Page 108 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“It’s not a pity donation. You were my only friend. You helped me through a rough time. I’m just paying it forward.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t your only friend. You were screwed up in the head, so you believed what you wanted to believe.” He looked me up and down. “You look good. Life treating you better now?”
“Life’s got nothing to do with it. It’s how you treat yourself that matters,” I said. “I’m giving myself grace.”
Chuck nodded. “Sounds like you’ve made good strides.”
I glanced over at him. “I had a good therapist.”
He chuckled. “It’s easy to give advice. It’s a hell of a lot harder to take it.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got some advice for you. Cash that fucking check.”
“You keep your money. I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t wanna be beholden to anyone.”
He was a stubborn bastard, but I had a lot of respect for him, so I didn’t push it.
What is a man without his dignity?
I dug a small notebook and a pen out of my pocket and jotted down a few lines.
I had an album to write. A wife to win back. And six weeks to figure it out.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Gabriel
The art gallerywas in Chelsea, just off Tenth Avenue. I arrived toward the end of the evening, hoping to blend into the crowd.
Dream pop music filtered from the speakers and groups were clustered around the art and socializing with drinks in hand.
I started at the beginning and studied an abstract piece called:Hey DJ, change the fucking music.
It was a mix of different media, and it took me a few minutes to figure out that at the center of it all—amid the paintings and ripped-up self-portraits—was a mosaic of the human brain. A tangled web of neurons fired music notes from a cannon aimed at a bruised and battered anatomical heart cracked down the middle.
Cleo’s poetry was woven into the piece, and I moved in closer, reading the swirling words over someone’s shoulder.Heart beats. Brain misfires. Soul mourns. You are a ballad in E Minor. I am barely breathing. Sorrow and Exaltation unite. Rise up. Kill the DJ.
I moved on to the next piece and then the next, studying every detail, marvelling at her talent and insight. She’d created without boundaries and bared her soul, on canvases.
“Exciting, isn’t it?”
I glanced at the woman next to me with sleek dark hair and olive skin dressed all in black. “It’s fucking incredible.”
“Greer Ainslie.” She held out her hand. “I own the gallery and represent Cleo.”
I shook it. “Gabriel Francis.”
“I know who you are.” She looked over her shoulder then back at me with an amused smile. “Half of the people in this gallery know who you are.”
I glanced around furtively, noticing the curious glances, and faced forward again, tugging at the collar of my shirt.
After my near-death experience and subsequent disappearing act, I’d achieved a mythical status.
Half the stuff written about me wasn’t even true. I’d been misquoted, hounded by the paparazzi, and propositioned by women I didn’t know.
I couldn’t understand the fascination. I was just some guy who could sing. Not like I’d found the cure for cancer or put an end to world hunger and poverty.
I lowered my voice. “I don’t want Cleo to know I’m here. I’d like the chance to appreciate her art first.”
