It’s About Time

(Skye)

I pull away from Lawson and drop into the chair. With my face in my hands, I try to make sense of the past fifteen minutes of my life.

The last thing I expected to see when I stormed into the hotel was my art, framed and displayed prominently in the lobby.

The very last thing I expected to hear was the manager of the hotel telling me how many people offer to buy them from the hotel. Which explains why Gordon gets inquiries from all over the country.

This morning, I thought everything in my life was lost. My parents were lost months ago. My career, which never really started, was lost when Kelso fired me. Lawson was lost, because I blame him for losing the Kelso job. I still blame him.

Except now I see I didn’t need the Kelso job. I hated Kelso. I hated the idea of my work being locked up in some mansion. But I’d needed the money so bad. And I had my heart set on the gallery show.

Meanwhile, I’d already been having my own gallery show, right here in this hotel. Lawson went and did it all without telling me. After I’d made it clear I didn’t want his help.

I don’t understand how I feel or what to think.

“I should be mad, but thank you,” I say, looking up at Lawson.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“There is. You did so much for me, and I appreciate it. I really do.”

“But?”

“There’s no but. Not really.” I don’t think, anyway. Why did he do all this stuff for me? Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he do it when I told him not to help me? It’s so important for me to make it on my own.

“It doesn’t seem like there’s no but.”

“There isn’t. I don’t know what to think.” I really don’t. Every emotion in existence has coursed through my veins today. I’m already running on no sleep from last night. It’s like my brain has shut down, and all my emotions, heightened from exhaustion, are spinning at ninety miles an hour. I can’t make sense of anything.

Lawson heaves a great sigh and sits at the table in the chair beside me.

“Skye, this is killing me. I don’t know how to make you see how much I care about you. You don’t know what to think, but you’re in the driver’s seat here. I want you in my life. I need you in my life.” Lawson jams his fingers into his hair.

My entire body is numb. I need time to think. The painting is near me, and I pull it in front of me. The pain and anguish I’d felt when I created it come flooding back. I wanted him to know the pain I felt. That’s what I came here for in the first place.

“I just don’t know.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever felt this way about. The only person I’ve ever wanted.”

“Yeah, you kind of know my background, so I know what you mean.” He obviously knows I’ve never had a serious boyfriend before. I wonder if he realizes I’ve never had any boyfriend before.

“I flat out don’t know what to do. I’ve seriously never been in this situation before.”

“Well neither have I.”

“So why are you torturing us both?” He swallows, hard.

I manage a weak smile. “It’s been a rollercoaster morning, my head is swimming. I need time to clear my head.” Maybe I should go home and crawl into bed to digest everything.

Pushing back the chair, I stand. My hands hesitate over the painting, unsure whether to take it with me or leave it for Lawson.

“What are you doing?” His voice is strained and he puts his hand over mine. His touch is electric.

“I need to go home, I need to figure things out.”

“Listen, we put a magazine in all our luxury hotel rooms. Because this is our new flagship boutique hotel and your work is the star of the show, we’ve decided to run an article on you.”

“An article? On me?” Through the chaos of my emotions, pride bubbles up to the surface.

“Yes. You heard from Rick how much of a hit your paintings have been. Will you at least let me interview you for the article?” Lawson shifts his weight. I can’t figure out if his voice is sharp from anger or frustration.

My breathing is getting faster by the minute. I bite my lips between my teeth and sit back down.

“Okay.”

Lawson hasn’t let go of my hand, and I make no attempt to pull it away. Instead, I relish the warmth the contact from his hand is radiating throughout me.

He clears his throat and asks, “Why do you paint?”

“To convey my emotion.” It’s all I can think about, it’s the reason I came here. I wanted him to know my pain. Except, now that I’ve learned what he’s done, I need to paint another, to sort out my thoughts. My mind races at the prospect of a new painting, I see a lot of yellows and oranges in it. Would my brush ever reach for the blacks and blues?

“Is that what this painting is about?”

“Yeah. It’s a break from my usual style. Do you get any sense of emotion from this?”

“It’s not very cheery.” Not very cheery? That’s an understatement.

“Do you get heartache? Anguish?”

“Yes, I’m absolutely feeling those things.”

“The feeling of being used?”

“No, there’s none of that. That situation definitely doesn’t exist.” He squeezes my hand to emphasis his point. I want to lean into him, to let him hold me while I digest everything that’s happened.

“I thought this was an interview for the article.”

Lawson smirks. “Don’t give me your sarcasm.”

Our eyes lock, and I don’t respond. I can’t. Not now that his eyes are holding me, their warmth comforting me so completely.

“Fine. How does it make you feel to see your creations displayed in our hotel lobby?”

“Shocked. It shocked me to see them.”

“But it must make you happy, or proud, or something?”

“All of that. But the real thing that makes me happy and proud is hearing about all the hotel customers who stop to admire them.”

“And try to buy them.”

“Yes, that too. Especially that.” That makes me more than happy. It makes my insides do backflips with relief and elation. People notice me. I am good. I must be, or my paintings would simply fade into the background. Chasing my dream might’ve been the right decision after all.

“You’re smiling, sunshine.”

“It’s a relief. Like a confirmation that I’m an okay artist.”

“You’re not an okay artist, you’re an amazing artist. You must see that now.”

“I used to think I was good, but it took so long for anybody to notice me. And when I finally did get noticed, it was for the wrong reason.”

“Wrong reason?” he asks, his eyebrow arched.

“Not for my art.”

“More for your ass in that tight waitress uniform, but followed quickly by both your personality and that picture you drew.”

“You found that sexy?”

“I thought that talent was pretty damn sexy. I’m still eagerly anticipating the self portrait of your sexy tits.”

An easy laugh flows from me. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to hear that laugh.”

“Like keep getting me fired?”

“Fucking hell, I thought we got past that.” The breeziness vanished from his voice. Instead there’s anger. I don’t want to push him away — the thought scares me. But he hasn’t given me time, and I need to decompress. Now I’m scared I’ll push him away just to get the time I need.

“I don’t want to have this conversation now.”

He closes his eyes and says, “Then let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about the Dodgers, or the latest Marvel movie, or the fucking weather, but for God’s sake, let’s keep talking.”

Lawson runs his fingers over my palm, and a tear trickles down my cheek.