Free Down Shift by K. Bromberg Page B

and my father may have criticized my scribbles in charcoal, chastised me for an occasional mention of how I’d like to paint too, but no one has ever seen what I’ve started in this new medium.
    â€œGetty.” His voice is soft, full of something I can’t quite place, and all I know is the lump in my throat feels like it’s the size of a baseball, because I’m having trouble swallowing over it. “These are . . .”
    â€œNo. Please . . . just . . . Zander . . .”
    â€œIncredible.”
    It’s 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. It’s as if his fingertips touching each one are acknowledging the validity of the emotions I’ve expressed on canvas. Telling me they are okay to feel when for so long I’ve 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 today’s painting still on the easel; the one I’m 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 I’m 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 didn’t realize I was holding burns in my lungs. “I don’t know shit about art, Getty, but these paintings, those sketches . . .” He shakes his head as if he’s 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. “They’re unbelievable. It sounds lame, but it’s almost like you can
feel
them.”
    I don’t know what I expected to hear, but his description pulls at every part of me that still needed an ounce of validity. “Thank you.” My voice is soft, uneven, and now that he’s seen them, I don’t 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.
    â€œWhere’s your next showing at?”
    My brow furrows and eyes narrow as I try to compute what he’s asking me. “What do you mean?”
    â€œLike I said, I don’t know much about this kind of thing, but it looks like you’re gearing up for an art show.” He motions to the canvases lining the walls of the alcove. “So I was asking when it is. I mean, it all makes sense now.”
    â€œYou lost me.” I’m still recovering from someone seeing my paintings and the unexpected praise, let alone trying to follow him. “What makes sense?”
    â€œYou renting the house. Getting ready for the show here and then moving to the next place, for the next one.”
    My laugh is long and rich with a tinge of nerves lacing its edges. “There is no show. I’m not moving on.” He angles his head and stares at me. “They’re not for sale, Zander.”
    It’s his turn to look at me funny, like he doesn’t understand. “Why not?”
    I’m not going to lie and say the confusion in his voice over my answer—like I’m crazy—doesn’t give a boost to my ego.
    â€œBecause I paint for me.” Silence fills the room