Staying in the hotel with Mom’s messages on my phone became torture, and walking alone isn’t the needed distraction.
A couple exits a store, and they laugh and hold hands. They’re beautiful together—wearing the same type of clothes and smile. They look like they’ve materialized out of a J. Crew catalog and chat over their shared love of some vase.
Noah and I would never have that conversation.
Feeling suddenly insecure and underdressed in my cut-offs and blue T-shirt, I tuck my free-flowing curls behind my ears and cross my sweater-covered arms over my chest as I wander past a line of galleries. I’ve visited lots of galleries over the summer, and judging by the quality of art in the windows, none of them have been this high-end. In any of these places, my work wouldn’t be fit to display in the bathroom. If what the curator in Denver said was true, my paintings are probably inhabiting a Dumpster.
Noah wouldn’t say it, but he harbors guilt for changing our plans. He won’t after I gush over the number of galleries in Vail. This side trip could be life-altering. Maybe I do have one last shot at proving myself before going home.
My pack dangles from my shoulder. I brought a sketchbook and chalk in case inspiration hits. Lots of inspiring views around me, but the art...wow. Talk about feeling less.
A beautiful painting of the night sky hangs in the window of a gallery and catches my attention. It’s not the lines or the choice of coloring that draws me to it. It’s the constellation, and I become completely lost.
“What do you think?”
“Excuse me?” I glance to my right, and a guy with a mop of sandy-brown hair sporting a pair of jeans and T-shirt stands next to me. He’s older than me. Easily thirtysomething, I guess. To be honest, people sort of blend in between twenty-five and forty.
He raises a bag in his hand. “I’ve walked by a couple of times, and you’ve been here staring. So I’m thinking you must like it.”
I blink, not realizing I had been entranced for so long. “It’s good,” I answer, because it is. “I like the shading here.” Then motion to where the blacks and blues merge. “It gives it a nice Impressionist feel.”
With the bag on his wrist, he shoves his hands into his pockets and appraises me as if I should have more to say, which I don’t.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“You don’t like the painting.”
I hike a brow. “I like the painting.”
“No.” The reusable grocery bag crackles. “You don’t. There’s a look people have when they like something, and you don’t have that light.”
Not caring for the interrogation, I break the news. “It’s wrong.”
His head jerks back. “What?”
“It’s wrong,” I repeat and gesture to the middle of the constellation. “It’s missing a star.”
“It’s art. There’s only what the artist intended.”
“True, but I don’t think that’s the case here.”
“Why?”
I motion with my finger where the star should be. “Because if I meant to leave the star out, I would have made this area a shade darker. Just enough that you could only see it if you were searching. I also would have left a small indication that something so important, something so critical to your soul has disappeared. The sole reason a constellation exists is because it’s a sum of its parts. To lose one of those parts...it’s painful and irreversible.”
He’s silent for a moment as he focuses on the area I pointed out. “Maybe you’re wrong on the constellation.”
“My brother’s name was Aires. I couldn’t forget that constellation if I tried.” A heavy weight slams into my chest. I’ve gone too long without remembering my brother. I used to think about him several times a day, and now I haven’t thought of him since last night. I miss him, and what does it mean that he’s not haunting my every thought? Am I forgetting him?
With a sigh that actually causes me pain, the man stalks into the gallery, lifts the painting off the easel and carries it into the back. If I was Noah, I’d drop the f-bomb right now, but I’m not, so a simple crap will suffice. I broke a cardinal rule: keep your mouth shut until you know who the gallery owner and the artist are because they can be hiding in the Trojan horse of a tourist with reusable shopping bags.
So much for the idea of making connections in Vail.
I stand there, staring at the empty slot, wondering if there’s any way to salvage this, like: “I didn’t mean it” or “I smoked crack before I traipsed over here” or “I’ve been kidnapped and a bomb’s been strapped to my chest, and if I don’t trash other people’s paintings, a bus on the highway will explode.”
Yeah, I don’t think he’ll buy it.
I turn and begin the long walk of shame back to the hotel. My cell vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and frown the moment I spot the name of my therapist, Mrs. Collins. It’s like the woman is hardwired to me.