The lighting above the artwork shone bright and seemed to start in the middle of the images and burst out, accentuating the depth of the dark and light along with the texture of the red paint making it pop out as if 3D.
“Have you figured out what it means yet?” Alec asked while looking at the painting. I looked at him for long moments. Watching him as he appreciated what he created. He was the one that should have been the subject of the artwork. He was so big, strong, and masculine. The hair he’d pulled into a tiny bun at the back of his head seemed to shine gold in the lighting. His beard and mustache made slight rustling noise as he rubbed his knuckles across it. “Have you, ma jolie?”
I shook my head and focused on the art. “I can see that it’s beautiful, that it moves me in a way.”
His gaze shot to mine. “It moves you?”
“Yeah,” I whispered focusing on the first image. “This one, I look sad, but it’s more than that. There’s a quiet devastation there. The sorrow so deep in the eyes you’ve painted makes me think I’ll never be happy. That she’ll never be happy.” I tried to take myself out of the image even though it was difficult. I had a feeling that was the last thing he intended.
He nodded. “Yes when I captured you, it hurt me. That’s how I knew it was the right one. Art should make you feel something. Good, bad, happiness, sorrow, love, hate, cold, warmth. Everything we see correlates to a feeling within us. This particular one moved you the way it should.”
“Why? Why would you want someone to feel sorrow and a sadness so deep they may never recover?”
His gaze held mine. “Because that is what I want the viewer to see. The painting is called, “No Love for Me.”
Those words shot through my heart like an arrow. Tears spilled down both sides of my face “And the other?” I asked though afraid to hear the answer.
“What does it make you feel?”
I skimmed over the photographic image of my sad self and quickly looked away. “Shame.” His jaw seemed to tighten and lock down, and he gave a slight nod. I focused again on the image where I held my hand over the heart of the sad Mia. “Hope.” Again he stared and waited. I took in all the red lips everywhere all over the Mia reaching out to the sad image. “Love.” I shrugged.
Alec turned and came over to me where he kneeled down. He moved forward, held my face in both hands and kissed me softly. I could taste the coffee he drank and something darker, something that was unique to him.
“You see what I want you to see. Shame, hope, and love.” His eyes were wide, his features soft as he took in my face.
“But why? Those things are hard to grasp. Not only that, they are often things that tear people apart.”
“As sometimes art can do. It’s all in the eye of the beholder. What you see, what I see, may feel different, as it should.”
“Have you named it?”
He tipped his chin down in assent.
“What are you calling it?”
“Exactly what I want the viewer to feel.”
I swallowed slowly waiting for him to finish. He didn’t. “Which is?”
He traced my face from the indent at my temple down to my lips. He watched his finger with reverence as it slipped across my features.
“To Love Thyself.”
Chapter 6
Over the next week, Alec and I got into a regular routine. Stills, eating, sex. Painting, eating, sex. We hadn’t left the building, and most days it rained. I longed for sunny Malibu and being free to swim, go for a walk, or surf. What I missed most, though, besides my family, was Wes. Don’t get me wrong, Alec was amazing in more ways than one. Even though we had an easy camaraderie and had a blast in the bedroom, there really was nothing more to our relationship other than working and fucking. ‘Making love’ he called it; I called it fucking, and I loved to do it, though I didn’t share that with him. It could have been worse, I guess. He could have been parading me around to boring museums to look at other people’s art.
I wasn’t due in the loft until the evening. That was a new request. Usually, he wanted me there first thing after I woke. The problem was when I was alone with my thoughts, I’d think of all the things in my real life I was missing. My dad, who hadn’t woken from his coma but had been moved to a convalescent facility to be cared for by the State. Gin said it was an okay place, nothing special about it. She said she and Maddy visited every few days, read to him, try to keep him company. She sent me a picture of him lying in bed. The bruises around his face had healed. Most of his body was still in a cast of some sort.
Looking down at my phone, I saw my dad. It was as if he was sleeping, not fighting for his life. The doctors don’t know what his mental status will be if he wakes up. When he wakes up, I remind myself. No need to put out negative vibes into the universe. Even though I don’t really believe in that shit, if it does happen to be real, I’m not going to be the one to mess with the higher power.