“Why?” Liam narrows his eyes.
I keep my expression neutral. “I have my brother Jeremy’s bachelor party.”
“That’s right. Good man, Jeremy,” Mr. Warne mumbles.
Jeremy bought an art piece at a recent charity auction Mr. Warne hosted.
I think I’ve gotten myself some time. But I wasn’t lying about my brother’s party, though. It’s happening, and I’m a groomsman. Between that and now needing to figure out this relationship dilemma, I’ve got my hands full.
Mr. Warne pushes his chair back and rises. “I need to head out, but my assistant will coordinate with yours to set it up. Now, if you’ll see yourselves out.”
I stand, a strange mix of relief and dread swirling in my gut. Relief that this unexpected interrogation is over, but dread at the ticking clock I now face. I force my expression to remain confident as I offer my hand. Mr. Warne shakes it firmly.
“Liar. You’re not dating anyone,” Liam hisses as we walk out.
I ignore my thumping heart to sneer under my breath. “I am, Liam. Don’t be a sore loser when I buy the gallery. Maybe you’ll do better next time.”
“This is… fucked,” Liam hisses under his breath as we reach the doors to leave.
I couldn’t have said it better myself, but I don’t have time to argue. I need a plan, and fast.
“Mom?” I call out, peeking into her office. It’s cluttered with paintbrushes, canvases, papers, and easels, but there’s no sign of her. I know she’s here somewhere, because I called on my way over.“Just stopping by to check on you,”I’d said casually, not mentioning anything about Warne or the gallery.
I head toward the classrooms, glancing through the window of the first one. But it’s a different teacher. I move to the next door and step inside. The walls are filled with students’ artwork, some framed, some curling at the edges, splattered with spray paint. Stacks of canvases lean against the back wall, some wrapped in protective plastic, others exposed, displaying bold strokes of color and intricate details. I pause to study a particular cityscape piece. This is exactly the kind of talent I want to showcase when I take over Warne’s gallery. These artists deserve more than a classroom or basement; they need walls that will have audiences who will truly see them. The faint smell of turpentine and clay fills the space, mixing with the underlying musk of old wood and paper.
“Mom, are you here?” I call out into the classroom.
Her brown head pops up from behind the desk. “Hey, you’re here.”
I walk over, noticing the smudge of blue paint across her forehead, and kiss her cheek, getting her usual warm smile that makes me feel like I’ve done something right just by showing up.
“Looks like you’re in the middle of something,” I say, gesturing to the scattered supplies and half-organized chaos around us.
“I’m setting up for the next class.”
“Want some help?”
“Yeah, can you clip the paper on each easel?” she says, pointing to them.
“Sure.”
I follow her to a drawer, where she pulls out some paper, my mind spinning with everything left unsaid between us. How do I even begin this conversation?“Hey, Mom, I need to find a fake fiancée to secure a multi-million-dollar gallery that I want to surprise you with.”Stupid. I run my fingers over the soft material as I take it from her. I love how she always uses the best supplies for her students. This is why I want to make sure she gets the gallery. The students here deserve a chance to showcase their work, and Mom should be recognized for all the free classes she offers. She gives back so much, and I want to give back to her too.
“How many students today?” I ask.
“Twelve.”
I go around clipping twelve sheets of paper while she arranges the brushes and palettes on tables. I think about possible approaches.Just be direct. No, just ease into it. Maybe start with a hypothetical?The routine task keeps my hands busy while my mind races.
“What brings you by today? Are you still stressed about finding the artist?” she asks, glancing with a raised eyebrow.
“Can’t a son visit his mother?” I say, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. My stomach tightens with guilt at the deflection. For the first time, my mind hasn’t been on the mystery artist who paints their signature with a blue lotus instead of their name. It’s driving me mad. But today my mind is on The Warne Gallery.
She straightens, giving me a knowing look. “Oliver, I wasn’t born yesterday. What's bothering you?”
I wish I could tell her, but I want the gallery to be a surprise. I’ll tell her as soon as I finalize the purchase, but for now, I need to keep my concerns off my face.
“Girl trouble,” I utter. I mean, it’s not a lie, but I can't tell her what kind of girl trouble, because she would demand the full truth.
