Hailey

I was shocked when Bryan told me he wanted me to meet his parents. I knew he had a strained relationship with them, and I guess I simply assumed it was like mine. I never in a million years would ever think of caring about what my parents thought of Bryan. In my mind, they stepped out of my life the moment I took up art instead of some medical career. They didn’t take my calls or send me holiday cards. They didn’t call me on my birthday or reach out to me in any way. I simply assumed Bryan had the same tense relationship with them.

But apparently, it wasn’t quite like my relationship with my parents.

I told him I would love to meet them, but deep down, I was nervous. I didn’t really know what to expect, but when Bryan showed up at my place in a suit coat I realized I was vastly underdressed. He kept telling me I looked just fine, but I started rummaging through my closet trying to find something else. All I had were oversized sweaters, painted-on jeans, leggings, and skirts. I didn’t have one single nice dress I could put on for this dinner.

But I did manage to find one lone pencil skirt from my college days.

I slipped it on and really had to suck it in, so I could zip it up. It really hugged my curves... much more than I thought was appropriate... but the way Bryan’s eyes darkened when I stepped out of the room made me smirk. I paired the skirt with the only pair of heels I owned and slipped on one of my nicer tops. It still fell off the shoulder, but it was looser around the bust area, so I wouldn’t look like I was flaunting every aspect of my body known to man.

Or to Bryan’s tongue.

He held my hand and traced loving circles on top of my skin to try and calm me down. I could feel myself trembling in the seat of his truck as we pulled up to their house, and all I could do was gawk. If I’d thought his house was massive, then theirs was a behemoth. Bryan opened my door and gave me his hand, so I could slip out easily, but my eyes couldn’t peel away from the decadence of it all.

They had a massive fountain in the front yard filled with birds drinking from it. Their grass was routinely maintained, and flowers lined their pristine concrete driveway. The looming brown house had dark green shutters and a six-car garage, and I’m sure if I dared to walk out back there would’ve been some sort of forest oasis complete with a hot tub.

“Just keep in mind, my parents aren’t always the nicest people,” he said.

“Then why in the world would you want me to meet them?” I asked.

“It’ll be the only time you have to do it. Just understand they are the epitome of snobs.”

“They sound a bit like my parents,” I said. “Do I look all right?”

“Hailey, you look outstanding. That skirt. Holy shit, you shouldn’t have worn it. It’s going to be hard to concentrate on dinner.”

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” I asked.

“Because you’re an important part of my life, and I want them to understand how important you are to me.”

I looked up at him and smiled as the front door slowly opened. I could smell the light scent of chlorinated water wafting from the back of the house, but the rapture and the beauty of it all soon died when his mother raked her eyes over me. I was worried about this from the very beginning, but I was familiar with the look she was giving me. I wanted to be strong for Bryan. I wanted to get through this dinner and show them how much I loved their son. But the look she was giving me the moment her eyes stopped at my hair was one my mother gave me the first, and last, time she saw my hair different like this.

It was blue at the time, but the reaction was still the same.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen that color in my salon before,” she said, smiling. “It’s very ... unique.”

“Oh, I did it myself. It’s called ‘hot flash’.”

“Yes, I suppose because it induces them. Won't you come on in?” she asked.

I looked up at Bryan and clocked his stare on his mother. It was wholly disapproving, but his hand on the small of my back ushered me into the home. We followed her into the dining room, and I couldn’t help but look around. The vases were trimmed in real gold and the furniture was large and plus. There were windows that spanned from floor to ceiling, looking out over a backyard that boasted of a bubbling hot tub. We rounded the corner and came upon a massive table that sat twelve people, and a kind man with a broad smile got up and offered his hand.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Hailey. I like the hair color,” he said.

“Thank you so much, Mr. McBride.”

“Please, call me Michael,” he said.

“You can simply call me Mrs. McBride,” his mother said.

“Now, sweetheart, play nice,” Michael said.

But all she did was huff.

We all sat down to dinner and the cooking was phenomenal. The filet mignon was cooked to perfection, and the green beans must’ve been fresh out of someone’s garden. I couldn’t help but hum and moan over the bites of food I took, and I smiled every time I caught Bryan’s stare.

“Mrs. McBride, this dinner is delicious,” I said. “Where in the world did you learn to cook like this?”

“Me? Cook? Oh, sweetheart. No, no. Our chef made this. Sweetheart, did you tell her nothing of how we live?”

I looked over at Bryan who was eyeing his mother darkly. I knew what she was doing. It’s a tactic my mother had tried many times before. We didn’t have a personal chef or anything, but she did attempt to separate herself from people she felt were beneath her.

That’s what his mother was doing to me, and I could handle it.

“Well, my compliments to the chef, then,” I said, smiling.

“A woman with a taste for food! I love it,” Michael said.

“Just know it’s important to follow up a meal like this with a bit of exercise. Wouldn’t want anything sitting on anyone’s thighs,” his mother said.

“Don’t worry. We get plenty of exercise,” Bryan said, grinning. His father let out a broad bout of laughter as my face reddened, but the look on his mother’s face was less than pleased.

“Mhm,” was all she had to say with her pursed lips and her icy stare.

“The renovations on her gallery are almost finished,” Bryan said. “It’ll be opening soon, hopefully by the beginning of August.”

“Oh, I’m really excited about it,” I said. “Bryan’s been a massive help. He came up with the entire concept for the sign and the outside of the building. You guys really should come by and check it out.”

“I think I might enjoy seeing some of our son’s handiwork,” Michael said.

“Depends on the date. We have a very busy social calendar, and the value of the artwork we would be seeing would be the only thing that could justify a trip to that end of San Diego. There’s a great difference between making a drive to see Caravaggio and a drive to see finger paintings.”

“Well, of course the girl isn’t putting finger paintings in her art gallery, Dorothy,” Michael said. “She’d never sell anything. I’m sure she’s got a wonderful painting or two to put up. Maybe by Pollock? You strike me as a Pollock girl.”

“No, there are no finger paintings,” I said, “and there is no Jackson Pollock.”

“Rembrandt?” Michael asked.

“Nope.”

“Dali?”

“Nu-uh.”

“You must have a Picasso. Something to draw the public in,” Michael said.

“It’s interesting that you feel infamous artistry has to pull people in from the streets. Art is just as healing as it is beautiful. Many people walk into galleries to partake in its beauty as they do to actually engage in it.”

“Which is why you should have something beautiful hanging on the walls, dear,” his mother said.

“You know, man was producing art tens of thousands of years ago. Cave drawings and storytelling on rocks with mashed berries and painted on dirt,” I said.

“What cavemen should’ve been doing was inventing corporations. Think of the progress we could be in now if they weren’t so absent-minded.” Michael exclaimed.

“Does a child ever run before it walks, Mr. McBride?”

“Please dear, call me ‘Michael’,” he said.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Did Bryan run before he could walk?”

I could feel Bryan’s eyes on me, but I wasn’t backing down. They were insulting the very thing that kept me alive and afloat for years. They thought that art only existed when there was money because they were short-sighted and closed-minded.

I had this speech prepared for my own parents, but this venue would do for now.

“No, he didn’t,” Michael said.

“So, how do you expect cavemen to build corporations without having, say, heavy machinery to build their skyscrapers?” I asked.

“That isn’t the point,” his mother said. “The point was, the beauty of art is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it.”

“What if someone paid with their life?” I asked.

The entire table froze, and I had to hold my ground. I was saying too much. Speaking too much. Allowing my mouth to run away with my mind. I had to reel it back in. I had to take a deep breath and start over.

So that’s exactly what I did.

“I pity you. The both of you.”

“You what?” his mother asked.

“I pity you. For your ignorant attitude. The mere idea that beauty doesn’t exist unless you pay for it is what has delved this society into the lack of morals it now holds. Every issue, every anxiety, every idea of sadness can be routed back to one very important rule, that only certain things can be beautiful. Only thin women can be gorgeous. Only money can buy you the prettiest boat. Only certain shades of certain skin tones can be photographed for magazines. Only certain colors that appeal to the eye can draw out certain emotions. The idea that beauty only exists within very specific terms is what fuels the mounting tensions of mental illness and undergirds the empty lifestyle of addiction. The mere fact that you feel that art is only beautiful if it is worth being purchased for a specific sum you put forth first completely negates the purpose of art itself.”

“Which is?” his mother asked.

“Expression. Emotional expression. Some people use it to come. Some people use it to clean up their acts. Some people use it as a release for stress. And some people use it bloom beauty into the darkness. You don’t have to pay for art for it to be beautiful. What makes it beautiful is the emotional reaction it pulls from the viewer. From the audience.”

“Did you pay for that hair dye of yours?” she asked.

“I did, but that point is mute since you don’t believe it’s appealing,” I said, grinning. “For two individuals who seem to be so obsessed with status and how they appear to the public, it’s odd for you to be so dismissive of a realm that has been soaked in wealthy patronage for hundreds of years. If you really want to make the argument, the only reason the artists you revere rose to any sort of status you truly admire is because of the money people were willing to pay for their paintings posthumously. So, with your argument, your Rembrandts I saw hanging in the hallway aren’t beautiful at all.”

“You mind your tone, young lady,” his mother said.

“It’s the same argument. No, my gallery is not full of Picassos and Pollocks and Van Goghs. It’s full of something better, people who want to bring beauty to the world. People who want to fill spaces with beauty that high society seems hellbent on ripping from us. It’s full of people reclaiming their lives and pouring out their souls. My gallery isn’t there to simply make money and pedal black-market paintings. My gallery is there to help a community that has been ravaged to a point where it’s been forgotten. You want to know what real beauty is? Real beauty is gazing into the eyes of darkness and not allowing it to dim the light you hold in your hand. Real beauty is looking right into the bleak darkness of the night as it caves in around you and saying, ‘I don’t give a shit.’ ”

“You mind that mouth of yours at this table,” Michael said.

“No, thank you,” I said. “According to your definition of art, the art hanging from your walls are the mere finger paintings I’m going to be hanging in my art gallery. Your dismissal of my gallery only shows your ignorance of the very history of the life you attempt to lead. That is why I pity you.”

I sat there in silence as I crossed my legs at my ankles. I felt Bryan’s hand slide up onto my thigh, squeezing it tightly while his parents resumed eating their meal. You could slice the tension in the room with my fork it was so tender, and suddenly I was no longer hungry for the meal set in front of me. I left it half-eaten on my plate while everyone else finished in silence, and once dessert was offered to us, I watched his mother shoo it all away.

Bryan took that as our cue to exit, so he helped me up from my seat, planted his hand on the small of my back, and we exited without another word said.