“Gwen, hi,” Wren greets her, her voice smooth as she puts on a tone I’ve only heard once before. At the meeting with Shelley. It’s her work voice, the one she uses when she’s trying to have someone believe she’s always polished. She’s good at it, too. There’s no hint of the Wren I had bent over the bathroom counter moments ago, her raspy, breathy moans steaming up the mirror in front of her. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. It’s such an honour to be featured at your gallery. This place is incredible.”
“Oh, the honour is mine, darling. I can’t believe I’m the first to get an original Wren Miller.” Gwen is sweet, genuine, authentic to her bones. Wren got a good impression over e-mail, and she was excited by the idea of partnering with a female curator.
She was deliberate in her choice of who she responded to out of the many requests from various galleries—said shewasn’t going for the biggest and the best this time. Success at all costs wasn’t what she was seeking this time around, if art was to be a paying gig for her. She wants this to mean something, to be fulfilling in a way her previous career never was. It’s refreshing to see the shift in her, and I get the impression once Wren fully lets go of caring what other people think of her, her success is going to be exponential.
Gwen asks me if she can steal Wren from me with a wink, and steers her through the crowd, grabbing a flute of champagne off a server’s tray and shoving it into her hand. I do the same, taking two as the server passes by. The first one goes down quickly, and the second, I sip on so I have something to keep my hands busy.
This event, this crowd, makes my palms sweat. It makes my tux feel two sizes too small, my collar constricting my neck. Everyone seems perfectly lovely, it’s just so different from anything I’ve ever experienced back in Heartwood.
No one wears floor-length gowns to Jack’s, no one describes art using the wordsvisceralandtranscendent. You talk about art in Heartwood, and you’re going to talk about nude paintings of Norm, creepy, hand-painted porcelain dolls, and claymation. As weird and wacky as it is, I like it that way.
To say I’m out of place here is an understatement, though as I spot Wren floating around the far side of the room, that polished smile still pressed to her face, it’s apparent she’s in her element. Every once in a while, she pokes her head up to scan the crowd, looking for me. We make eye contact across the room, and she gives me aninquisitive look followed by a wink. I nod and wave my hand in adon’t worry about megesture.
I take a long pull of my champagne, the bubbles burning the bridge of my nose. This is where she thrives, and here I am, standing on the sidelines, feeling like I wouldn’t be able to keep up even if I tried.
I’ve found myself a quiet corner of the gallery to stand back against the wall, taking everything in from afar. No one has bothered trying to talk to me. They look at me, though, through sidelong glances. It’s as if, even wearing a tux, I stick out like a sore thumb.
The collar of my shirt is suddenly feeling tight, my neck prickling with discomfort. The muscles in my neck and shoulders tense at the sensation. It feels like the room is closing in. It’s new for me, feeling insecure and judged. I decide to step out for some fresh air, away from the stares and the reminders that I don’t belong.
I leave the gallery, and the noise of the crowd inside quiets as the heavy wooden door closes behind me. I exhale a pent-up breath and let the tension in my shoulders float away on the soft breeze wafting through the forest around me.
“Your wife is very talented,” a gravelly voice says from behind me. I turn to see a man, tall and slender, with long dark hair slicked back, wearing a suit with those short pants, the ones that come up above the ankle. No socks. He’s leaning on the side of the gallery, taking a long, drawn-out drag of a cigarette. The lilt in the way he speaks tells me he’s not from here. My eyes dart behind him, where I catch Wren through the windows.
“She is.” I don’t bother correcting him that she isn’t mywife. I let myself live for a moment in the fantasy that we’re married, because the possibility of Wren and I getting to a place where we’re ready for marriage seems … well it didn’t seem that far off, but after tonight I’m not so sure. She’s not ready to give up her dreams, nor should she be. Nor would I ever expect her to be.
“I was very disappointed to hear she’s unable to come to my gallery in Paris,” he says, flicking the ashen tip of his cigarette onto the concrete beside him. My mind falters. Paris, as in France? “I own amagnifiquegallery attached to a studio I offered her for her use, but she declined.Dommage.” He mutters the last word with a shake of his head.
I consider my next words carefully.
“Did she say why?” I inquire casually.
“Something about finding happiness with what she has.” The man looks up at me now and our eyes meet. He points a finger at me, still holding the cigarette. “I have a feeling it had something to do with you.Vivre d’amour, c’est donner sans mesure,” he says, and he must see the confusion on my face because he translates. “To live from love, is to give without measure. She must really love you to pass up an opportunity like that.”
My stomach drops the same way it did when Spencer showed me the attention Wren was getting over her paintings online. Though the heaviness I’m feeling now has nothing to do with the success she’s having, and everything to do with the fact that she hasn’t filled me in. She’s once again turned something down because of me.
I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet, shoving my hands in my pockets. When I look over my shoulder towardthe gallery, my eyes land on Wren inside. She’s glowing, she’s magnificent, she’s alive in a way I thought I might never see again.
Suddenly, I’m thrown back in time, to ten years ago. Watching Wren from afar, meeting new people, making new connections. Feeling like every time she called me from her dorm, she was missing out on some opportunity to stay in and talk to me.
I didn’t fit in with the life she envisioned for herself then, why would time have done us any favours? How could a decade between us have brought us closer together? It’s becoming increasingly apparent we’ve grown farther apart than I thought.
Now, even the outside air feels stifling. The air here is humid and warm, and with the clouds rolling in, I’m feeling a headache coming on. I head back inside to find Wren.
It doesn’t take much to find her because she’s already approaching me as soon as I enter. Despite my increasing insecurity, I smile when I see her. I can’t help myself.
“Hey, you,” she says. “I was looking for you. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, keeping my hands in my pockets to still them. I glance around the room, anywhere but at Wren. What am I going to tell her? I feel like a fool for coming here? I told her I would support her no matter what, I would be here for her when no one else was. She narrows her eyes at me.
“Liar.” Her mouth tilts to one side in a smirk. She knows she has me. I search my brain for a reasonable excuse to explain why I’m not feeling my best.
“I’m hungry.” I nod towards a server carrying a plate of crudities. “Whatever those little bite-sized thingies are they’re serving, I’ve eaten like ten thousand of them and I’m still starving.”
“Let’s get out of here, then.” She says it as if leaving this event is such an easy decision, as if she wouldn’t even second-guess prioritizing my comfort over her opportunities.
“No,” I blurt, and it comes out faster and more forceful than I intended. Her eyebrows pinch together, so I soften my tone. “Don’t leave because of me. I’m fine. I’ll go back to the hotel and get room service or something.”
“Well, what if I want to? You can’t tell me what to do, Landry.” Her jaw tenses, and she stands a little taller. She’s being Wren, never giving up without a fight.
