Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Sounds like it.”
There’s a long pause as I glance up at the ceiling, unsure of where to go from here.
“Walt, do you think we should just talk when I get back from Paris? Try to figure this stuff out then? That way we’ll have had some time to think about everything? I’m just…I’m not proud of my behavior from the other night—”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Still, my cheeks redden. “I know, just…”
I can’t actually explain to him what my motive is in delaying this talk, because it’s not something I’m particularly proud of. It’s just that, for me, space amounts to hope…hope that he and I might actually straighten out this entire mess after my show. I worry if he and I talk now, if we go our separate ways, I might spend the next two weeks in a depressed haze, unable to enjoy this huge moment in my career.
“Two weeks isn’t long,” I continue. “Let’s just… We’ll talk when I get back. Okay?”
I didn’t even realize I wanted him to disagree and force the issue, declare his love right here and now, until he says, “Okay.”
I feel as though my heart’s splitting in two.
“Good luck in Paris.”
“Thanks. I’ll…yeah, I’ll talk to you after.”
“After,” he repeats back to me before I hang up.
Twenty-Nine
My show takes up most of my attention span for the next week, but not all of it. I still somehow find time to Google Walt and read boring tech articles about the conference he’s attending. Journalists home in on details about Diomedica’s future. Apparently, they just completed clinical trials for a new wearable insulin pump, and stock prices are soaring. Walt trends on Twitter alongside Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos. I’m slightly amazed to even know him, much less be pretend-married to him.
I find it slightly aggravating that Walt gives me the space I requested. There isn’t a peep from him, no calls or texts as I prepare for my trip to Paris.
I pack my suitcase and work out a deal with a front desk worker at my hotel. He’s going to let me store my suitcase filled with art supplies in one of the hotel’s storage closets for the week I’m gone in exchange for $50. I’m hoping he doesn’t realize the supplies inside the suitcase are worth way more than that, though I’m not sure there’s a huge black market for mostly used pastel crayons.
Nadiya and I are in constant contact as I prepare to leave. Stein is putting me up in a hotel near the gallery as well as taking care of my flight. I’m in a first-class seat on the way over, which feels indulgent and wonderful. I actually manage to sleep some, after I tell myself to stop scrolling through Twitter, searching for more information about Walt’s time in California.
I tell myself I’m going to stop thinking about him the second I touch down in Paris. I make it my personal mission, even, and I almost succeed. When Nadiya picks me up at the airport, she whisks me up into a frenzy of activities. Sunday and Monday, we’re at Stein Gallery, focusing on the order of my pieces and confirming we like the general flow of the collection. Tuesday, I meet with press at the hotel, flitting from one interview to the next so that by the end of the day, my voice feels hoarse. Wednesday morning, Nadiya has a professional photographer meet me in my hotel room so she can take some headshots of me. The PR team at Stein will send the best shot to the French press and use it in the show.
“Are you exhausted?” Nadiya asks me Thursday night as we sit at a restaurant, waiting on our food.
We’re not alone. Our table of eight includes a few other people from Stein who are helping to coordinate my show. I should be trying to make good impressions, but truthfully, I could fall asleep on the table at any moment.
I cringe. “Does it look like I am?”
“Only slightly.”
I laugh.
“Tomorrow, you have a light day. We’ll need to meet at the gallery in the morning to ensure everything is ready to go, but then you have the afternoon off. Take it easy. Explore the city. Or hell, take a nap.”
I take her up on her advice, ignoring the lure of the large museums like the Louvre and the d’Orsay in favor of visiting Fondation Cartier, a museum founded by the luxury watch brand that houses modern art.
It features a large contemporary garden overflowing with greenery. Just like in New York, spring has arrived in Paris. With a light jacket, I’m able to sit out on the cascading shallow steps, appreciating the juxtaposition between the lush garden and the industrial façade of the museum. It’s the first substantial amount of time I’ve really had on my own since I arrived here, and I’m not surprised to be greeted by the call of loneliness. I have my sketchbook with me, so I tug it out of my bag, realizing as I flip to the last page that I haven’t drawn anything in it since I sketched Walt back in his apartment. I stare down at the drawing of him, and it’s like my longing is physical, manifesting itself as an ache in my chest I can’t seem to ease even after I close my sketchbook.