Page 116 of Real Fake Husband

My stomach isnothappy.

After several long moments of silence, I realize my stomach is not easing up. “Will you excuse me for one moment?” I say in my nicest voice. “I need to visit the restroom.”

“By all means.”

Trying to walk calmly, even though my stomach is rebelling, I have to weave through the throngs of people. The restrooms are in the back, and I make my way through the café. Thank God there’s not a line. I hurry in, lock the door behind me, and instantly empty the contents of my stomach into the sink. Granted, since I haven’t eaten anything this morning, there isn’t much but bile and spit. I dry heave for another few moments until the feeling slowly subsides.

God, this whole thing is stressful. I’ve never been stressed to the point of sickness.

I take a few deep breaths, rinse my mouth, and splash cold water on my face. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I hear Cal’s voice.

You got this, babe.

“I got this,” I say, drying my face with a scratchy paper towel.

He was so sure. Doubtless. Completely unwavering, not even for a second. And fearless. He makes me believe in myself and my dreams. This impossible, pushy, forceful man makes me believe I can achieve anything. Be anybody. Be the best version I can be.

“Igotthis.”

Armbruster is deeply engrossed in the laptop when I return to the table. “Sorry about that,” I apologize, all smiles. “Well, what do you think?”

He moves his chair closer to mine, allowing me to share the laptop with him, and flips to the first drawing I made of Cal. He looks up at me. “Some of these are good…quite good, actually. Newer work?”

“Yes,” I tell him, feeling my heart burst in excitement and a huge weight dropping off.

“This model you like, I can tell. You have a fantastic eye, and the way you captured his body speaks to me. The attention to detail is remarkable.”

I incline my head. “What can I say? He’s a muse.”

“Apparently.” Armbruster flips through a few more drawings. There are many of Cal, and seeing his relaxed visage and all the hours and hours he spent posing for me, trying to help in all ways he could, makes my heart ache. My chest tightens. When Mr. Armbruster looks at me again, his eyes are shining. “This is exactly the kind of work I’m looking for: raw, candid, unfiltered. You have talent, Josie. Sure, there’s still some work to be done, but I think a show is exactly what you need to get your name out there. I know a lot of people who would pay a ridiculous amount of money to buy these or have their portraits done.”

Did he really just say that? Deep inside, I jump and release a warrior scream. I want to shout and hug somebody. Not somebody. Cal. “I’m happy to hear that.”

Armbruster taps at one of the drawings. “You have a style and a preference, and that’s good. It gives your work a voice, a cohesiveness without being repetitive.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say all that,” I tell him, trying not to let my emotions overrun me. With confidence, I say, “When can we get started?”

Armbruster chuckles, moving his chair back to where it was before. “Oh, we start as soon as possible. We have a long road ahead of us. Art shows are normally booked out months and years in advance. But, as luck has it, we had a cancellation. So, I have an opening in a couple of months.” He takes out his calendar, starts scrolling, and gives me the exact date. “Are you up for it? Take it or leave it.”

“Let me be frank now, Mr. Armbruster. The problem is, currently, I don’t really have the physical space to work on something as intense as an art showcase. I might not have for several weeks. Maybe months.”

He waves a hand in dismissal. “Not a problem. Many of my younger talents face the same issue. There’s a larger empty space in the back of the gallery you can use to work on your art. If you don’t mind the street noise—there’s a jazz coffee shop that plays loud music during the evening and night—and sharing the place with other artists, you’re welcome to use it until then. So, what’s your answer?”

I beam at him. “I’ll take it!”

The next hour goes by in a blur, I can hardly wrap my head around it. Mr. Armbruster was standoffish at the start, but now he’s open, excited, even animated. I almost can’t get him to shut up, but I’m not complaining. There’s a lot to discuss, and a lot of details to work out, but it’s a start.

A start to something incredible.

I feel like a gazillion bucks.

We part with a handshake and a promise to continue planning next week.

With an extra pep in my step, I’m grinning like crazy when I step outside. It’s later than expected and I have to head to the diner.

A sleek black town car is waiting. The driver steps out, tipping his hat. “Mrs. Ashford,” he greets me, opening the back door. “My name is Dennis. Your husband sent me. I’m his driver. I assisted his grandmother, Mrs. Blanche Ashford in the last few years of her life.”

“Oh, that’s right, Dennis. I remember you. Hi!”

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