Page 35 of Love Is an Art
I hang my head. “You didn’t have to bid. I’ll pay you back.” I glance at his profile. I’m touched, and my chest expands like a balloon filling up with air.
“Definitely not. It’s a good memento.” Zeke grins at me.
“Or fuel for a fire.” At least he can burn it in retribution and without any guilt when he finds out I’m lying to him. My chest tightens as if that balloon popped. I look down at my lap.
An assistant carries outDalmatians Gone Wildand places it on the easel next to the auctioneer. It looks like an actual piece of art.We created that.The bright, primary colors, the composition—it radiates fun.
“Dalmatians Gone Wild.A great title. Starting this at fifty dollars,” the auctioneer says. “And we have fifty up front here with the woman in the purple turban. Do I have sixty?”
Zeke bids.
“You’re bidding on this too?” I ask.
“I definitely want this,” he says. “Not that my friends will ever believe I helped paint it.”
“We have seventy-five dollars from Paddle 32. Eighty? I have eighty dollars from Paddle 56 in the back. Do I have a bid for ninety dollars?”
Not sure this bodes well for my solo art career.
Zeke shoots his arm up again. The bid jumps from paddle to paddle, the price rising.
“One hundred fifty dollars to Paddle 32. One hundred seventy-five? Do I have any takers? Going once, going twice. Sold to Paddle 32 for one hundred fifty dollars.”
Zeke grins at me and high-fives me. “To our future partnership.”
I hope so.I want to believe that we have a future.
People smile at us. The lady next to me claps.
The auctioneer puts up the next item for auction.
Zeke leans back and places his arm on the back of my chair, not quite touching me. I relax my shoulders and sink into him. His hand curves around to touch my shoulder. I glance at him. The corners of his mouth kick up.He bought both paintings. I cuddle into him happily.
The auction ends about an hour later, and we stand in line to pick up Zeke’s purchases. Conversations buzz around us. Next to the line, in a cordoned-off area, volunteers pack the art in bubble wrap for transport home. I look up at Zeke, and he smiles down at me—a grin like we’re in this together. My body fizzes.
“Tessa!”
It’s my ex, Wyatt.Why is this happening to me?The game may be up.
“I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure,” Wyatt says, his arm around his girlfriend. The one who replaced me—the same day he dumped me. I’ve met her before, but usually at Museum of Modern Art events.
“This is Zeke. Zeke, this is Wyatt, my ex-boyfriend,” I say.
Wyatt introduces his girlfriend, Marla.
“I just joined the board of the Fresh Air Fund, so that’s why I’m here. I thought you might attend. Is Miranda here?” Wyatt cranes his head around me as if to find her. “She’s really taken off. I should’ve bought her paintings when they were at bargain-basement prices in your living room. The ones you have must be worth so much now.”
As if Miranda’s artworks are objects of commerce and not filled with memories and meaning to me—like the yellow-and-pink color field one that Miranda painted after we had one of our best parties ever in our new apartment. Or her blue, black, and pink shimmery one that reminds me of a rainy New York night after clubbing.
Wyatt sips his wine. His girlfriend scans the crowd, as if looking for someone far more interesting to talk to than me.
“Miranda couldn’t come,” I say. We’ve stalled in this line. The same couple is still at the front, paying for their purchases.
It is clear now that Wyatt and I werenotthe best match. I had so looked forward to seeing him when I could and doing whatever fun activity he had planned as a welcome respite from the pressure of my job. Or maybe he’s changed. I’m disappointed in myself that we’d dated as long as we did.
He pulls his girlfriend closer. “I’m surprised you’re not selling your collection to pay off—”
“I’m not going to sell Miranda’s paintings,” I interject before he reveals anything. “Those mean a lot to me.”
