Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 3) (6 page)

The day of the senior project exhibition arrived, and I’d never seen Shawn more excited about anything. It had been such a pleasure working with him, such a relief to know that he was back, truly back, and better than ever.

And when we stepped into the room, my arm thrust through his, it was instantly clear that ours was the best among all the other projects.

Our advisers rushed to meet us.

“It’s stunning,” Mercedes said, flapping her hands, clearly thrilled. “Even the dean agreed that he’d never seen anything like it before. What a brilliant touch to include a live model.”

“That was Shawn’s idea,” I said, beaming at him. I was so happy to have this to focus on, so happy to have my best friend back in my life again. A puzzle piece I’d thought I’d lost had returned. If only the other piece missing from my life, Patrick, would…no…that wasn’t what I needed to think about right now. Today, it was all about Shawn and me.

“Do you really think it’s the best?” Shawn asked quietly as we circulated. “I know we wanted it to be the best, but maybe we’re just projecting what we want to happen onto reality and warping it.”

“You saw how our advisers reacted,” I told him. “It’s the best. No question about it.”

That wasn’t to say that our classmates’ projects weren’t good. They were all strong pieces, all testaments to just how much hard work we put into our degrees here at the institute, but they weren’t transcendent. And God bless our tireless model. She stood still, on her raised platform, eyes forward as people ogled her and the art that Shawn had created on her body. She really took our project to the next level. Without her, there would’ve only been sketches and my photos to engage people—plus the pamphlets and book we’d created to document the project. She was the one people were talking about, and Shawn’s painting prowess was on full display.

“I didn’t know that you could have a partner,” one of my photography classmates was in the middle of complaining, as Shawn and I passed by, circulating. She fell silent as she saw me, but then decided she had something to say, after all. “It would’ve been easier if I’d known. Then I could’ve split the work and done it in half the time, like you did.”

I opened my mouth to retort. How dare she? She had no idea what Shawn had been through, what I had been through. Missing all of the class time that we had was harrowing and had almost cost us our graduation. We’d worked tirelessly, day and night, to create what we had done. We’d done it in half the time as everyone else because that’s what our lives’ circumstances had forced us to do.

But it was Shawn who cut in first. “Maybe your vision just didn’t reach as far as ours did, then,” he said. “We broke whatever rules there might’ve been—and there weren’t any rules saying we couldn’t—because we were inspired.”

My classmate narrowed her eyes, but I staved off any pushback. “Your black and white work looks really good, by the way. Mercedes urged you away from gray all semester, and you really did it with this body of work. It’s art.”

She looked cowed and surprised that I’d complimented her after she’d insulted our success, and it felt better to smile and drift away than to deliver an insult in kind.

“Look at you,” Shawn said, laughing. “You didn’t have to kiss her ass. She’s been jealous of you all year.”

“Her work was good,” I said, shrugging and grinning. “She was just angry that there might’ve been an advantage she didn’t exploit for the exhibition. I think some of your new positive outlook on life is rubbing off on me.”

Shawn replied, but I didn’t hear him. I’d glanced over to see how our model was faring and noticed Patrick, standing by our exhibit, gazing at me. It made my breath catch in my throat, the way he was looking at me, devouring me with those hungry green eyes. He couldn’t be here.

“Loren?”

I whipped back around to Shawn. “Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry,” I said. “I was just checking on the model.” No—damn it. That was a mistake. If Shawn looked over there, he’d see Patrick. I didn’t want to ruin our evening.

“I was wondering how our exhibit will work when it’s on permanent display on campus,” he said. “I was wondering what you thought about asking some of the sculpture students if they had any nude sculptures that we could incorporate. That would be another opportunity at collaboration, and it would get the effect of having the live model there.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” I said. My breath caught again as Shawn looked over at our exhibit, and I followed his glance. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Had I just imagined him? Was I going crazy, or what?

“This is like the biggest event of the year for so many people,” Shawn remarked. “But it’s only the beginning for you. I can’t believe your gallery show is so soon.”

I laughed, ignoring the feeling of unease I had at seeing Patrick here. I didn’t want to spoil anything for Shawn tonight. He’d worked so hard, and he deserved to have something that was free from all possibility of drama, no matter what he said about accepting Patrick and I as a couple.

“It was pretty harrowing, organizing two shows at once, I guess,” I said. “I’ll be able to relax after the opening night. Well…then we’ll graduate, I guess.”

Shawn threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”

It was still surreal—though perhaps not unexpected—to hear our names called as the “Best in Show” at the senior project exhibition. I thought that there would only be scattered, begrudging applause at the announcement, but there were cheers. Confused, I looked around. Even my photography classmates were clapping up a storm.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Shawn teased me. “The work stands for itself. It’s the best there is.”

“I just can’t believe it’s really going to be over,” I said, blinking at him, suddenly overcome with emotion. “I don’t know. It’s something we worked on for so long, and now it’s done.”

“Nothing’s done,” he said, giving me a rough, one-armed hug. “We still have to help plan the permanent exhibit. Graduate, too. And you still have the opening of your gallery show.”

“You’re right,” I said, smiling and dabbing at my eyes, which had been threatening to overflow. “I’m just being stupid. We worked really hard on this, and we deserve to celebrate it.”

We received kind words from lots of gracious people, including the dean, who told us how excited he was to host our permanent exhibit on campus.

I left the exhibit space feeling like I was walking on a cloud. All the hard work had actually paid off. Even though my gallery show was mere days away, all the most difficult tasks had already been done. All I had to do for the opening was show up, drink some wine, and chat with strangers about my “vision” in photography.

  What I was really concerned about was whether or not I’d actually seen Patrick at the senior project exhibition.

Maybe it was silly to dwell upon it, but I’d been nearly positive that he’d been there. I wouldn’t mistake that searing green gaze for anyone else. But why had he vanished right after that? Had he not wanted Shawn to see him?

Had I been the only one wanting to see him?

Our most recent tryst had been something of a disaster, me unable to overcome my feelings of guilt over the scar I couldn’t stop staring at on Patrick’s chest.

I longed to be able to be with him again, but I just wasn’t sure my heart was completely in it.

On the afternoon of the opening of my gallery show, I got dressed quickly, running a little late, having tried to cram too many things in during the morning. I yanked the chic, short dress I was planning on wearing out of the closet and another slipped from its hanger, pooling on the floor. I rolled my eyes at the latest in the series of delays that had plagued me until I saw which dress it actually was—the strange black linen one that I had worn to Patrick’s benefit. I hadn’t so much as thought about it since wearing it that night.

That night, when we’d had hot sex in his tiny car after agreeing that maybe we shouldn’t be together but that the love was there.

I left it on the floor, confused. Maybe I just needed closure. One last conversation with Patrick just to tie things up neatly in a bow.

That was an illusion, of course. Nothing was ever neat and tied up at the end. I knew that what Patrick and I had in the past was complicated, but deliciously so. The difficulties made the sweet parts worth it—sweeter, even. Loving him had contained so many shades on the spectrum that it had been the richest experience of my life.

And that’s when I realized that the love was still there, and I had let him walk away from it. How stupid could I be? I’d wasted so much time trying to deny what I truly felt that I’d confused myself in the process. If Patrick was willing to move forward with our relationship, was I foolish to push back against him, to deny myself what I really wanted because of my guilt? Was it too late to change everything?

I arrived at the gallery flustered and confused, my makeup and hair sloppy, feeling like I was going to cry. Mere took one look at me and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom at the back of the building.

“Everyone gets butterflies during the first opening,” she said, waving away my excuses and explanations. “Go fix yourself up and relax. I’ll send Suzette with a glass of wine for you. That’ll be better, won’t it? We have plenty of time.”

That was just the reassurance that I needed, and the wine helped steel my nerves. I needed to forget about Patrick, for now, and focus on my show. This was important on so many levels, and I couldn’t let my emotions get the better of me.

 I smoothed my hair down and touched up my makeup before reemerging. I’d barely done anything to my appearance, but my shift in attitude was apparent to Mere.

“That’s better already,” she coached. “Now. Let’s go through the exhibit—just a few minutes before we open the doors—and you tell me if we need any changes.”

“I’m sure what you have is fine. We don’t have to change anything,” I protested weakly as Mere physically dragged me along each wall, insistent.

“I want to make sure the photographer thinks her show is as great as I do,” she said. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

It was strange, but affirming, to see my photos displayed throughout the gallery space. I’d had some input on the flow of the exhibit, but Mere had taken the lion’s share of the task upon herself, assuring me that she had ample experience with what worked. I trusted her judgment; she was the one who owned the gallery, after all. Plus, it was helpful to have a set of eyes that weren’t accustomed to my work. I’d spent so much time culling my collection that I couldn’t dream of having to curate it any further.

My pieces on the homeless were strongly represented, juxtaposed by the glut of well-dressed tourists studiously taking photos of San Francisco’s best-known landmarks. But the centerpiece of the show was that photo I’d taken of the golden sun breaking through the fog beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, that fateful morning when I’d kissed Patrick and started everything. It had been Mere’s choice, not mine, but it functioned as the prevailing figurehead of the rest of the collection. The photo was good—I could own that much—but it just made me think of Patrick too much.

“What do you think?” Mere asked, clearly excited.

“It’s wonderful,” I assured her. “It really is. I’m just a bundle of nerves right now.”

“I know just the antidote to that,” she announced, marching me over to the bar.

People filled the gallery gradually, and I began to relax and glow—partly due to the wine I was consuming, and partly due to the positive responses people were giving regarding my work. They leaned in, interested in each and every shot, commenting on the range of San Francisco present in my photos. I was surprised, as Mere started sidling up to me from time to time, whispering that some of my photos were selling. I hadn’t intended to sell any work here; I’d thought that it was just a formality when Mere asked me for pricing information, and she’d ended up determining the bulk of it herself. But this was just another testament to the power of my work, a reaffirmation that it was really worth something.

 It was a huge relief, and delight, when Shawn arrived, looking dapper in a suit.

“Did you get dressed up for this?” I laughed, making him turn around. “You look handsome, but it wasn’t necessary.”

“You got dressed up, too,” he said, accusatory but laughing. “Take me through everything. I know the artist, here, and I demand a personal tour.”

It was difficult to explain to him that I’d taken the bulk of these photos during that dark time away from the Paulsons, after all of the trauma, but I wanted to be honest. So much had almost been lost because we weren’t being open with one another.

“You’re a gem, Loren,” Shawn announced after we reached the centerpiece shot of the bridge. “All that pressure you were under, and you came out with all of this brilliance.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You’re going to make me cry and mess up my makeup.”

Shawn eavesdropped on other attendees on the show, reporting back to me on what they were saying and making me blush for a while until it was time for him to leave.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I skip out early,” he said, holding the empty plastic cup he’d sipped club soda out of. “I have a meeting to go to.”

“Go to your meeting,” I said, smiling at him. “Thanks for coming!”