Page 21 of Caper Crush

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Tessa tilts her head and makes anmmmsound. “I don’t think I’d describe it as that.”

“Whatever.” I flop back down on my bed and turn onto my side to face her. “He’s definitely not my type.”

“Pity.” Tessa pulls her blonde hair back into a ponytail. “Both Peter and Rex were artists—your type—and they didn’t work out. Maybe you should try a new type.”

I rub my forehead. “Oh shit. I have to tell Peter I’m not in the Vertex Art Exhibit before he flies in for it.” I groan. “Why do I have to be so competitive? He’s going to share all his successes, and I’m going to have to grin and say I’m happy for him. And I am happy for him. It’s just that watching him succeed while I stay stagnant is hard.” I can only acknowledge that to Tessa. It makes me look bitter, if human. But she is even more competitive than me. “Anyway, both of my relationships with Peter and Rex were not as big a disaster as my opposites-attract parents’ marriage. Opposites most definitely do not work.”

“Instead of worrying about some formula about what works or doesn’t work, I think you have to trust your feelings,” Tessa says.

“Trusting my feelings is what got me into the Rex relationship.”

“Not your feelings when a hot guy is playing a guitar and singing you a love ballad,” Tessa says.

I laugh and punch her lightly. “C’mon, you’ve got to admit that’s hard to resist.”

“I could resist,” she says. “I’m a logical lawyer.” She’s half kidding, but she is more likely to weigh the pros and cons before acting than me.

“Those are fighting words, my friend,” I say. “If you’re just a logical lawyer, you’re even more likely to fail. You’re more likely to short-circuit.”

“Whatever. You should concentrate on finding your painting, not proving me wrong.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.” That’s one skill I have in spades as a struggling artist.

“My bet is on Vinnie,” she says. “He’s so slimy. Unless Rex flirted with the waitstaff and got them to carry it out.”

I snort. “Rex is charismatic and a flirt, but he’s not that persuasive.”

“Yes, plus he doesn’t have any motive,” Tessa says. “Rex wants you to succeed. It’s more publicity for the band.”

Tessa says she has to get back to work and leaves. I do a quick search of art show applications and make a list.

Who would steal the paintings?Still, the small circle of suspects gives me hope. And then because I’m feeling so unsettled, I wander into our living room and set up a canvas on an easel. But how can I even convey the emotion I’m feeling now? I won’t allow myself to feel completely destroyed. I need that hope that we’re going to find the paintings.

It doesn’t make sense to destroy the paintings. Black would convey my despair, but an all-black painting with a small, unpainted circle of hope on the side is not my style at all. I need to cheer myself up by painting something the opposite of what I feel. I make some pink by mixing titanium white with alizarin red. And then add cadmium yellow, violet, turquoise, Prussian blue to my palette—my happy colors.

Back staring at the blank canvas. That feeling of bubbly joy is gone. Now it is like a heavy weight is compressing me. I force myself to take a dab of paint and spread it on the canvas. A long brushstroke of pink. I paint a line of yellow next to it. It’s like a fricking carnival tent.

I sit on my stool. Pink and cadmium-yellow lines. Nothing inspires me further. I distract myself with other thoughts, and Tessa’s words come back to mind. There must be a good guy in my circle of musicians who could be a match for Tessa. It’s not like I haven’t flipped through my mental Rolodex of prospects before. Most are taken, and few are Tessa’s type, which is less scruffy musician and more cultured European. There’s Thijs, the singer for Bad Credit. He just moved here from Holland. He’s totally Tessa’s type—and he plays the guitar. I snicker.Tessa, you are so doomed.

I add another stroke of yellow. A strand of the brush gets stuck in the cadmium-yellow line. Apt. It’s my favorite brush, but it’s falling apart.

My uncle’s party felt like the other parties. No vibe of calamity. So much for a woman’s—or an artist’s—intuition.

I text Peter:Playing Around 1:30 was stolen. So probably not in Vertex.

My phone immediately rings.

“What?” he asks. His expression is so clear in my mind—his brow furrowed, his brown eyes a little quizzical, and he’s probably running his hand through his blond hair.

I curl up on our couch and tell him everything that has happened. A pigeon alights on the windowsill and struts back and forth, making a deep, cooing noise.

“I wasn’t coming for the art exhibit alone,” he says. “I was coming to see you. I think we should try again. We know our issues. We can work them out.”

Last time I couldn’t. We would each withdraw from the other when we conflicted, like icebergs drifting farther and farther apart in the Arctic. But even knowing that, we still couldn’t fix it. I tried, but it was too much to always have to be the one to reach out. But he was reaching out now.

“Maybe,” I say. “But right now, I just feel wrecked.”

He continues, “I might move back.” Peter lives in California. He wanted me to move with him, but I couldn’t leave New York. It’s not that California wasn’t seductive, with its warm breezes and beach life. But I couldn’t give up New York. I can’t explain my love affair with New York City. Living here is vital to my existence. It’s the energy, the gallows humor, the people—not only my friends but random exchanges with strangers.