Page 4 of Love Me

“We’ll still be close.” She smiles, but again it’s forced.

My heart feels like it just cracked in half. This isn’t how today was supposed to go. I was going to tell her about the money I’ve been saving ever since she first told me about her dream to open her own gallery.

We were back in high school.

I put every other paycheck I received from my internships into savings for her gallery. This was going to be my graduation gift to her.

I clamp my mouth shut, keeping that truth to myself.

“It’s only a plane ride away. But I have to do this. New York has such a great art scene. My new job will put me in contact with a lot of people in the field and I’ll be able to create my plan to start my gallery.”

It’s as if she’s trying to inject happiness into her voice.

The lump in my throat is so large that I can’t speak.

I look around the hollowed-out room, sunken in ceiling boards, and decrepit wood surrounding us. Brokenness I never noticed before stands out now.

She’s leaving.

And she has no plans to return. To get away from me.

“Please be happy for me. This is my dream,” she finally says.

How come her dream just turned into my nightmare?

CHAPTER1

Monique

I twist my key in the lock, anxious to get inside to open the letter burning the palm of my hand. It’s from the National Institute of the Arts. I recently applied for their creative small business grant.

I toss my bag and other belongings that I carry with me to work at my day job as an art curator onto the table by my front door, then heel-toe my shoes off.

After shutting and locking my door, I just stare at the envelope in my hands for a beat. The contents of this grant could determine my life’s next steps.

It would mean finally having enough money to start the art gallery that I’ve longed to open for years. A place to showcase women artists who otherwise wouldn’t have the opportunity to get into a gallery.

As a curator in New York City, I know how hard it is to break into this very exclusive world. At the upper echelons, it’s a space reserved for people with at least a seven-figure net worth. More like eight figures, though.

I want to provide women artists who aren’t wealthy enough, come from rough backgrounds, or aren’t worthy of being seen in the eyes of the larger society, with a space to call their own.

I take a deep breath and rip open the letter like peeling off a band-aid. My fingers tremble slightly as I unfold the letter.

My eyes scan the first few sentences.

“Ms. Richmond, though your application caught our attention,” I mumble-read. “we regret to– Ahh!” I yell in frustration.

Without reading the rest, I crumple up the rejection letter and toss it across the room.

It hits the wooden door of my apartment and bounces a little, landing a few feet away.

Yet another disappointment in a string of disappointments.

Disgusted, I spin away from the door and head straight to my kitchen. I uncork my favorite bottle of red wine and pour myself a glass. Before I take a sip, though, I check my blood sugar numbers on my wristwatch.

I’m in a safe enough range that a few sips of wine won’t do any harm.

With a sigh, I down half of the glass. I desperately want to chug the entire thing and then go back to the bottle for seconds.

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