Page 68 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
Luckily, I saved them in their own folder, so they’re easy to find on my cloud gallery. I pass my phone to Holden so he can scroll through it.
It’s a mess of old art that stretches back years. A few detailed charcoal sketches from college, my early oil paintings, a canvas with abstract ship-shaped lights disappearing into an infernal darkness.
The last one captures his eyes the longest. He doesn’t swipe it away with his thumb.
“You don’t like it, I’m sure. Too modern,” I whisper.
“No, it’s moody. There’s a lot of detail and contrast. That caught my eye.” He zooms in, and I hold my breath.
“That project took forever. I was trying to go more abstract for this show in Boston my junior year.”
“It feels sad,” he says.
“I suppose it is. Just a little. I wasn’t in the best place then.” I take my phone back, awkwardly staring at the screen. “Anyway, it had a sad ending too. It didn’t get a lot of notice and I threw it in storage. I’m toying with selling it now, if it can ever find a buyer.”
“You should keep it,” he says, staring at the Lam painting in front of us again. “What’s your favorite medium? You’ve done a lot of experimenting, so you must know.”
“Actually… I’m still working that out. Anything but sculpture, I’d say.” I try not to stick my tongue out. “I do a lot of custom texture art for home décor. Gives me a little more depth to work with than painting.”
Holden’s gaze sharpens. He knows exactly where my aversion to sculpture comes from.
Ugh, my daddy issues are showing.
“Sometimes, I like art that’s a little less personal. The stuff that needs to be marketable comes easy. It’s my main income, so I probably take it more seriously, too.”
He nods silently as we stand and head into a theater room, searching for a bench in front of the large screen. It’s dark, only the flickering light illuminates the space.
Holden’s hand brushes the small of my back to guide me so I don’t fall as he settles in. The benches are small, and we take the seat next to the wall. I squeeze in until his bulk grazes my side.
Tingles.
It must be that stupid, intimate conversation we just had that makes it feel like static charge.
That’s why I feel this small, innocent collisioneverywhere.
We sit there in silence, watching the movie. We walked in while it was halfway through, but I think it’s an old experimental art film, tough-looking biker dudes mixed with Christian imagery.
Interesting, until the part where the bikers walk into their clubhouse and these prancing, smiling strippers start undressing them in pure drunken revelry.
Awkward. Definitely way too much skin to take in with this bear of an older man pressed up next to me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Holden whispers, his voice low and unbothered by the X-rated movie rolling.
“Huh?” For a second, I think he means the sexy business. I link my hands together in my lap. “Oh, the art, you mean… There’s not much to talk about.”
He keeps quiet, a human mountain, solid and so, so warm.
God, why is he so warm?
“You sure, Nile? Seems like your old man taught you a lot about what not to do.”
My mouth twists before I answer. “No denying that. It’s just… I want to forge my own path. Sculpture was his thing, whatever he did or didn’t do right.”
“Mm.”
“And… and things weren’t always good. You remember what I said about art being personal? There’s no avoiding your own experience when you decide to go all in. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the depressing.” I pause. “I don’t remember much about when my mother died. I was small. But I do remember Dad was never the same. All his worst impulses just took over.”
I don’t know how much he knows or doesn’t know about my family, but it’s a relief to say this out loud. Even while we’re ignoring the craziest stuff happening on the screen.
