed in a wild and noisy place. Staring down at my phone, I flipped through the library of cover art.
A gentle tap on my shoulder pulled my head up to see a young man standing beside me, a soft smile spreading across his face.
Tugging on the wire, I popped one of the small speakers free. “Yes?” I asked, waiting for him to question me about what the line was for, or ask me for directions.
Which I knew if that was his question, I'd never be able to give him any sort of good navigation around the city. I barely had my feet wet here, and had really only migrated at most a block or two from my apartment by myself.
“Miss, that man is trying to get your attention,” he said, pointing towards the front door.
“Who?” Arching a brow, I held my hand over my eyes to block the sun's glare.
“The guy at the door, he's been calling to you.”
“How do you know he means me?” Glancing around, I took in all the faces. “He could mean someone else.”
“No, he's talking about you. You're the only girl here with a tree tattooed on her thigh.”
Shifting my eyes from the kid with spiked blue hair, to the shiny image on my leg, I shot my eyes back to the head of the line. “Me?” I half yelled, slightly embarrassed and unsure.
The guy at the door nodded yes, waving his hand for me to come forward.
What the hell is he calling me for? Did I do something wrong?
Stepping out of line, my chin held low into my neck like a kid getting called to the front of the room by their teacher. I felt like I was heading to a punishment or a lecture for not paying attention or causing an issue.
But I had been minding my own business, waiting in line. I didn't think I cut anyone, or did anything to bri
ng one ounce of attention to myself.
Reaching the main entrance to the pizzeria, thin lips pulled across my cheek. My fingers braided each other around my clutch, teasing the small tassel that hung off the edge. “Hi.” The word tumbled off my tongue, a voiceless salute to the man in the apron.
“Why are you standing all the way down there? Come, come in.” Holding the door open, he waved me inside.
“Wait... What? No, it's not my turn. You're not even opened yet, and there's a lot of people before me.” Twisting to the endless row of heads behind me, I felt confused.
Why is he letting me in first? I wasn't here before all these people.
A few angry eyes glared at me between unknown faces. Whispers floated between cupped hands and ears, a few loud grumbles echoed off the brick wall.
“No, no, no.” His Italian accent highlighted his tone, the broken words built together with missing pieces. “You come in, you're first. Whenever you come, I always serve you before anyone else.”
“I'm sorry, but I'm confused. You don't need to take my order first, I'll wait my turn like everyone else.”
This wasn't making sense, I wasn't a famous actress or model...
Beth, maybe she had something to do with this.
That was the only thing I could wrap my head around that would explain why this guy ushered me to the head of the line. It was just like our last night out at the club, or the time we went to dinner at Chardon's.
A wave of Beth's hand and we were in; no lines, no reservation, just people kissing our asses.
When your name's in the spotlight, it got you anything you wanted. People would bend over backwards just to make you happy. Hope would sparkle in their eye that Beth's presence would shoot them to the star's list.
“Please, please, what can I get for you today?”
“A couple slices of pepperoni would be good.”
“Si, absolutely.” Screaming into the back, his native language broke the sound barrier. I had no clue what he had just yelled, but two pairs of eyes popped over the open window.
The faceless eyes gawked at me for a brief moment, ducking away just as quickly as they appeared.
This is the weirdest thing ever. Maybe they have me confused with someone else.
A few people over the years had told me I looked like a young Jane Mansfield. But that was it, I had never been compared to someone from this era.
So why had the headless eyes stared at me like I was someone they'd seen on television or in a movie?
Who the hell knew. This state was a melting pot of different characters, this had to be Beth's doing.
I was sure she knew I was envious of her new found fame, I wouldn't put it past her to try and recreate that for me in some way while she was gone.
Fucking Beth.
Yes, I wanted the fame. But not in the way of facial recognition.
I wanted it for my art, wanted it for my creations. The deepest part of my being wanted to hear people talk about the amazing piece of work set in a gallery. I wanted people to know who I was, all while not truly knowing who I was.
Did that make sense?
To be known without being known. My name without my face. The money without the rampage of fingers pointing in my direction.
There goes that fear of people again.
The man who had called me inside before everyone else, grabbed a bottle of water and placed it on the counter. His smile beamed from ear to ear as he pointed at his name tag. “Georgio, that's me. Next time you come, you ask for me. I'll make sure you're taken care of immediately.”
“Georgio? I thought the owner's name was Antonio.” Small talk was not my thing, the perils of being an introvert.
“Antonio was my father. He was great man, and taught me all I know.” Slapping the stainless steel counter, he sent a barrage of unknown words to the chefs behind the scenes. “I'm very sorry it take so long. You shouldn't have to wait, next time we'll be ready.”
“Really it's fine. Are you sure you're not confusing me with someone else? I still don't understand why you let me in first.”
“You, you never wait. Never.” Two steaming hot pieces of pizza slipped over the counter. “Ah, here for you.”
“How much?” Opening my clutch, I pulled out the few bills I had folded inside.
Shaking his head, his jaw lifted up. “No, please just enjoy.”
“I can't do that, I'll pay for the pizza. The wait really wasn't that long, please let me pay.” Holding out my money, he reached over and folded my hand shut.
“No, I cannot take. It was made for you.” Snapping his fingers, another guy stepped out from behind the back. Walking to the door, he flipped the sign to open.
The double doors flew open, and the room was instantly filled. A gush of crackling feet hit the tiles, different tones of voices turned the quiet space into a symphony of sound.
Well, Beth got me free pizza. How nice of her.
I couldn't wait to bust her balls about how grateful I was she saved me ten bucks. And made me flush twenty shades of pink from being called out in front of a crowd.
That girl was going to be the death of me. Everything she knew that made me uncomfortable, I swear she went out of her way to throw them in my face.
She had told me once before I needed to be desensitized. That if I exposed myself to more situations then I wouldn't turn into a ball of nerves and I'd be able to live freely.
Easier said than done. It was way easier to think it, than it was for me to do it.
Beth couldn't understand what I felt. The idea of unknown eyes riding my body, people I didn't know casting judgment or just plain staring at me, it made my skin crawl.
I had tried to explain it to her, but she longed for the stares, while I shied away from it. She couldn't connect to my feelings, only thinking I was overreacting.
But when your entire body is shaking, stomach is a whirling tornado of nails, and the taste of battery acid sticks to the back of your throat...
It's more than just thoughts, it's physical.
Aching, physical pain, that doesn't go away till the eyes are gone.
And avoiding the eyes meant I avoided the burn.
Side stepping out to the sidewalk, I let the breeze sweep away the sick feeling coating my gut.
I can't believe she did that.
After demolishing the two slices of pizza perfection, I headed towards home. The food had done its job, my stomach was no longer trying to eat itself from the lack of a real meal.
And the short walk back gave me another chance to stop and stare at the empty store front window. The tiny place I spotted the first week I was here, the one I was about to call mine.
It was perfect.
The small shop had a huge front window, a great spot to display my work. The sidewalk that was home to the tiny store was always busy and full of people.
I knew I couldn't afford the place on my own, at least not until things took off. But that was where the investor came in. I took everything I had and put it down on first and last months rent.
My account was now down to the skins, a few hundred dollars was all I had left. Monday I would get the keys, and finally get to step beyond the doorway. My head was filled with so many ideas for what my gallery would look like.
The last step, the final screw I needed to fit in place, the investor. Without help I'd have two months to try and fend for myself, hoping and praying that I could make enough to last another thirty days.
Without someone to open the vault, without someone by my side helping to fund the shop, I'd lose everything.
God, I want this so bad.
That place had my name written all over it, it screamed at me to dust it off, and breathe a new fresh life into the closed walls.
Stepping to the large window, I cupped my hands on the glass to look inside. Something I'd done almost every day since I found the place. Letting out a long breath, I whispered. “Soon you'll be alive again.”
Turning to leave, I
spotted a small book store right next door. Pausing, I stared at the front door. I hadn't noticed the hidden library before, it seemed to jump up from the dirt. Taking shape after I had walked the same path for weeks.
My inner voice yelled at me to keep moving, Beth's free spirit screamed at me to give in just once, and check it out.
She did save me ten bucks from lunch... Screw it. Why the hell not?
Tugging on the door, I was hit with the rich scent of leather and fresh paper. It might sound weird, but yes I am fully aware of how brand knew paper smells.
For years my grandmother would buy me reams of computer paper to draw on. It was more affordable than canvas, or Fabriano papers. She could buy me five hundred sheets for under three bucks, and that would last me a decent length of time.
Scanning the shelves, I let my fingers glide over the smooth bindings. A beige trim caught my eye, tugging the book free, I held it firm.
“That's a great book.” A delicate voice skimmed the air around me.
Snapping my head up, an older woman stood at the end of the aisle. “I haven't read this one yet,” I said, flipping the cover open.
“The Story of Art, by Phaidon, it's a classic for any artist.”
“How much is it?”
Her face grew soft lines, head leaning into her shoulder. I saw her eyes scan my thigh, a gentle and motherly smile spread across her aged cheeks. “That's a beautiful tattoo.”
“Thank you, I just got it. Hurt like hell, excuse my language, but totally worthwhile.”
“I bet it was.” Pinching her lips, she stepped forward and scooped the book from my hands. Nodding her head for me to follow her, she walked back to the counter. “Are you an artist?”
“I'm trying to be, that's why I moved here.” Shrugging a shoulder, I slouched over the desk top.
“Trying to be? Honey, if you're an artist, you're an artist. How will anyone else believe you, if you don't believe in yourself?”
Arching a brow, I nervously scratched at my neck. “Well, I'd like to think I'm an artist, but I haven't sold anything yet.”
“That doesn't matter, if you think it, others will believe it. It's that simple.” Dropping the hefty book into a plastic bag, she held it out. “Here you go, Honey.”
