Page 22 of The Truth of Our Past

My laugh echoes back from the industrial ceiling, and Von’s vein is popping. I didn’t even try for it this time. “Rich is relative. I don’t feel rich, but the kid I was ten years ago would think I had bank and no worries.”

I slide in front of a partially painted canvas. “You don’t have an air of desperation surrounding you. If you’ve been desperate, you can sense it in other people. This artist is in her head and is second-guessing herself. She’s hungry. Literally.”

Von doesn’t say anything, but his facial expression says he agrees with me.

I skip, keeping the conversation light, to another sculpture. “This artist has money but hasn’t found his soul yet. He’s had the best schooling money can buy but doesn’t have any life experience to put his heart into anything, so his art doesn’t speak to people—yet. He’ll get there.”

“What is your opinion on my art?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Do you really want to know what I think?” This could be the end of every future conversation with him.

“Yes.”

Stepping next to him, I palm the twisted metal of his sculpture. “Saying you’re self-taught is obviously cheating.” I grin, but his face is blank.

“Your art evokes an extension of yourself. It’s interesting and stark in a beautiful way.” I suck in a deep breath. “But you’re holding back. You aren’t pouring your own emotions into it.” I face him to gauge his reaction. “Take Cole’s paintings. In the early ones, you can experience his pain and rage and in his most recent, you can feel the love tsunami.

“With yours, there isn’t a heart-stopping emotional connection. Many artists don’t want that. Some artists prefer people infuse their own emotions. I prefer personal art.” I shrug, pretending I’m not afraid he’ll throw me out.

Von grabs onto his sculpture so our hands are millimeters apart. “I can’t imagine putting my soul into something that other people will judge.” His emotions are locked tighter than a vault, and I can’t read his expression as we stare at each other.

He looks away. “Why do you love tattooing?”

“It’s art…it’s freedom of expression with pain and love and remembrance. I get to share in the best and worst moments of people’s lives and help them find art they can wear on their bodies to show the world who they are.” There’s so much more I could say, but I’m disappointed that Von didn’t share more.

He can’t express his emotions to other people, so it explains why they aren’t in his art.

“I’ve never thought of it that way.” Von cocks his head to the side and studies me. “It’s admirable.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” I laugh.

“Do not do that,” he says, and my eyebrows shoot up. “Deflect. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

I believe him. “Tell me how you taught yourself how to do this.”

Von transforms again the same as when he discussed sustainable art with the gallery client. He tells me how he helped an uncle weld a fence and asked for the scrap metal. Loving it, hetransformed a garage into a workshop, sweating with the driving need to create something lasting.

“So many things in life are temporary, and my goal is to design something sturdy that will withstand time and bring joy into the world.” He huffs a laugh.

“Back then, I needed the joy. I could see the direction my life was taking, and it overwhelmed me. A teenager trying to stop a freight train. And part of me didn’t want to stop it because it was an incredible opportunity, but I also needed something for myself.”

My head bobs up and down, soaking in every word. Von and I move over to a couch by the windows. It’s a cozy area with rugs and soft fabrics.

The effort to not flirt is killing me. The innocent things he’s saying are dirty innuendos. If I can’t keep my filter under control, he’ll go back to icy Von, and chill Von is irresistible. I’m thinking and discarding so many dirty things that I’m not participating in the conversation anymore. I should be angry that he’s trapped me in several deep conversations because I expect more of them.

My stomach rumbles so loud that Von’s eyes drop to it as his lips turn up.

“Yup, I lied. I never had dinner.” I rein in all my facial muscles and modulate my voice to neutral. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat with me?”

Von

Alec’s face must mirror my reaction as I invite him up to my place—pure shock. I told him things I’ve never told anyone. Especially not my family who I’m closest to. His orbit has a hold on me. I’d never guess he had a difficult past, but it puts his cheeky attitude in perspective. He talks and talks but rarely goes beyond surface level.

It’s a privilege to be with unguarded Alec. But it’s a dangerous privilege since I crave his warmth.

Alec’s face has split into a shy grin with sunshine leaking out of his pores. “You like me,” he sings smugly.

“Take your spikes down. I’m hungry and have takeout on speed dial.” The laugh in my voice isn’t subtle.

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