Choose Me (The Me Novellas) (2 page)

I knew what that would mean. Hiring contractors to paint and to clean carpets. Supervising the work. Finalizing renters. Checking references.

“Okay.” I sat at the table and sipped my beer.

I knew I was overreacting. It was one show. A single evening. I owed it to myself to try, to take a chance and get my work out there and see what happened.

I drummed my fingers on the table. How was it any different than selling notecards in Gretchen’s store? She had them on display and people judged them each and every time they walked by, decided whether or not they were tempted to buy them.

“What are you doing?”

Dylan startled me.

“Hey,” I said.

He nodded his head in greeting. His resemblance to his cousin was uncanny. Same dark hair, same brown eyes, same physique. But Dylan’s face was rounder, his voice a little softer. Whereas Andy was out to conquer the world, one business transaction at a time, Dylan was out to save it.

He took off his Twins hat and brushed at his sweat-dampened hair. He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“Smells like I’ve been cooking,” he said, gulping half the can in one swallow.

I smiled.

“Who was it?” he asked. “Andy?”

My boyfriend wasn’t much better in the kitchen than his cousin. I shook my head.

He raised his eyebrows. “Katie?” She never stepped foot in the kitchen unless absolutely necessary.

“Wrong.”

His eyes widened. “You??”

I nodded. “Guilty.”

“Oh my God.” He sat down at the table next to me. “What happened?”

“Well, I had a pizza in the oven and I walked–”

“No,” he interrupted. “I mean, what happened? To you?”

I bit back a smile. It was nice to know he thought a life catastrophe was the only thing that would hinder my culinary skills.

“The art show.”

He nodded slowly. “Gotcha.”

We sat in silence for a bit, both of us nursing our beers. He waited for me to talk, to let me decide if I wanted to share any more.

“Just a little freaked by the whole thing,” I finally said.

“Well, sure. It’s something new. New things are never easy.”

“Not true. I like new recipes.”

“That’s different. You like to cook, you know you’re good in the kitchen.” He smiled. “You’ve got a track record with food.”

“But each recipe is different,” I said. “A new combination. You never know if the ingredients will come together the way they’re supposed to.”

Sort of like paint on a canvas, I thought.

He shook his head. “Bullshit. You have enough experience to know whether or not the combination of ingredients has a shot at working. But this? The show? It’s new. Something you’ve never done before. New venue. New set-up. New parameters. And that can be scary.”

“I guess.”

He tipped his can again, took a long swallow. “Look at Katie.”

I waited.

“Five months ago?” He shook his head, remembering. “New house, new roommates, new job.”

And new boyfriend, I wanted to add. But I didn’t.

“It was incredibly stressful for her. Remember?”

I did remember. We hadn’t spent a ton of time together those first couple of weeks after she’d moved in, but I knew what was going on in her life.

“But she did it. She plunged in, head-first. And it was hard. But she did it.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“You can do it, too,” Dylan said. “And it’ll probably be scary as hell. Just like it was for Katie. But you can do it.”

I swallowed. “OK.”

“Have a little faith in yourself.”

He stood up and ruffled my hair like I was his kid sister.

“And just remember,” he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “You can always fall back on cooking if art doesn’t pan out.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“As long as you don’t burn any more pizzas,” he added.

THREE

I glanced in my rearview mirror one last time, checking my appearance. No smeared eyeliner and I still had both hoop earrings. Bonus. I ran my hand through my hair one last time, took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.

It was evening, almost seven o’clock, and the sun was already lost on the horizon, the sky a palette of oranges and pinks. It had been a warm September day, those days that flirted between summer and fall, but a chill stole in with the impending dark and I suddenly wished I’d remembered to bring a sweater.

I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and sent a quick text to Andy, letting him know I was there.

He wasn’t with me for my show at the gallery. Not because he didn’t want to be there. But because I’d asked him not to come.

We’d talked about it the night before, after dinner, snuggled in bed.

“What time do we need to be there tomorrow?” he’d asked. His arms were wrapped around me, his leg thrown over mine.

“I need to be there around seven, I think.”

His mouth found my ear. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll be home early. Make sure I’m ready.”

“You don’t have to.”

His mouth moved to my neck. “Whatever.”

I turned so I could look at him. “No. Really. You don’t have to.”

He stared at me. “I want to.”

I took a deep breath and looked away. “I
…
I think I want to do this alone.”

He propped himself up on an elbow and frowned at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The pep talk from Dylan hadn’t helped. Neither had our relaxed dinner of pizza and more beer. I was as nervous as ever. And I didn’t want my boyfriend to think that he constantly had to reassure me. I feared that might make it worse because I had the potential to blow up at him. But most importantly, I didn’t want him to see me fail. If no one showed up, I could sit there, alone, wallowing. But he wouldn’t have to witness it.

“I feel like this is something I should do on my own,” I told him.

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”

He pulled back a little, stung. “What if I want to be there?”

I sighed. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, wasn’t trying to exclude him. But if I was going to crash and burn, I didn’t want him there to see it happen.

“I’m asking you not to come.”

His jaw clenched. “Fine.” With a concerted effort, he said, “I love you, Meg,” then rolled away from me.

We hadn’t spoken again.

I shook my head, removing the memory. I had to get inside the gallery. Steel myself for whatever came my way.

I pulled open the glass door to the gallery and stepped inside. Ellen was there, her short black curls styled into a chic, 20s-inspired hairstyle. She wore black, high-waisted trousers and a brilliant blue silk blouse that matched her eyes. Dark eyeliner, red lipstick and sapphire drop earrings made her look every inch an artist. Or model.

I tried not to think about what I was wearing, what I looked like. I always considered my red hair an asset, but the freckles and green eyes that screamed Irish lass instead of sophisticated artist? Not so much. I’d tamed my curls as best I could and used half a bottle of foundation and pressed powder to mute the freckles on my face. My outfit—a pink sundress with tiny red flowers—seemed like a good choice for an exhibit of floral paintings, but after seeing Ellen’s elegant attire, I was pretty sure everyone would mistake me for a North-woods country girl.

“Meg.” Ellen greeted me with a hug. She smelled like expensive perfume. I was pretty sure I smelled like peach body lotion.

“You look beautiful,” she told me, her eyes drifting over my dress and my hair. “Like a bowl of rainbow sherbet.”

I suppressed a sigh. That wasn’t the look I’d been going for. But perhaps it was better than a hick country girl.

She reached out and touched my elbow. “Did you see your pieces mounted?”

I hadn’t allowed my eyes to stray to the back of the gallery. Slowly, I turned my head so that I could see. Five familiar paintings hung along the long back wall, each illuminated by mounted ceiling lights. I stared, mesmerized. A close-up of a red tulip, a bouquet of yellow daisies. A field of lavender. A rose bush. And the sunflower.

Paintings I’d created. Paintings that were hanging somewhere other than my tiny, cramped studio. It felt like she’d hung pieces of me on the wall for the entire world to see.

I took a deep breath. “Wow. They look
…
good.”

Ellen beamed at me. “Better than good, darling.” She steered me toward a small group of people. “You already have a few admirers.”

Before I could say anything, she propelled me toward the center of the room.

“This is Megan Adams,” Ellen announced. “The new artist.”

Curious eyes turned in my direction and I felt my heart trip faster. My palms began to sweat and I silently commanded myself to keep still, to not wipe them down the sides of my dress.

I nodded and smiled in greeting. There were three men, ranging in age from early-twenties to mid-sixties, and two women I put both in their thirties. They were all dressed like Ellen, sporting black outfits and elegant hairstyles. Even the men.

“I love your work,” one of the women said to me. “It’s so youthful. So fresh.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Your use of color,” the older man said, stroking his silver goatee. “Quite extraordinary.”

I thanked him, too. Maybe he liked the color of vomit.

“Allow me to make introductions,” Ellen said. She rattled off names and I tried to listen, tried to take it all in. But my heart was beating outside of my chest, the whooshing sound filling my ears, and I was having a hard time hearing.

“So, how does this work?” I asked Ellen once I’d been properly introduced and my heart had quieted enough for me to carry on a conversation.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, what exactly do I do tonight?”

She laughed. “You don’t have to do anything, darling. Go stand by your work. Look artistic. Talk to people who ask questions or stop to admire. That’s it.”

I’d gotten a positive reception from the other artists but perhaps that was just par for the course. They weren’t interested in buying any of my pieces; they wanted to sell theirs. Maybe they were just being nice. Polite.

“And if no one stops?” I asked.

She waved her hand in the air. “Please. People will stop. Trust me.”

And they did.

I positioned myself near what I considered my best painting, the lavender field, and stood there and smiled. Ellen had pressed a glass of wine into my open hands—a light, fruity Zinfandel—and I sipped at this as the gallery doors opened and patrons walked through.

Everyone who stopped to talk was sweet and polite and not one person mentioned that my sunflower leaves looked like vomit.

Except one.

“How’s Sick Sunflower going over?”

I’d stepped away from the back wall for just a minute to grab another drink. Talking was thirsty work.

I spun around slowly, a new plastic wine glass in my hand. “What are you doing here?”

Andy shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “Supporting my girlfriend.”

“Even after I told you not to?”

He frowned at me. “Especially after you told me not to.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to keep my smile at bay.

He grabbed a glass of wine from one of the silver trays on the table. “How’s it going?”

I shrugged. “Good, I think.”

“You think?”

I moved toward the back of the gallery and he followed, sipping his wine.

“Everyone has said nice things. So either they’ve been paid off to come in here and say those nice things or they actually like what they see.”

He nodded. “So no one’s said you’re out of your league? That you’re not a real artist?”

I glared at him. He was throwing my exact words back at me.

He just stared innocently at me. “No?”

“No.”

He hid his grin behind his glass. “Huh. Imagine that.”

I was torn between hitting him and hugging him. But I didn’t have a chance to do either.

“Are you Megan?” a man asked, his voice accented heavily.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He held out his hand. “I am Yuri. Yuri Baikov.”

The artist who was exhibiting next to me. The artist who did not paint flowers. He was smart. He’d chosen large, geometric shapes.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, taking his hand.

He was tall with dark hair. Like Andy. Brown eyes. Like Andy. But there was something decidedly exotic about his looks. Something different, something foreign.