Page 63 of Undone

PART TWO

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Outside the Looking Glass

I’VE LOST MY MIND. Either that or the ghost of the man I still loved was haunting me, even though he’s still very much alive. I woke up confused; disoriented. The smell of pine and leather clung to the air.

I swear I felt his touch.

The pain of it—seared my heart as much as the memory of him curled up in his bed with that club skank in his arms.

I was still numb with disbelief.

Did I even ever know him at all? I was too drained to drive back to Oregon. But after sleeping all day, I couldn’t wait to get out of bed and leave his ghost behind. I quickly showered and changed into fresh clothes and ran out of that room as if it was haunted.

I pulled out of the lot, stopping at the first diner I passed to grab a sandwich and coffee to go, before putting in the coordinates to a few art galleries in San Francisco. I might as well see something worthwhile while I was there.

The skyline lit up as darkness slowly fell. But the big, red bridge on the other side of the city had lost its romance. I huddled into my hooded coat as I walked down a block toward the small art gallery I had found online.

My steps slowed as I approached. It was full of light and art. But what stopped me in my tracks, wasn’t the art—but the expensive-looking couples walking inside.

“Shit. There must be a showing.” I walked to the window, peering into the one part of the art world I never understood—how people stared at what we created while thinking they knew the answers to everything. I snorted at the champagne being passed around with trays of caviar.

“Can I help you?”

Shit. I was caught.

“No. I was just passing by.”

“Would you like to come in?”

I looked down at my jeans, worn boots, and coat that had seen me through many falls in Chicago. “I wanted to view the Kathryn White paintings… but didn’t realize there was an event tonight.”

The woman grabbed my arm. “You’re a fan of her work?”

“Honestly, I had never heard of her before moving out to the West Coast. I was researching galleries in the area and ran across articles on her. The way she captured the light perfectly, is astounding…her lines are messy but perfect?” I broke off, while my face turned red.

“Why, thank you.”

“Shit. You’re—”

“I am. I never let them print pictures of me. I wanted the focus to be on my art, instead of me as a person.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” I agreed.

She took me by the arm and opened the gallery door. Sensing my hesitation, she grinned, tugging me forward, “You’re my honored guest—?”

“Luce. Short for Lucille.”

“Nice to meet you. Are you an artist as well?”

“More like art teacher… although I do dabble with canvas—mostly abstract and contemporary. I like using bold colors and watching where they bleed.”

She led me inside and we chatted like old friends. She introduced me around as a “gifted art teacher and upcoming abstract artist friend.” Despite my clothing, everyone was friendly and warm making me feel like an ass for misjudging them. Kathryn and a few gallery workers invited me out for drinks, and I went without hesitation.

That night as I made new friends and talked about my passion for hours with people who understood—the pain eased. Until I was alone again, and my high was over. But the long drive north went a bit faster as my head spun with all the new masterpieces in my mind just waiting to be created.

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