Free Becoming His Muse, Part Three by KC Martin Page A

here with me.”
    “Yes,” I say.
    To myself, I add, always .
    It’s getting chilly on the floor so I guide us up to the couch. We spoon together under a cozy blanket. Logan’s arms around me feel so warm and protective, as if anything bad that has happened or could happen can’t ever really hurt me. We lie like this, napping lightly, until it’s time to go to the art opening.

Chapter Eleven
    On our way to the art gallery I try to talk to Logan about his father.
    “If he was so awful, why do you wear his old hat.”
    “I told you, it’s a reminder.”
    “Of bad things. Why does anyone need to be reminded of bad things?”
    “Everyday each of us is standing at the edge of the worst and the best of what we could become. As much as we aim for our aspirations, we must remain aware of the demons that could pull us down.”
    “What demons?”
    “You’re too young to have them.”
    “That’s not fair. You’re not that much older than I am.”
    He arches an eyebrow. “Old enough so that most of the bad stuff that happened to me happened before you were born. What happened after I did mostly to myself. And others.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t offer more.
    “Stuff happened to me, too, you know.”
    “Like what? Let me guess. Plenty of good meals, a warm cozy bed, the love and praise of your parents. Probably ballet and music lessons, summer camp, and I bet you even went to Disney World. And probably not just once.”
    “Three times,” I mumble, frowning. “Do you really hate people who haven’t suffered as much as you have?”
    He chuckles. “Not at all. You give me hope. Though, I admit, hope is pretty fragile in my hands.”
    I reach for one of those hands. I love his hands. I remember that I want to paint them.
    “Everybody suffers Logan. Even people who get to go to DisneyWorld. And everyone needs hope. True hope is resilient, not breakable. Like true love.”
    He squeezes my hand snuggled tight in his. “Like I said, no demons.”
    “If the demons you’re referring to take all the lustre out of life, I don’t want them. And if that hat represents your demons, you should ceremoniously toss it off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
    He rubs his thumb along the Fedora’s brim. “I can’t now. It’s part of my look.”
    “It’s part of your act , I know, but you’re allowed to revise it. Why hang on to something that reminds you of someone who caused you so much pain?”
    “I’ve already nearly given up smoking. Isn’t that enough?”
    “You really don’t like change, do you?”
    Quietly, he says, “Sometimes an old familiar pain is easier to live with than sudden unfamiliar pleasure.”
    When Logan talks like that I know he’s moved into his writing mind, and sure enough, he pulls out his pocket notebook.
    We walk a few more blocks and then turn a corner and find ourselves across from a brightly lit gallery. Music thrums inside.
    Despite the cold, gallery visitors spill out of the glass doors onto the sidewalk to chat and sip wine and light up an occasional cigarette. Logan moans when he sees that. “I might have to have one tonight.”
    We cross the street. I’m surprised by the number of people here. We politely shove our way in the door and hand over our winter coats. I feel underdressed compared to most of the women, who, in addition to dresses and tailored pantsuits, wear perfectly applied make up and shoes to die for. I’m at an art opening in New York! I let my excitement outweigh my feelings of inadequacy. This is my sneak peek anyways. I don’t belong here yet, but one day I hope I will.
    Logan steers me toward the middle of the room picking up two champagne glasses from a passing waiter with a tray.
    “I want you to meet Lowell,” says Logan. We stop in front of a cluster of people. A man who could easily be mistaken for George Clooney’s brother smiles wide when his eyes land on Logan. “You made it,” he says, stepping forward to shake Logan’s hand. “And