and my father may have criticized my scribbles in charcoal, chastised me for an occasional mention of how Iâd like to paint too, but no one has ever seen what Iâve started in this new medium.
âGetty.â His voice is soft, full of something I canât quite place, and all I know is the lump in my throat feels like itâs the size of a baseball, because Iâm having trouble swallowing over it. âThese are . . .â
âNo. Please . . . just . . . Zander . . .â
âIncredible.â
Itâs awe.
The sound in his voice is awe.
I watch him in my disbelief. The chance to sit back and let someone finally see my art proves stronger than my innate need for privacy.
He rifles through the paintings stacked five and six deep against the walls. His fingers skim over my feelings. Streaks of blue and gray and black and blends of shading and different textures. Anger. Insecurity. Sadness. Loneliness. Longing. Itâs as if his fingertips touching each one are acknowledging the validity of the emotions Iâve expressed on canvas. Telling me they are okay to feel when for so long Iâve been told I was being dramatic, that I needed to bite my tongue and do what a good little wife does.
He goes one by one through the artwork. Head down, concentration etched in the lines of his face, eyes focused. And then he moves to todayâs painting still on the easel; the one Iâm still not sure is completed.
The emotions are still fresh in my mind, still tacky to the touch on the canvas. I feel exposed although Iâm the only one who knows what has gone into the picture, the meaning behind it, the years of distress leading up to it. The hope created when I escaped from it. Zander stares at it for a moment, the pelt of rain on the window the only backdrop noise.
When he lifts his head and meets my eyes, the breath I didnât realize I was holding burns in my lungs. âI donât know shit about art, Getty, but these paintings, those sketches . . .â He shakes his head as if heâs seeing me in awhole new light and for a split second I worry he sees my weakness. My inadequacies. Everything I hide and everything I wish I was. âTheyâre unbelievable. It sounds lame, but itâs almost like you can
feel
them.â
I donât know what I expected to hear, but his description pulls at every part of me that still needed an ounce of validity. âThank you.â My voice is soft, uneven, and now that heâs seen them, I donât know what to do. I feel ten times more naked than I did the other night. Vulnerable. Like I want to kick him out of my inner sanctum and keep him here to hear him tell me more at the same time.
âWhereâs your next showing at?â
My brow furrows and eyes narrow as I try to compute what heâs asking me. âWhat do you mean?â
âLike I said, I donât know much about this kind of thing, but it looks like youâre gearing up for an art show.â He motions to the canvases lining the walls of the alcove. âSo I was asking when it is. I mean, it all makes sense now.â
âYou lost me.â Iâm still recovering from someone seeing my paintings and the unexpected praise, let alone trying to follow him. âWhat makes sense?â
âYou renting the house. Getting ready for the show here and then moving to the next place, for the next one.â
My laugh is long and rich with a tinge of nerves lacing its edges. âThere is no show. Iâm not moving on.â He angles his head and stares at me. âTheyâre not for sale, Zander.â
Itâs his turn to look at me funny, like he doesnât understand. âWhy not?â
Iâm not going to lie and say the confusion in his voice over my answerâlike Iâm crazyâdoesnât give a boost to my ego.
âBecause I paint for me.â Silence fills the room