Chapter Forty-Nine
Brooklyn
My art belonged on the walls, but I wasn’t sure I belonged on the floor with the rest of the glamorous people. Not wanting to distract from my art or other artists’ pieces, I’d gone with a little black dress with a plunging neckline and added my red and purple Iron Fist heels for a color pop. The bow on the toe also had studs because I liked shoes that could double as weapons. My lips matched the red, my jewelry the purple. I looked like Punk Rocker Chic Barbie in a world of Country Club Queens.
Everyone else had at least one other person to support them. I’d met friends, significant others, and parents of every other artist displaying their work tonight. Guess being forever alone at these events was my cross to bear, and I knew there were a lot worse things. Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t miraculously settle my nerves or make me feel very well-supported.
Waiters with champagne flutes wove through the room, and while I’d originally decided not to imbibe in the bubbly, now I was thinking I needed some liquid courage. I’d prefer something with a little more kick, preferably a shot of whiskey, but tonight I was a fancypants. Fake it till you make it, right?
The bubbles burned my nose, and I took back my slams on champagne—this stuff was delicious. I lifted my glass for another gulp and heard a refined male voice ask, “This is your work?”
My champagne went down the wrong tube, and I covered a cough, my eyes burning as I worked to force myself to cut off the sputtering and suck in air. “It is,” I said, turning fully toward him. Early thirties, impeccable suit that fit his lean body perfectly. He introduced himself as Chris Purcell as we shook hands, and his soft skin spoke to a career behind a desk.
“Brooklyn Roth,” I said, and he gave me a wide smile, one with interest behind it.
Shane would definitely call him soft. I wonder how he’s holding up. If Liam decided to show him my text.
What if he did and it does the opposite of encourage him? I bit my thumbnail, an old habit I thought I’d kicked long ago, as worry gnawed on my insides.
And this was exactly why I wasn’t allowed to think about Shane right now.
I tipped back the rest of my champagne, and I’m sure it was less than ladylike, but at the moment, I didn’t really care.
Chris stepped closer, breaching my bubble. “Tell me about your pieces.”
I gave him a condensed version of my process, and talked about each of the faces and what they meant to me. Then I got to the piece that made it impossible to follow through with my attempt to not think about Shane. The woman who ran the exhibition told me she’d like me to add a few extra paintings to fill my wall space if I had more, and I’d just finished my most recent piece last week. The card underneath said The Fighter in big bold letters. In my head, I’d titled it Masochism in Paint. It’d been my coping mechanism, my way to get all my emotions onto a canvas, where I hoped I’d be able to better deal with them. I’m sure a licensed therapist would call it repression and failing to move on. At one point, I thought maybe I’d burn it, like they did in TV shows and movies as a cleansing ceremony for exes. Before I’d even finished, I knew I’d never be able to bring myself to do it, though.
“Are they based on real people?” Chris gestured with his champagne flute, making a wide arc that encompassed all my works.
“Some are, some aren’t,” I said. “For the most part, I focus more on moods than certain people.”
“And this one?”
I couldn’t tell if he’d indicated the one I’d painted of Shane as a way to ask if I was single, or if he connected to it on some level that clearly wasn’t based in reality.
Now I’m being judgmental, and he’s been nothing but nice.
He put his hand on the small of my back. So maybe he had ulterior motives for the nice.
“Yes. It’s based on someone I know.” Someone who’d glower at you until you removed your hand. Or he would’ve back when we…
I took a step forward, waving my arms as I talked more about my method. It didn’t help with the ache that’d claimed my heart, but it was effective at keeping Chris from touching me again.
The guy did a double take at the door, and the way his eyes widened made me follow suit. I blinked, thinking I must be seeing things.
“Dad?”
He glanced around as he closed the distance between us, clearly feeling out of place. “I, uh…I came to see your pictures.”
So not pictures, but the fact that he’d shown up made a lump form in my throat, and I had to blink my eyes to keep from crying. Chris had backed away, instinctively giving my dad a wide berth. I looped my arm through Dad’s elbow and led him to my display wall.
“This is different than what you used to do,” he said.
“Yeah. As I went through art school, I got braver and started messing with different mediums and effects. This is the one that I do the best, and it fits what I want to convey with my art.”
“Which is…?”
Once again I thought of Shane saying it was where I threw my punches, and the dam holding back my tears shivered with the pressure. I shrugged. “I want them to make people feel. It’ll be different for everyone depending on who they are, and what they’ve experienced, but I hope my paintings evoke some kind of strong, visceral emotion.”
Dad nodded, his forehead creasing and smoothing, and it was okay if he didn’t understand, because he was here. There was a huge fight going on in another city, and he’d shown up. Earlier today, I would’ve bet thousands of dollars he’d never come to a single showing.
“Pride,” he said, and then he smiled down at me. “I feel pride.”
The dam broke, and I hugged him, hoping he didn’t mind a few teardrops on his shirt.
“That one…” He jerked his chin at the one of Shane. “I’m assuming it’s—”
“Yeah,” I said, afraid hearing his name would hurt. But the can of worms had already been opened. Might as well let them wiggle free. “Any idea how he was before the fight?”
“Pissed off and mouthy.”
Of all the things Dad could’ve said, those were certainly unexpected. Worrisome, too. “Did he try to fight Conrad in the hallway or something? Did he get in trouble? Is he okay?”
Dad held up a hand, like whoa, and I pressed my lips closed so the questions would stop bubbling out. “At me. He was pissed off at me for showing up in the locker room. Told me he didn’t need me there, and added that if I didn’t want to lose you, I needed to get to your art show.”
Everything inside me twisted, organs moving in ways they never should. It felt like they’d been wrung out and shoved back inside in the wrong order. Why would he do that? Send one of his coaches away before one of his biggest fights? Most fighters had three in their corner, and Dad had the most experience of all of them. And Shane had insisted Dad come to my show instead…
He chose me. My heart swelled and swelled, until it could hardly fit in its cage. Tonight, even though he had his own huge event going on, Shane had put me and my art first in the best way he could.
“Don’t get me wrong, it pissed me off. If Liam wasn’t there…” Dad shook his head and I flinched, worried for the past version of Shane who’d stood up to my dad like that. “But he was right. I should’ve made the decision to come before he pushed me to it, and I’m glad I’m here now.”
More tears were coming, and this time Dad pulled me in for a hug. I couldn’t believe Shane had pushed him to leave a fight that big, and even more surprising, that it’d worked. Dad had…yeah, he’d actually changed, and while it might seem like a small change to someone else, it felt huge to me. It made me want to believe that maybe, just maybe anything was possible.
It also showed that Shane was thinking of me, and that he still cared, and obviously I cared about him right back. Hope rose, that foolish bitch I couldn’t fully rid myself of. Maybe he forgave me for leaving, and maybe we weren’t as totally doomed as I thought, even though I still had no idea how we could possibly make an already-complicated long-distance relationship work.
“That picture makes me think you’re in love with him,” Dad said.
I sniffed and nodded. “Probably because I am.”
He exhaled, his conflicted expression saying he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “He sounded real regretful about losing you. Even said I should learn from his mistakes. Pretty sure that means he loves you, too.”
My throat tightened to the painful point. “Even if he does, I’m not sure that means we can work things out.”
“Now I guess it’s time to talk about my mistakes, and how you should learn from them. Winning all those fights made me brash and way too arrogant, and I got caught up in the fame. I didn’t hold on to the things that were really important, like the people who truly knew me and loved me anyway. Like your mom. I’m a big enough person to admit I screwed up, but my stubborn pride kept me from saying so for too long. My life started to feel empty. That’s why I wanted you back home. I thought you being there would just somehow fix it…”
Dad gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “But I screwed that up, too, the way I always tend to do, and I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t exactly make it easy on you.” I’d been so sure he couldn’t change that I’d thrown up my shields and taken offense to everything he’d said. Hardly the fair shot my brother asked me to give him.
“No, you didn’t,” he said, a light, teasing note in the words. “That’s because you’re my child, and I think stubborn runs in the family.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I joked.
“You’re strong, Brooklyn. You’re a fighter through and through, make no mistake about that. If you want something, I have no doubt you’ll find a way to get it.”
His belief in me had me standing straighter and thinking about what I wanted—who I wanted—all over again.
“I promise I’ll never ask you to give up your art again, and I’m not saying that you need to come back home, but I sure do miss having you around, even with all the extra fireworks.” He punctuated his statement with a full smile, one that made his eyes crinkle.
Explosive seemed like a good way to describe our relationship, and I missed him, too, even if he made me feel like I was going to have an aneurism half the time.
“I meant what I said about you visiting more,” Dad said, “and I’ll visit, too. I want to have a better relationship with you, and I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I’m asking for one anyway.”
Love flooded my chest and helped smooth over old scars. “I’d like that. I think most everyone could use another chance at things they’ve messed up.” I sure could. More and more I was realizing how badly I’d messed up with Shane. I should’ve had more faith in him—he deserved that and then some. I leaned closer to my Dad and kept my voice low. “I need to go circulate, but could you find out if Shane’s fight has started yet, and how it’s going, and just…I’m going crazy wondering, and I’m not going to be able to focus very well until I know.”
Dad pulled out his phone, his eyes lighting up. “I thought you’d never ask.”