Choose Me (The Me Novellas) (3 page)

His fingers wrapped around mine and he shook firmly. “Your work is good,” he said slowly.

“Thanks.”

His eyes moved from painting to painting, assessing. “Uninhibited. Bohemian.”

The words, good compliments in and of themselves, sounded even better with his rich Russian accent. I thanked him again, trying to will myself to keep from blushing.

“I like your pieces, too,” I said. I did. I wasn’t a huge fan of abstracts but I admired his brush strokes, strong and sure, and how the paint moved across each of the canvases.

He stared at them and shrugged. “They are alright.”

A couple approached and their eyes traveled over the wall. The man, an older gentleman with a receding hairline and tortoiseshell glasses, pointed to the sunflower.

“What happened there?” he asked.

I cringed. Finally, someone was calling me out. Someone had noticed.

“Well,” I began, but then stopped, not sure where to start. Did I admit that I couldn’t blend those greens to save my life? That leaves were, for whatever reason, the hardest part of a flower for me to paint? That it was the reason I loved close-ups, so that I could avoid the intricacies of painting leaves?

“The canvas,” the man said before I could say anything else. “Is it unfinished?”

“Oh,” I said. I looked at the rough, cream-colored background I'd painted in the center of the canvas, the portion where I'd then painted the flower. “That was intentional. My way of highlighting the flower. The single stalk.”

He nodded. “I see. The colors are amazing.”

Even the puke-ish leaves, I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. I just said another thank you.

The man fished out his wallet and produced a card.

“I own a tea shop in Shakopee,” he said. “I may be interested in purchasing this for our tea room.”

“OK.” I took the card with shaking hands.

He smiled at me. “Call me.”

He and his partner moved toward Ellen’s paintings and the business card he’d handed me fluttered to the floor.

Andy and Yuri both stooped down to pick it up. Andy got to it first.

“Think you might want to hold on to this,” he said, folding it back into my palm.

I clutched it tight. “Did he just say what I think he said?”

He nodded. “Uh-huh.”

I glanced at Yuri. He smiled and nodded as well.

“The first of many admirers,” he said. His eyes were focused on me, his brow furrowed, like he was thinking hard. “Your work is good. Very good.”

I smiled weakly. Maybe it wasn’t such a sick sunflower, after all.

And maybe, just maybe, I didn’t suck as an artist.

FOUR

“How’d it go?” Dylan asked the next morning.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room, my feet propped on the coffee table. I clutched a cup of coffee in my hands, willing the caffeine to somehow seep through the porcelain mug and through my skin and into my veins. I hadn’t slept all night. My brain had run out of control, reliving every conversation, every interaction from the art show. Even with Andy snuggled in next to me, his hand splayed across my stomach, his leg between mine, his breathing steady and light, I couldn’t sleep. Not even for a minute.

“Fine,” I answered.

He yawned. “Just fine?”

I blew on the steam that rose from my mug and sipped. “Good, I guess. There was a decent turnout.”

He padded into the kitchen and opened a cupboard door. He needed coffee as badly as I did in the morning.

“So it turned out OK.” It wasn’t a question.

I hesitated. It had turned out better than OK. Besides the tea shop owner, two other people had expressed interest in my work. Not just nice words about my paintings but conversations about purchases. Commissions.

I nodded.

He leaned against the refrigerator and grinned. “Good.”

Katie stumbled out of Dylan’s bedroom, rubbing her eyes. She was dressed in flannel pajama pants that looked three sizes too big. I was pretty sure they were Dylan’s.

“We should just get two more roommates,” I commented, eyeing her. “Since neither of us ever sleep in our rooms.”

She blushed as she walked into the kitchen. Dylan caught her, pulling her in for a kiss.

He nuzzled her neck. “Seriously,” he said.

It was true. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent the night in my room. And even though I couldn’t be sure, I was fairly certain Katie’s vacancy rate was just as high.

“Did I hear right?” Katie asked, settling herself on the couch next to me. “Last night was good?”

I swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Yes. It was good.”

She smiled and her whole face lit up. “That’s terrific, Meg! So what happens now?”

Dylan settled himself on the arm of the couch, his leg pressed up against Katie. “Yeah. What now?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I wasn’t being evasive. I really didn’t know. I’d never done a show before. I didn’t know what to expect. The chatter after the show had been exciting, invigorating. Ellen had sold two paintings during the show and had appointments already lined up for the following week. A couple of other artists—Ivy and Marcus, I thought—had had similar success. Yuri had sold one of his pieces, a big black and gray square. And I had my leads. No firm sales, but leads.

I imagined I’d go back to my studio and continue painting. Continue the notecard sketches. And follow up on the inquiries from last night. What else was there to do?

I told them what had happened during the course of the evening. They listened, smiling their support.

“Hey.”

Andy stood in the doorway of his room, bare-chested, his hair sticking straight up. He held out my phone.

“Your phone rang.” He handed it to me.

I glanced at the number. It wasn’t one I knew.

“Maybe they’re already calling,” Katie squealed. “I can’t believe you’re going to be famous!”

I rolled my eyes. “Please. Let’s not get carried away.”

“You’ll be like Andy Warhol,” Dylan said. “Only not a dude.”

My phone vibrated. A text from the same number.

Three pairs of eyes watched as I tapped the screen and read it out loud.

Meg, this is Yuri. Please call me. I have an opportunity I would like to discuss.

“Who’s Yuri?” Katie asked.

Andy scowled but didn’t say anything.

“An artist,” I told them. “Someone who exhibited with me last night at the show.”

“Someone who had the hots for you,” Andy said.

I stared at him, my brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

He shook his head. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you?”

“No.”

“Like you were the tiramisu on the dessert cart.”

“Except he probably likes chocolate cake,” I responded. Tiramisu was Andy’s favorite dessert. And even though it was a monumental pain in the ass to make, I did. For him.

Andy shook his head. “Nope. He’s tiramisu. All the way.”

“Whatever.” I dismissed him. “He’s probably just calling to say goodbye.”

During the remainder of the show, I’d learned he was visiting from Washington, DC. He was an acquaintance of Ivy’s and she’d arranged to have him fly out for the gallery show. Originally from Russia, he was on some kind of visa.

“That’s the opportunity he’d like to discuss?” Andy asked. “How to say goodbye to you?”

I ignored him. Andy was not a jealous person. But a smart-ass? One hundred percent.

I tossed my phone onto the coffee table and drained my mug. “I’ll call him later.”

Andy grabbed my mug and went into the kitchen. Less than a minute later he was back, a fresh cup in his hands. He handed it to me.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

I thought for a minute. “I don’t know. What do you guys want? Eggs?”

He shook his head. “No, Meg. Let’s go to breakfast. You and me.”

“Go?”

“Yes. Breakfast. You. Me.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting at the Dunn Brothers half a mile from the house. Andy had thrown on a Cabela’s T-shirt and sweats, a red baseball cap squashed on his head. I didn’t look much better.

I got situated on the leather couch by the fireplace while he waited at the counter for our scones and smoothies. The coffee shop was a chain but each location felt unique, different from the others. The one near us housed a massive stone fireplace in the center of the shop, with butter-colored leather couches and arm chairs surrounding it. The smell of roasting coffee beans permeated the air and the soft music playing in the background made it a particularly soothing place to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee. Or smoothie.

It was a quiet morning. A man sat alone at one of the tables, his laptop positioned in front of him, a notepad off to the side. At another table, a trio of ladies gossiped and giggled over their cafe lattes.

“I’m glad you came,” I told him once we’d gotten settled with our food.

Andy handed me a straw. “You told me that last night.”

“I know.” I bit into my orange-cranberry scone. The barista had warmed up the pastry and it melted in my mouth. “But I wanted to tell you again.”

He took a long drink of his smoothie. “I’m glad I came, too. And, I’m glad I didn’t listen to you.”

I smiled. “Me, too.”

I was glad. After the surprise had worn off, I’d enjoyed having him nearby. Not smothering and not even hovering. Just there if I needed him.

“But I wanna tell you something,” he said.

“OK.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you to ever tell me not to come to something again.” He paused. “Ever.”

I swallowed. “OK.”

“I mean it.” He frowned. “You’re too important to me, Meg. I want to be involved in everything you do. Period. The good and the bad. That’s what couples do. You know?”

I knew.

“I don’t ever want to feel removed from a part of your life.” He looked down and his voice grew soft. “It makes me feel
…
unimportant.”

I winced. That assessment couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I crossed my legs, my left leg hiding the tiny hole in the right thigh of my black yoga pants. “That’s not how I meant it. You know that.”

“I know.” He smiled ruefully at me. “But that’s how I took it.”

I covered his hand with mine and squeezed. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“I know you are,” he said. “And I mean it. It can’t happen again.”

I nodded. “OK.”

“I love you,” he told me. His fingertips traced my hand. “And someday, I’m going to marry you.”

I felt the butterflies rise up in my stomach. We’d talked about marriage a lot. Imagined and dreamed about the day we would finally take the plunge. We both had milestones we wanted to reach before we tied the knot. For me, it was about getting to a comfortable place with my art. Knowing it could sustain me and fulfill me, both professionally and personally. For Andy, it was graduating out of managing properties for other people. He was close to buying and was making solid connections in the real estate and home improvement worlds. He wanted to buy houses, fix them up, then rent them. His barometer for success: getting that first house up and running.

“I know,” I whispered.

“So don’t keep me out.” He tore off a piece of his blueberry scone and chewed it. “Of anything.”

I nodded. I wouldn’t. At least I would try not to.

My phone buzzed again, vibrating across the table, and we both glanced down at it.

A 202 area code. The same number as before. Yuri.

“Looks like he really wants to say goodbye,” Andy remarked.

I said nothing.

“You should answer it.”

I looked at him before reaching for the phone.

“Meg?” His accent was even more pronounced on the phone.

“Hi, Yuri.”

“I hope you don’t mind me calling,” he said. “But I have some news.”

“News?” We’d talked a little last nigh,t but I wasn’t sure I should now be considered someone to call with
‘
news.’

“Yes.” The line crackled just a bit. “An opportunity for you. For your art.”

The butterflies fluttered again. I hadn’t left the show early. I’d waited until the doors closed, until the last visitor had left the gallery. It had been after midnight. So I knew he hadn’t talked to anyone last night. Because he would have just sent them in my direction.

“An opportunity?”

“Yes,” he repeated. “Another show.”

I felt my palms grow wet and I gripped the phone tighter. “Another show?”

Andy glanced at me, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes.”

I waited.

“A prestigious gallery,” Yuri said. “A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, really.”