Page 90 of The Leaving Kind

“I have a line on an opportunity you might be interested in.”

Dear lord, save him from agent double-talk. “Mm-hmm.”

“A new gallery in Brooklyn is putting together a show of former residents. Artists who got their start in the borough. It’s their way of—”

“Trading in on the known to make themselves less unknown. I’m familiar with the concept.”

“I see it more as paying tribute.”

“Oh God. I’ve gone from homewares to hall-of-fame invitations?” Having not escaped his bedroom, Victor sat in the chair by the fireplace and eyed his bed—the sheets and quilt still rumpled from his overnight guest. A smile edged across his lips. Cameron wasn’t quite a silver lining to his current cloud of career woes—thankfully, he occupied a completely different part of the atmosphere. But being with him now certainly made all of the skies over Victor’s head brighter.

“Victor?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, I don’t understand. What homewares?”

Victor forced his thoughts away from the night before and early morning with Cam, about when he might see his lover again, and focused on the present. He frowned. “Housewares?”

“Never mind. I’m going to assume you were being allegorical. Can I tell you about the show?”

“Did they reach out or did you?”

“They did.”

His shoulders dipped in relief. “Book it.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I don’t have much else going on career-wise right now, and though I generally loathe the idea of being grouped with a random collection of artists, I would like to sell some art. New art, that is. Anything other than a damned mouse pad with some weird corner of a painting I can’t remember working on.”

“Your online store does good business, Victor. It could be the reason you were invited to participate in this show.”

“Good to know I’m still relevant.”

Jazmine was silent for a moment, and Victor listened to the birds outside. They were quieter now, as the morning waned toward noon. He used to paint in the mornings. Around the middle of the day, he’d work in the garden or on a project around the house. In the afternoons, he’d paint some more or teach classes, either at the center or at one of two after-school programs. In the evenings, he’d try not to drink, which hadn’t been all that difficult during a series. He’d be so focused on capturing his theme and drawing it from one canvas to the next that his evenings had often seemed to swallow themselves. He’d sit outside and watch the stars breathe in the night sky. Sit inside and watch sparks dance over the logs in the fireplace. Let his mind rest. Then start over the next day.

Now, Jazmine’s silence reminded him of his evenings before Cam. When he’d sit at the kitchen table and stare at the bottles of wine in the rack beside the fridge and try not to imagine what each one tasted like.

Finally, Jazmine spoke. “Do you want to submit the series you were working on for the September show, or something else?”

“I don’t have anything else.”

“Do you want to talk about that?”

Thank Christ he couldn’t see his reflection. He could feel his eyebrows pulling down and his eyes squinting. Victor rested his elbows on his knees. The phone, warm and slippery now, slid over his ear. Clutching it, he pressed it close to the side of his head. “Not really. I’m ... I’ve been experimenting with a few ideas.” He sucked in deep breath and straightened. “You know what, let’s declare this the end of an era. All in on this show. I’m going to participate as enthusiastically as possible, and then disappear for a while. Until I have a new direction. No more pre-bookings or contractual obligations. Let’s cast ourselves adrift in a sea of possibility and wait to see where we land.”

When she responded, Victor could hear the smile in Jazmine’s voice. “That sounds like the Victor I know and love.”

“Okay, then.”

“Have we covered everything? You were the one who called me, remember?”

“Only to see what you had for me. And here you had a show. How fortuitous.”

Another beat of silence, then, “Art never dies, Vic. You’ll always be relevant. The beauty you have captured will always be there. So make sure you take the time to drift properly before swimming for the closest shore.”

Possibly not the best advice for a man who struggled with depression and a slight reliance on alcohol, but Victor understood what she meant. Art couldn’t be hurried and, sometimes, neither could the artist.