Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“Alright, you’ve met your quota for the day, you can stop saying the word.” I steer her away from the dangerous penis paintings. “Hey, have you seen Quin around here?”
“Quin who?” She hooks her arm into mine, turning me into her chauffeur through the gallery. “I’m on a mission looking for my own person here.”
“Who?” I instantly regret asking. “Don’t tell me—”
“I just heard he was here, that’s all. One of Martin’s daughters has a friend who has an exhibit. Giant wire-and-metal sculpture that looks like Sigourney Weaver had a three-armed baby with an alien, then shat all over its face.”
I grimace. “What the fuck …?”
“Hey, I’m not the weirdo who made the thing. Blame Finn’s weirdo sister’s friend.”
I sigh. “Mom, I’m looking for the guy I brought to Skipper’s party. Quin. You met him.”
“Did I? I don’t think I did.” She stops to poke her head around the corner of an exhibit, looking for Dad.
“Quin is one of the artists here. He paints. He’s a friend of Vann’s from school.”
“Who the fuck’s Vann? Oh, now that’s pretty,” she says with a nod at a tall, asymmetrical vase on a platform painted gold and green. Then I notice it has a woman’s naked body chiseled down its side—a very well-endowed woman. My mom tilts her head. “Wish I had those boobs.”
“Mom.”
“Seriously. Been flat as a board my whole life. I got boob envy.” She eyes me. “That’s something you don’t have to worry about, clearly.”
I scoff. “These,” I start, gesturing at my chest, “are not boobs.”
She faces me fully now, for a moment seeming to forget her own mission. “This Quin guy … Is he the one you’ve been chasing around the island?”
“For weeks now, we’ve been … sorta dating.”
“Sorta dating? Hmm. Weeks, you said?” She looks me over, then gently lays a hand on my forehead, as if to check for a fever. I flinch away. She drops her hand. “What’s going on with you? Seeing the same guy for weeks at a time, that’s not the Adrian I know.”
I fight a roll of my eyes. “If you’re about to make some remark about how much of a whore I am …”
“I wasn’t. It’s just true. You don’t usually keep a guy hooked for that long. Facts are facts.” She tilts her head, still looking me over. “Maybe I did hear a thing about this Quin guy. I think Kent or Jonah said something. You really got it in for this painter boy, huh? Did he run off with your heart and it’s driving you nuts? Are you in love?”
My eyes go wide. “Am I what …?”
“It isn’t such a crazy idea. You know your dad popped the question to me after we were dating for just two weeks. Two tiny weeks. That’s all it took. Then he said, ‘I give up. You win. I’m all yours.’ And that was that.”
I knew they married quickly. I didn’t realize it was that quickly. “Now you guys are divorced. What’s your point?”
“Divorced? Who said we’re divorced?” She gives me a funny look. “You know better. Chuck and I never got a divorce. We’re just … not together.”
I squint at her quizzically, then give it up. Maybe I did already know. My mind isn’t all here. “How am I supposed to know? You guys have been ‘not together’ for the past ten years. I just assumed.”
“It’s okay if you want to admit you’re in love. There’s no problem throwing love out into the world, even if it isn’t returned. The point isn’t reciprocity. Love is only meant to be given. It’s just a bonus if it’s given back.”
I get lost in those words, thinking about how crazy I’ve been these past few days. Worrying over him. Thinking about him. Clinging to my pillow like a lovesick teenager at night.
Am I actually in love with Quin?
Is that what’s happening to me?
“Oh, hon,” my mom exclaims suddenly, her whole face changing. “Oh, look … look.”
I follow her line of sight.
Ahead of us is a room that in an instant feels like no other in this exhibit hall. The lighting is softer, intimate, and everyone in the room seems contemplative and quiet, observing the art that hangs on the walls. Simply the act of my mom and I slowly entering the room feels like we just stepped out of one world and entered another.
Then we come to a dead stop in front of a painting—around which people have gathered. There’s no small talk. No one’s on their phones. Everyone’s just looking at it.
I don’t have to look at the little card pinned to the wall beneath the painting.
I know exactly whose this is.
It’s a painting I haven’t seen before. It must be a new one he did, or else it’s one of the ones he was working on and never had the balls to show me. It’s two men on the beach at night, overlooking crashing waves and a starry sky. The feel of the scene is somewhat lonesome and dark, with the light of the stars casting a pale color across the waves and the water.