Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Are you sure we’re allowed to do this?” I asked.
He turned back to me. “You heard what I told Grayson. I have a project to finish. I might have lied when I said it was due tomorrow, but I want you to see it.”
“I thought we were going to do something fun, not hang out in the paint lab. I don’t make you hang out in the metals lab.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “Because the metals lab is horrifically boring. Spoons and drain grates and thermostat covers. Kill me.”
I designed spoons and drain grates and thermostat covers, and I knew Andrew was only kidding. When he got out of Norton, he’d probably take some workaday design job too until he caught a break with his painting.
“It’s called the Norton School of Art and Design,” he went on. “Notice which one they put first? Art. We’re the acknowledged badasses of this place.” He pumped a paint-stained fist, pretending not to notice when I muttered something about asses. “Besides, it’s fun hanging out in the studio at night.”
“How is it fun?”
“It’s fun, Chere. It’s peaceful and super cool, and you can look up at the night sky.”
I followed him a few steps farther, and then the smell reached me, the odor of stripper, primer, and oil paint. It transported me right back in time to my ex’s art studio.
“Jesus.” I stopped in the hall. I wanted to see Andrew’s work, but that smell triggered too many memories.
“I know.” Andrew wrinkled his nose. “The stench of creation. You get used to it.”
“It’s not that.”
He looked at me a moment, then understanding dawned. He reached for my hand.
“Are you thinking about Simon? Don’t think about Simon.”
The first night, over coffee, Andrew had wanted my “painful and fucked-up story” and it had been easier to talk about Simon than W, so that was the fucked-up story I told. Andrew had already known who Simon Baldwin was, because Simon was the current darling of the New York art scene. Since we’d broken up, Simon’s career had gone stellar, his drug-fueled mania and erratic craziness driving his burgeoning talent to unforeseeable heights. Critics dubbed him the Tribeca Train Wreck, tsking at his narcotic shenanigans while they crowed about the genius of his work.
And they were right, his paintings were genius. Since I’d left Simon, the art had come at a frenetic pace, the paintings and murals, the packed galleries and sold-out shows. He’d attracted a major following, not just in New York, but also in the international art world. I tried to be happy for him. It was hard.
When Andrew learned how abusive Simon had been to me, he looked like he’d been stabbed by a unicorn. But Andrew was faithful to our friendship and immediately demoted his hero from “best artist of all time” to asshole. He’d done that for me, because he was that kind of person.
“Maybe this will be good for you,” he said, tugging me forward. The smell was getting worse. “It’ll be good for you to be around painters who aren’t psychotic, abusive assholes.”
“But no one else is here.”
“I’m here! And you know what I mean. It’ll be good for you to be around art stuff. To be in a messy, creative place with good energy. You need good energy, girl.”
“I need to go to bed. It’s late.”
We reached a heavy door marked PAINTING STUDIO. Andrew swiped his student ID and the lock clicked open.
The smell inside turned out to be ten times worse than the smell in Simon’s studio, I suppose because this room was ten times bigger, with easels, canvases, and paint-strewn tables and work benches arranged in a mish-mash pattern.
“Come on,” he said, guiding me toward the center of the studio. We wove around corners, past half-finished paintings that looked ghostly under weak work lamps.
“Why is it so dim in here?” I asked.
“It’s best to paint by natural light.” He pointed at the ceiling, at rectangular skylights. “The lighting’s designed to complement, not illuminate. This studio’s not meant to be used at night.”
“It’s freaking creepy.”
“I know.” He grinned. “I love it.”
He left me and darted between two workstations, disappearing from sight. “Andrew?” I peered into the dark corners. “Come back.”
“Just a sec,” he called from a few rows over.
I hugged myself, trying to figure out if it was the ghostly lights or the reminders of Simon that made me so uneasy. I remembered all of this: the paintbrushes, the cans, the palettes and color-streaked towels, the thick, enveloping smell...
I jumped as music blasted through a speaker a few feet away. Andrew said “Oops” and turned it down a dozen decibels or so. Trippy 60’s music wafted from all four corners of the room, and Andrew reappeared, brushing an errant blond curl back into the mop barely contained by his furry fuchsia scrunchie.