Chapter Twelve
Daphne
Talk about embarrassing. I had never been so happy to be walking down the streets of downtown LA to a back alley where I had parked my car. I didn’t even jumble with my keys since I was so determined to get the hell out of the area and to the safety of my house. I don’t even remember the route I took from the time I put the car in drive. I just maneuvered through the side streets until I was pulling into my driveway and pushing the garage door opener button.
Puking in public and then slinking out of the gallery as soon as I could stand up straight with my sister rambling all the while. “Not the best food to barf. You should’ve been eating cupcakes. Nothing wrong with tasting sweet goodness a second time around.” Listening to Aubree’s own experiences along with her observations took my mind off what had happened before my vomiting nightmare, briefly.
Caldwell… Shit! Why hadn’t he told me that he had a gallery along with working as a cabinetmaker? There was nothing wrong with being ambitious. It was better than sneaking off to be with another woman and then slipping back to me later. My mind was wandering to different reasons why the gallery was a secret…
“Could you be pregnant?” Aubree was still talking about my projectile release. “Maybe the smell or…did you burp? Nerves…but no, it was sudden…probably the—”
“—I could be pregnant. Stormy night and alcohol.” I could see it playing out in my head. “I sort of attacked him or he attacked me… There was no time to stop or think of anything but fucking each other’s brains out…”
That confession…revelation seemed to move our conversation away from grossness and on to a whole new subject. But of course, Aubree did feel the need to recap the entire story when my friend Madison arrived. I just hung my head, moaned, and, occasionally, laughed a little bit. Although, it was my sister’s delivery that caused me to see things outside the box…as if the events of the evening had happened to someone else. Some of it I was not able to overlook.
“He called you what?!” Madison half laughed and half growled.
“Dickhead,” I answered before Aubree gave that answer too. I hadn’t realized she was paying attention to everything taking place before her hand was wrapped around my hair as I emptied my gut. Of course, Aubree and Madison both busted up repeating “dickhead” and apologized at the same time.
“Not funny. He didn’t even come after me. Didn’t make sure I was alright. No rescue. No knight in shining armor.” I sighed. “His catering people rushed over with water.”
I was relieved that someone didn’t come over and ask me to leave. Although, Aubree had been quick to get me out of there without drawing any more attention. She even texted Madison:
Support needed! 911!
Bring supplies to Daph’s
Pregnancy test kits too!
Madison arrived not long after Aubree and I had arrived at my house sporting a bag containing two bottles of pink liquid along with three boxes of knocked-up-or-not kits as she called them.
“Test time! Need to know if you will be drowning your pain with fizzy pink lemonade or pink champagne.”
Grabbing the three boxes, I headed toward my bathroom followed by two nosey girls. It was obvious that I was to have no privacy. And when I say “no privacy,” I meant that they stood watching me unwrap each stick and line them up to be used. They both folded their arms and stared at me as if I was going to cheat on a test.
“Run some water, please. You two are giving me stage-fright.”
Giggling, joking, and teasing ensued as I set each watered stick back on the counter for the big wait. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine either of them laughing if it were them perched on the toilet and peeing. Done with my task, quietness fell over the room as we stood shoulder to shoulder, and things got real:
Stick one = two pink lines
Stick two = a plus sign
Stick three = one word; pregnant
“Looks like fizzy pink…no bubbly for you,” Madison announced, breaking the hushed silence that had fallen over the three of us with our heads tilted down.
“I’m going to be an aunt!” A dancing Aubree had squealed with delight.
I was in a state of shock.
Was I ready to be a mom? Not that there was really a question being posed. I wasn’t ready…was anyone ever really ready? But, I would be the best mom I could possibly be. Aubree and I had been raised by wonderful parents into our late teens, early twenties for me. It made me sad to think of my child without grandparents…at least not from my side. Caldwell’s mother was still living, not too far away.
Caldwell was going to be a daddy and he had no idea. A baby with the person he despised. Not a good start to parenthood for either of us. I had always envisioned sharing the news with my husband. We would watch for the sign and he would pick me up and twirl me around in the air and maybe finish off with a deep, passionate kiss.
The only spinning going on around me was my sister and best friend dancing me into the kitchen and toasting to my creature—Madison’s loving term for it. I had to laugh at them. It was better than crying about my somewhat dim situation.
When they finally left me, I found it difficult to sleep and ended up in my home office, recently completed with modern furnishings. With Caldwell’s handiwork done—custom bookcases, window benches, and paint—I had the go-ahead to buy items. I smiled to myself thinking about how we had come a long way from our lust-filled thoughts. He’d fulfilled my fantasies on my new curved chaise for two, the bench…and even the vintage mirrored desk I was sitting behind had been put to good use.
I remembered the day he commented about my mocked-up book pages on my computer screen and my storyboards sitting on my desk while leaning over my shoulder. “Looks inviting.”
I can’t remember the rest of his words as they seemed to fall away as he moved my hair to the side, planting his lush lips to my skin. Maybe I hadn’t missed anything of importance at all, recalling that his words may have been about my body and not my work. Fortunately, I had backed up my work as he shut my laptop and slid it out of the way along with my crafty artwork. Not that I cared as my ass was lifted and settled on the top of my desk with my legs spread wide before his mouth skillfully devoured me to a beautiful quaking “oh God, yes” orgasm.
I felt a shiver ripple down my spine at that naughty memory and I was back to the empty room, alone with my computer and cellphone. Of course I checked it a few times, but there was nothing from Caldwell. He still showed no signs of being concerned if I was alright or if I had arrived home safely. Not like him at all…or at least not like the Caldwell I knew before I became the infamous Dickhead.
Looking at the gallery earlier that night, it looked like he was doing better than the first time I had visited the other hideous gallery space. I was anxious to write my thoughts for the new space—it had truly wowed me without even taking into consideration the ownership. My invitation to the opening had been sent to a post office box I used for all professional correspondences and was addressed to D. Chastain. I had used the “D” to keep from labeling myself male or female in the art world and as a form of anonymity. I hadn’t even decided what I wanted to do for my book, but had been using Daphne to write for the online site Fashionista Forward.
The opening was going to be my first time using my full name for a gallery event. I was a little leery about doing it…of exposing myself completely and then my past article popped up to slap me in the face. I wasn’t even sure how the man in the gallery—responsible for my being outed—knew of me. The look of pure disgust on Caldwell’s face was etched into my mind, but I had to push past that and write an article about the launch of the new downtown gallery. More importantly, I couldn’t afford my critique to be left out of the big reveal of artwork by the mysterious Renaldo Rossellini that the C-Well Gallery had amazingly pulled off. My personal life—that involved me being called Dickhead and puking in a planter—needed to be avoided at all costs. My focus was on Renaldo’s vibrant and even more sensual artwork that garnered everyone’s full attention.
As I typed up the article, I wondered…had I really hurt Caldwell? I was pretty sure that no one would ever remember that the space had been the N-Lite Gallery. Or as I had slanderously renamed it, Elite, since the pompous owners thought that their space was superior to others in the area.
I had caught wind from other gallery owners that they were refusing to participate in art activities. They had even made a point to shut their doors when cultural street events were taking place. Exhibiting only the cream of the crop artists, I heard that they had been turning away many disappointed artists. The elitist gallery was looking for the next bankable Picasso. The one owner I met with, literally, had his nose in the air as I questioned him about the accusations and whether they were up for helping artists totally new to the scene…maybe even students. It was obvious by his answers alone that they were in the wrong art district and I may have suggested—under my breath—that they move to a different zip code on the other side of town.
I couldn’t imagine Caldwell in a partnership with that slimy character and I hoped that he would maybe one day forgive me. I hoped that my true opinion of the new space and the exhibit might have him seeing me and the new gallery in a different light. He had created a wonderful space he could be proud of…and procuring an artist like Renaldo Rossellini was a big wow! And the sculptor, Ford James, could not be overlooked. In fact, I think I may have expounded a bit more about him than the main attraction.
I would’ve written more about Caldwell, but that may have raised a few eyebrows. Gallery owners rarely took precedence over artists. For me, he was the main focus of my daily thoughts…hopefully forever in a positive light.