Page 15 of Love Me

With a shrug, I tell her, “You could’ve moved into my building.”

She glares at me. “Then I would’ve had to fight with you over paying rent.”

I chuckle at the same time I kick my leg over the stool across from her at the kitchen island. It’s true. Townsend Industries owns the building I live in. My cousins, Kyle and Kennedy, both also live in units in the building.

Correction: Kyle used to live in the building. While he still owns his place, he’s moved in with his new wife, Riley. They'll probably end up buying a larger home somewhere else soon. Kyle’s already mentioned wanting more space for Riley’s eleven-year-old niece, and he’s brought up having more kids.

I can hardly believe his change over the past few months.

That brings me back to my original plan for coming over. Kyle asked me something a few months ago that led me to make a decision about my relationship with Monique.

“It was either move into this place for free, or he would’ve insisted on giving me the seed money to start my gallery somewhere in town,” Monique continues. “And I am not letting that happen.”

“So you’ve said,” I say.

“You sound like you think I’m being stubborn.” She holds her hand up, stopping my reply. “I’m not. This is how it has to be. I know it’s taken longer than the original five years I planned, but the women featured in my gallery deserve me to go as hard for them as they go for their work.”

I nod in agreement.

“Doing this on my own is a promise to them. I can’t explain it, it just is,” she continues. “I’ve already applied for a couple of grants and a business loan. I have some savings I can use for a deposit on a place. I have three appointments next week to look at spaces.”

“Where?” I ask.

“One’s not too far from here. Walkable. The other one is a few blocks from Williamsport U.”

“Your mom would love it if you opened a gallery there.” Monique’s mom has worked as a sociology professor at Williamsport University for the past seven years. She made the career change from paralegal after completing her Ph.D. program.

“Yeah,” Mo replies, staring at something over my shoulder.

I place my fork down. I’ve seen that same withdrawn expression overcome her more than once when talking about her mother.

“Where’s the other place?” I ask, moving the conversation along.

“A few blocks from the Williamsport Museum of Natural History.”

“That’s an awesome location for an art gallery.” I nod. “Right in the art district. All of those locations are,” I add.

“Which is great, but I don’t know about start-up costs. Hell, I don’t even have artists yet.”

“What happened to that one artist you were telling me about?” I snap my fingers as I try to remember. “Sharia? You said her mom was looking for a gallery to feature her work, right?”

A new sadness invades her eyes.

“You never told me about why her work is so special to you.”

A small, sad smile touches her lips. “She was one of the women from the shelter where I volunteered. I met her when she was living there with her baby. She didn’t want her mom to know where she lived because her mom had never liked her boyfriend.

“He turned violent after she got pregnant. It only worsened after she had the baby,” Monique shakes her head. “One night, while I was volunteering, we started talking. She mentioned how she missed painting. She had some paintings in storage that she never told her ex about because she feared he would do something to them.

“He stalked her for months and eventually found and killed her.” Her voice becomes shaky.

I reach across the table and clutch her free hand in mine.

“Her mom came to the shelter, and I told her about Sharia’s storage unit. We found her paintings, and I was in awe of her talent. I knew right then that I wanted to feature her work. Her art deserves to be seen and adored. She poured so much passion into every stroke. I—” Her voice cracks.

I squeeze her hand. When she turns her hand over, giving me her palm, I intertwine our fingers. We sit like that for the remainder of our meal while she recounts how Sharia's mother took in her grandson but wanted to keep her daughter’s memory alive through her art.

“The last time I spoke with her, she told me she had an offer from another gallery in the city. I hope it goes through for her. Sharia deserves that much.”

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