Page 89 of Gap Control

Peggy reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. Her fingers were warm from the coffee mug. Her hand was steady in a way that reminded me why I'd driven an hour and a half to sit in a greasy diner and eat overpriced comfort food.

"Maybe it's time to learn."

The words followed me home like a song stuck on repeat. I sat in my apartment for an hour, sketch spread on the coffee table, staring at Mason's charcoal strokes. Peggy was right—she was always right, which was both comforting and infuriating.

Knowing I needed to learn how to be seen didn't show me how to do it. Maybe if I could understand what Mason saw when he drew me—what made it worth capturing—that could be a first step.

I opened my laptop and typed "art galleries Portland Maine" into the search bar before I could talk myself out of it. If this sketch was what Peggy thought it was—what I was starting to think it was—then maybe I needed someone who actually understood art to tell me I wasn't losing my mind.

The Cornerstone Gallery's website looked legitimate enough, professional but not too pretentious. I could drive down, ask a few questions, and return before Mason noticed his missing drawing.

What could go wrong?

The drive to Portland should've taken forty-five minutes. I stretched it to an hour and a half, stopping at a gas station forgum I didn't need and circling the downtown blocks twice like a stalker casing his target.

The gallery sat wedged between a vintage bookstore and a coffee shop that probably charged eight dollars for a latte. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed white walls dotted with expensive and slightly incomprehensible paintings—the kind of art that made me wonder whether I was smart enough to understand it, or if not understanding it was the whole point.

I'd thrown on my most anonymous outfit: black hoodie pulled low, Red Sox cap tugged down until the brim nearly touched my nose, and sunglasses that made me look like a B-list celebrity trying to buy milk without getting photographed. The folder under my arm contained Mason's sketch, protected by two pieces of cardboard I'd cut off a cereal box.

My hands were sweating so badly that I feared leaving fingerprints on the door handle.

The gallery smelled like turpentine and burnt coffee. The woman behind the reception desk didn't look up when the bells chimed my entrance—she was too busy attacking a canvas with what looked like a palette knife, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.

She finished whatever violent artistic surgery she was performing, then glanced up with eyes the color of steel wool. Silver hair escaped from a paint-splattered bandana, and her black turtleneck had more colors on it than the paintings on the walls.

"You're either lost, planning a heist, or carrying something you're afraid to show me." Her voice had a Boston accent sandpapered by years of cigarettes and strong opinions. "Door's behind you for the first two options."

I cleared my throat, suddenly aware that my disguise made me look more like someone planning a robbery than seeking artisticguidance. "I was hoping to talk to someone about a piece. For evaluation, maybe?"

She studied me over paint-smeared reading glasses that hung from a chain made of what looked like vintage typewriter keys. "What kind of piece? And speak up—I'm not getting any younger, and my hearing went to hell during my punk phase."

"A drawing. Sketch. Charcoal." I held up the folder like evidence. "I'm not sure if it's... you know. Good."

She set down her palette knife with a decisive clunk. "Kid, I've been running this place for thirty-seven years. In that time, I've seen more bad art than you've had hot dinners, and enough good art to know the difference. Good is what my grandmother called casseroles—art is either honest or it's bullshit."

She stood, revealing paint-splattered jeans held up by a belt that appeared to be made from an old camera strap. "I'm Elena Vasquez. I own this place, teach watercolors to rich ladies on Thursdays, and once dated a man who tried to convince me that finger painting was high art. Follow me."

She led me through the main gallery, past a sculpture that looked like someone had sneezed while welding, toward a door marked PRIVATE.

She pushed the door open. "Fair warning, my office makes tornado damage look organized."

She wasn't lying. It was like an art supply store had exploded inside a library, and somebody stirred it all with a stick.

Canvases leaned against every wall surface—some finished, others abandoned mid-stroke. Books tottered in precarious towers, their spines worn smooth by countless consultations. A coffee maker that had probably been white once upon a time gurgled in the corner, surrounded by mugs in various stages of decay.

"Sit anywhere you can find space." She cleared a chair for herself. "Coffee? It's strong enough to strip paint, which around here is sometimes useful."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Smart man. The last person who drank my coffee stayed awake for three days and painted seventeen self-portraits. Now, show me the goods."

My hands shook as I opened the folder. The sketch looked impossibly small, insignificant among all the legitimate art. I slid it across the desk like I was surrendering evidence.

Elena picked it up, and her entire demeanor shifted. The sardonic gallery owner disappeared, replaced by someone whose eyes moved with surgical precision across Mason's charcoal strokes. She held the sketch at arm's length, then closer, then sideways—as if the angle might reveal additional secrets.

"Huh."

"Huh good or huh bad?"

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