Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
I shake my head, too curious to do anything else. “How about you warn me before we go inside?”
“Since you were such a good girl on the car ride, I think you earned that much at least.” He puts one hand on the small of my back. I shiver and lick my lips. I’m wearing dark slacks and a black silky top with my hair loose around my shoulders. It’s probably the fanciest outfit I own, which doesn’t say much about my wardrobe of mostly denim overalls and athletic gear. “There’s this sculptor named Nicolas Girard and he’s having an opening tonight. I hear it’s good, and I thought you might be interested.”
My eyebrows raise as I stare at the building, and now it makes sense. The place has a gallery vibe, now that I’m thinking about it, very austere and serious but also fun and arty. “I’ve never been to a gallery opening before. Well, except for my own.”
“Then this will be perfect.” He offers me his arm and I take it. We walk together to the front door. “If you get uncomfortable or if you want to leave for any reason, just tell me, okay?”
I suppress a smile and nod. That’s such a sweet offer, and I have to remind myself that Marco knows me, he’s aware that I’ve been locked up in my house making tongues and fingers for the last ten years, and all of this going out stuff is very new to me. He’s right, I’m nervous, but so long as I can hold onto his arm, I’ll be fine.
He shows an invitation at the door and we enter into a crowded space broken up by big white walls. The sculptures dominate the space: they’re figures, mostly women, but done in strange geometric and abstract shapes. The human form is still there, still obvious in the lines and curves, but somehow that’s only hinted at through the sweep of the marble. One in particular catches my mind, and I’m impressed at how smooth the edges and curves are. I get close, staring for chisel marks, trying to figure out what technique he uses while Marco patiently stands beside me.
The night goes like that. He procures drinks while I study the works, obsessing over tiny details, and he doesn’t even mind when I start talking shop with a few random guests. The densely packed rooms make my heart race and sweat break out on my skin, but when I’m focusing on the art, I can forget all about the crowd.
He indulges me for an hour. I’m not sure he expected me to get this into it, but I have to admit, the guy’s a fucking patient saint for hanging around and letting me nerd out.
“You wait here,” he says and kisses my cheek. “I’ll get us fresh drinks. Then I want you to myself for a little while.”
“I guess I can spare you some time.”
“That’s what I love about you, Laura. Your generosity.” He kisses the corner of my mouth before walking off.
It leaves me breathless, the way he so casually says what I love about you. I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before. Mostly, people are creeped out by me, and for good reason. I’ve worked very hard on my fuck-you-I’m-a-psycho vibes for years, and I think I’ve gotten pretty good at it. But with Marco, I don’t feel like I need to push him away. I can say what I want and feel what I want and be who I am, without worrying whether he’s going to get weirded out about my murder jokes.
“From what I hear, you seem to know a thing or two about sculpting.” A man’s voice jostles my attention. “I’m Nicolas. What’s your name?” I half turn to face him, and I freeze.
He’s in his mid-thirties, older than I am. Scruffy facial hair, curly dark brown hair, light skin. His brown eyes seem amused, and his thin lips are pulled into what’s probably meant to be a friendly smile. He’s in a button-down, a scarf around his neck, and slacks.
It’s not him. It can’t be him. Ethan was in his thirties when he was my teacher, which means he’d be in his forties by now. At least, if he weren’t dead.
But, oh my god, Nicolas looks exactly like him. It’s uncanny, it’s disturbing. It’s making my heart race and my hands go clammy. I can barely breathe, because even though I know Ethan’s gone, this guy reminds me so much of the man I looked up to, the man who took everything from me, and now suddenly the crowd’s pressing against me, their faces leering and laughing as I gasp for air. My head feels light and my feet are numb, and Nicolas shows his teeth in a vicious smirk, laughing as I turn away from him, my hand going up to my heart.