Page 33 of This Life and All the Rest
Franco groans, as if I’ve physically hurt him, and I laugh again.
“Myappartement,” I correct, and he sighs with relief. Ridiculous. “...and ship me the piece I just started? It’s been sketched out, but I haven’t put paint to it yet.”
“That deadline is not for another two months. You think you will be gone that long?”
“No, but you know how I like to have these things finished ahead of the deadline. Knowing I’m spending time away from it is giving me anxiety.”
Franco nods and says something in Italian that I don’t understand. I refuse to acknowledge it or ask for the translation, like he probably wants me to. My French has gotten better in the last year, so he’ll switch to Italian sometimes just to throw me off. He knows it irritates me.
“I can probably ship it this weekend,” he says finally. “Will that be alright?”
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Please don’t forget.”
I love Franco. He’s a great friend, but he isn’t the most reliable person. If I don’t stay on him,this weekendcould easily turn intotwo weeks from now.
“I will not forget,chérie.” He runs his free hand over his jaw and his lips curl into a flirty smirk. “Though, I would be able to get to it sooner if your things were here...”
He trails off and raises an eyebrow, but I brush the comment off with a grin. He’s been joking about me moving in with him for months. I try to tell him my presence will kill his nightlife, but he likes to tease anyway.
Truthfully, Franco likes the convenience of me, but he’s not one for commitment. It doesn’t bother me. It suits my needs just fine.
“Just promise you won’t get distracted. It’s important to me.”
“Je promets,” he says seriously, putting his hand over his heart.
“Merci, mon amour,”I say with a smile. “I will speak with you soon, okay?”
“Bisou.Ciao.”
“Bye,” I say proudly, adding a little southern lilt to my tone, and he sticks his tongue out at me before ending the call.
I grab my purse and climb out of the car, locking the doors with the key fob as I walk into the store. I just need a few things for now. Luckily, out of habit, I packed my sleeve of brushes, so I grab a cart and push my way through the aisles. I spend more time browsing than necessary. Being surrounded by art supplies always makes me feel calm. At home.
After I dropped out of art school, I worked in a little art supply store in Paris for a while.Un Tableau. I love it there. If I hadn’t started selling my paintings, I’d still be working at the art store. As it is now, I just pick up the occasional shift when I can. The woman who ownsUn Tableauis brilliant and kind, and she told me I always have a job there if I need it.
Un Tableauis where I ran into Franco again, actually.
I hadn’t seen him for about a year and didn’t even know he’d been living in Paris, but he walked into my store one day and asked me out to dinner. I’ve seen him almost every day, since. He’s introduced me to some influential people in the Paris art scene, which helped me get my first gallery show. I’ve earned my seat at the table, so to speak, but I definitely owe him for opening the door to the room.
I check out and load my stuff in the car after about an hour of wandering around the store. I’m on an art supply high, so I’m in a good mood on the drive back to the house. I go straight upstairs, purposely avoiding the living room, so I don’t run into Macon.
I unload and set things up in Dad’s office, moving around the room to find the best space with optimal lighting. I call Aunt Becca and talk to her for a while, filling her in on Dad, and letting her know my travel plans. When I hang up with her, I hear the muffled sounds of voices coming from downstairs. Andrea must be home. I check my phone. Seven p.m. No wonder I’m hungry.
When I get to the kitchen, Andrea and Macon are talking in hushed tones. When they see me, they break apart and do a shitty job of acting like they weren’t just talking about me. I ignore them and head straight for Evie in her highchair.
“Hey there, little monkey,” I say, booping her on the nose. The way she giggles dissolves the tension immediately. “You got a little somethin’ on your face.”
I swipe at the chunks of food she has hanging off her chin and she squeals louder.
“Yeah, she’s disgusting,” Macon drawls behind me, and Andrea laughs.
“Stop that,” she says, swatting at his shoulder. “You were way worse at that age.”
“He was worse at nineteen,” I joke without thinking.
I slam my mouth shut just as Macon releases a surprised chuckle. The memory that rushes me is one that turns my cheeks crimson and my throat dry.
Messy eater.
