Chapter 3

Meadow

As I jog on the trail at East River Park, the sun peeks over the hazy horizon. The view of the Williamsburg Bridge and the city’s skyscrapers have always been a source of inspiration and motivation. My heart throbs, and I’m almost out of breath, but I’m determined as hell to get in my five miles. When I don’t run at least three days a week, I feel like the back end of a mule.

“Meadow!” a man’s voice calls out. “Meadow, stop!”

I spin around, coming face to face with my ex, Rich Berland. Ugh! Not him, not today. As he hovers over me, running a hand through his reddish blond hair, his green eyes flash, and I can sense a lecture coming.

I’m hypersensitive to men trying to push their thoughts and opinions on me as if that will make me agree with them. Just because I don’t want to jump on some asshole’s bandwagon doesn’t mean I don’t understand the lyrics of the song. His t-shirt and shorts show off his muscular body… the body I used to hold so close to mine. I miss the sex, but I don’t miss the condescension.

Or the lies.

From the start, complicated strings of emotion held the two of us together in a tangled web. On our very first date, he told me that he was just getting out of a relationship. Even though I don’t believe in being a man’s rebound chick, his charm and sex appeal won my body over before my brain had a chance to engage and pump the brakes. He pulled out the big guns, wining and dining me to get in my pants before I could even discover he was a player. For a while, I just buckled up and enjoyed the ride.

But one day, his phone lit up with dozens of text messages. Apparently, his ex didn’t reside in the past. Turns out she rocked all three dimensions. Past. Present. Future. And on top of that, he’d knocked her up.

Due to my rule involving soulless, worthless man-whores, I ended everything. But that still didn’t stop him from calling me… trying to lure me back into his bed under the guise of having his cake and eating it too.

“Hey.” I take a sip of bottled water wishing it was straight vodka. A little alcoholic fortification would be just the ticket right about now. I feel like I just got up in the middle of the night to find an unknown assailant licked the cheese off my Cheetos.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead and flashes a big smile. “How have you been, stranger?”

My eyes graze his body, wondering what I ever saw in him in the first place. Same prick, different day. “I’ve been okay. How are things at Morgan Stanley?”

His white teeth flash me that charming smile of his. The one that drops panties everywhere he goes. Too bad I’m wearing a thong made of steel. If I could, I’d bolt the damn thing to my crotch like a medieval chastity belt. “About the same. Business is good. What’s up with the gallery?”

The vapid small talk makes me want to vomit up my almond milk smoothie. “Things are fine. I just had a big exhibit last week. It went well. Sparx Birdmann.”

A sad, melancholy look overtakes his expression. “Is that the famous chicken man? I wish you would have invited me.”

Fake. As. Shit.

Nothing matters more in this moment than eradicating the glow of bullshit from his eyes. “How is Amanda?”

He frowns. Direct hit. “I’d rather not talk about her. I’m much more interested in us.”

I snort a laugh devoid of humor. “There is no more us. You fucked that up, Rich.”

“I know… would you believe me if I told you that Amanda and I are practically roommates? We even sleep in separate rooms. I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

I glance around, planning my escape route. “It’s hard for me to believe anything you say.”

He looks to the heavens as if beseeching them to open and philosophize over love gone wrong. “What I wouldn’t give to go back in time.”

“I’ve got to go, Rich. My heart rate is dropping out of the ideal zone.” Enough is enough.

“But…”

I roll my eyes and take off running. But like the ghost of lovers past, I hear his Adidas pounding down the path as he gives chase.

“Meadow, I know I made a big mistake. You and I had something special. Something real.” His panting breaths reach my ears, but I lack time and sympathy.

I toss some flippant words over my shoulder. Why am I even engaging with this douche? “It was so real that you got another woman pregnant and proposed to her.”

“I didn’t mean for–”

“You should’ve kept it in your pants, Rich. We have nothing else to talk about.” I pick up speed and put distance between us until his screams sound tinny and far, far away.

“Meadow!”

At the last pathetic moan of my name, I turn around in one final pity twirl. He stands there with a confused expression on his handsome face. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that he betrayed me or the fact that he has no clue that he did anything wrong. Fury snakes up my spine and lands on my cheeks like twin flames of pissed off woman. Turning my back on him again feels good.

Damn good.

I finish my run and walk back to my apartment on Avenue B. It’s a five-story walk up, and I happen to live on the fourth floor, so coming home constitutes a workout unto itself. I unlock the door to my one-bedroom sanctuary. Kicking off my trainers, I place them neatly on the “Welcome” mat. I make my way across the hardwood floor to the galley kitchen. It’s small but functional. I would love to move somewhere with a giant six-burner gas stove and plenty of countertops. I don’t often get the chance to cook, but when I do, I usually try my hand at a gourmet recipe.

Maybe one day, I’ll get a bigger apartment. NYC hits even the fattest wallets in the sore spot. Between the rent here and at Pathways, I feel like I’m working for my landlords. I refill my water bottle and gulp down a few more ounces.

The refreshing coolness hits my system, but humidity dampens the May air. I don’t feel like turning on the AC yet, since it seems too soon for that. I’m not looking forward to a sweltering summer in the city.

Maybe Shannon and I can plan a getaway to Long Island. Beaches and ocean breezes will be the perfect reprieve from the oven-like temperatures in Manhattan.

After a quick shower, I slip on my robe and head to the kitchen. When I open the fridge, I can’t help but frown. The empty shelves mock me with their lack of appetizing fare. My stomach grumbles in protest. I open one of the cabinets and grab a Kind bar, making a mental note to squeeze in a trip to the grocery store before the end of the day. I’m definitely not eating anything in a foil wrapper for dinner.

After my impromptu breakfast, I slip on my skinny black jeans and a flowy yellow blouse. I smile at my reflection. Meadow, you look like a giant bumble bee. Hopefully, it’s a little more pollinating insect and a little less John Belushi in Saturday Night Live.

I put on a dab of foundation, mascara, and lipstick. I’ve never been big on makeup. I count on Shannon’s help when I have to get all dolled up.

I grab my purse and head for the door. Outside, a sea of bodies swarm the sidewalk. I feel like I’m in a maze as I weave around them and walk to the gallery. When I get there, Shannon is chatting on his cell phone. He gives me a quick wave as I pop open my laptop and start to check my emails. There are several alerts reminding me of all the bills that are due.

There’s nothing I hate more than money going out the door as soon as it comes in. The one thing ‘they’ don’t tell you about living your dream. You better have a good handle on budgeting before you go after it.

He hangs up the phone and says, “Hey, girl!”

“Hey!” I smile.

“I just found out more about the elusive potter Henry Garrison.”

As I open yet another bill for four figures, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “Who?”

“The artist everybody was talking about. You know… when they should have been talking about Spanx Buttman.”

At the deliberate faux pas, my eyes snap up. “Oh.”

“Here, I’ll show you.” Shannon walks over to me and reaches around my laptop.

“Hey, you’re violating my privacy.” But he already knows about how much it costs to keep this business chugging along.

“What?” He starts to type into the web browser.

“I could’ve been sending off some personal emails.”

He gives me a chuckle along with an overly dramatic eye roll. “What personal e-mails? You have no personal life.”

The screen fills up with Henry’s website. Stunning vases float across the screen one after the other. All of them have 24-karat gold accents. I click through several pictures.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Shannon gushes, leaning in.

I hate to admit it, because it is amazing, and I knew nothing about it. With my fancy degree in art history and my equally fancy NYC gallery to show off my knowledge. “Yeah. I just can’t believe we’re just now finding out about him.”

Shannon claps his hands together as if Henry Garrison being the next big thing is a foregone conclusion. “You have to get him to do an exhibit here.”

I can’t get too excited. I’ve learned in my life that working something up in my mind, especially about an unknown artist, is a recipe for a huge letdown. “That would be nice.”

“Nice? Are you kidding me, girl? His studio is right in SoHo. Go over there. Beg if you have to.” He stops only long enough to give my shoulder a shove. “Wear that dress that makes your ass look like a plump, juicy–”

“Beg?” I chuckle. “Meadow Hughes does not beg. Not to a man, at any rate.”

He belts out the Motown classic, “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg.” He snaps his fingers and gyrates his hips to his own rendition. “Sweet darlin’. Get with the rhythm, girl. Get with the motion in the ocean. You’re missing out here.”

***

Throughout the day, I call this Henry dude a few times and send an email. But he never responds. Shannon refuses to let me give up, saying, “Just go over there already. Grow a pair.”

So now, here I stand in front of an old warehouse on Spring Street that’s been converted into a loft. I buzz unit number eight, the penthouse, and wait. A few moments pass, and I’m starting to think he’s not even home. Yeah, a reason to flee that doesn’t include me being a pussy. I turn around and start down the steps.

“Hello?” a man’s voice comes out of the intercom. That voice. It stops me dead in my tracks. It’s like sex laced with knowing. Like he can see me standing there on the front stoop with only the strength of his vocal cords alone. And he knows who I am. Deep inside. He knows the parts of me that even I don’t acknowledge.

And he’s still inviting me in.

“Hi, I’m looking for Henry Garrison,” I say, shaking my head. Immediately, I regret my tone. He probably thinks I’m a police detective.

“Who is it?”

But you already know, don’t you, Henry Garrison? You probably know a lot more about this godforsaken world than you’re letting on. Because I’ve seen your art. And I know that you know.

I take a deep breath wondering what the hell has gotten into me and my racing mind. “My name is Meadow Hughes. I’m here about your art.”

“Come on up.” The door beeps, and the lock clicks, so I tamp down the nerves bubbling up inside my chest.

I push the door open and walk inside. An old-fashioned elevator stands at the end of the hallway. With a smile of pleasure and a bit of nostalgia, I get on and ride up to the eighth floor. When the elevator door slides open, Henry stands on the other side, covered in clay.

In that moment, I feel a snap inside of me. Even though I don’t recognize how, I know I’ll never be the same again.

It’s his eyes. There’s a light there along with something else. Something I’ve never seen before. My feet shuffle as if they want to move backward of their own accord and get back on the elevator so I can save my heart before it gets shattered into a million pieces. I tamp down the feeling. Meadow Hughes doesn’t put her heart on the line. No harm, no foul.

After I walk through the front door, his smile lights up the loft, and I notice two dimples in his cheeks. He’s boyishly handsome with curly chocolate hair and soulful brown eyes. His toned body looks as if it’s been sculpted from the clay that’s hanging in drips all over his smock, forearms, and hands. Those hands. They’re beautiful.

“Hi, I would shake your hand but…”

Say something, you ninny.

“It’s nice to meet you, Henry. Thank you for letting me come up since you don’t know me from Adam. I could be a serial killer or something.”

His gaze sweeps from the top of my head to my platform boot-clad feet. That stare is sexy and deep, and finally, it lands on my lips. There’s an electric current flowing between us, pulling me toward him. I lean slightly but then stop myself.

“Are you?

“Huh?”

“A serial killer?” The corners of his mouth tug upward, probably because I’m acting like a nimrod.

“I’ve never killed anyone… yet.”

He chuckles. “Let me show you around then. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

I glance around the space, fully expecting a herd of felines to approach, but I don’t see any evidence of cats. “No. My aunt has like six.”

“I don’t have that many. Just Verdi.” He points to a gorgeous long-haired cat napping in the corner. I’m drawn in by the deliberateness of his words, how he doesn’t rush them. I find comfort in his cadence. “Nap time is her favorite part of the day.”

“She’s so pretty.”

Henry leads me into his work studio, filled with vases, clay, and supplies. His pieces look more beautiful in person than they did in the pictures online. They glow as if they could provide light to a darkened space.

“Your work is amazing.” I can’t help but stare. My fingers itch to reach out and touch the gold leaf, but I don’t dare.

“Thanks.”

There’s that smile again. I imagine it’s been melting hearts and panties since he made his first mug with ‘I heart mom’ etched on the side. His mom probably still has it proudly displayed on her windowsill despite the deformities from a child artist and the chips from a life well-lived.

“Where do you sell?” I’m compelled to ask the question even if it makes me look like an opportunist. I remember the bills littering my inbox. Time to tell my lady bits to stand down and get back to business. The fact that this guy is hot is only a perk of the business. A show with Henry would be quite a coup for me. “Do you exhibit at any of the galleries?”

He scrubs a hand down the dark scruff on his chiseled face. I watch as a dab of clay darkens his cheek. “Well, actually, I don’t really exhibit in the traditional sense.”

“Why not?”

Silence stretches between us. Part of me wants to fill it while the other part wants to let it linger just to see what might happen organically. But then he speaks and breaks the spell.

“I just contract with a few high-end galleries. Most of my sales come from word of mouth and my website.”

I can’t believe what he’s telling me. “I really think you should have a show.”

He steps back, effectively putting space between us, and I don’t like where this conversation is headed. I’m going to walk away from this loft empty-handed. “I don’t like crowds.”

“You’re doing the public a disservice. People would love to see your art.”

“You sound like my mom. Do you not have any idea what it takes to make one of these?” He points to a vase by the window.

“I know a thing or two about–”

“First, you have to start with the best quality clay and shape it into a ball. Once you bring it to the wheel, you have to use your body weight to press down on the clay. Then, with both your hands you have to push from the bottom to form a cone. Then–”

Irritation ripples through me. “Henry–”

“Hold on a second, I’m trying to explain… there’s much more to the story. It’s important to understand all of the intricate steps that go into creating a beautiful work of art, you know.”

I shake my head. There’s not much I hate more than being mansplained to. Shannon tries it all the time. My words fly through the air, whipping their punishment. “Explain? I have a master’s in art history.’”

The dimple disappears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Willfully, I lock down the tiny sliver of an opening that I felt in my heart the moment I looked at him. He’s not for me. It’s obvious he likes to lord his superiority as an artist over unsuspecting women. I don’t roll with that yuppy crowd, always on the outskirts, knowing enough to keep me hovering within sight of the group, but not caring enough to really learn about art like the passion it should be.

“Look, Henry. I’m not trying to detract from your knowledge or your talents, but…”

I pause, unsure how to proceed. The look on his face is almost my undoing. Like lost puppies mixed in with rainy days.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just…”

I wait, and when he says nothing else, I prompt, “What?”

He takes a deep breath, staring at me with those hypnotic eyes and my ire falls around my feet like the gentleness of fallen leaves. Something compels me to keep my gaze mingled with his as if the Universe has intertwined us together within invisible cord of connection.

“My art is much more than my livelihood. It’s an extension of my soul. Most people have no idea about how much it really means to me.”

I exhale. I understand. I see him in a whole new light. “I totally get that. I really do.”

He lifts a dark eyebrow. “But…?”

“Henry, hear me out for a second. I can tell how passionate you are about your art. And the bottom line is that–”

He opens his mouth and clamps it shut again. I can tell he’s searching for the right words. “You don’t get it. My process is unique to me. No other artist creates the way I do. But of course, you have to be an artist to understand.”

I walk over to a shelf with several vases. Things are off to a bit of a rocky start with Henry. I’ve dealt with my share of temperamental artists, but I can already see this is turning into a fire. A fire I’m willingly walking toward. A fire that will ultimately lead to my own incineration.