The Paradise Problem (93)

“Hey, lady! I have some amazing news.”

I close my eyes, turning to sit at the edge of the bed. I look down at my pink-tipped toes on the cream carpet, trying to anchor myself. Emotional whiplash is the name of the game these days. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“Two things: one, the gallery wants another five paintings from you.”

I straighten. “Oh my God, what?”

“And two, there’s a gallery here in Los Angeles that also wants to feature two of your pieces.”

I cup a hand over my mouth, squeezing my eyes closed. It must be the cocktail of emotions in my meager body, because it’s my turn to cry. I feel tears rise up and spill down my cheeks.

“Anna?” she asks.

“I’m here,” I choke, and at the sound, Liam whips around, coming to kneel at my feet.

“What happened?” he mouths, his light brown eyes round and worried.

I shake my head, mouthing back, “It’s okay. It’s good,” and then say to Mel, “I’m just a little in shock.”

“I bet you are,” she says, laughing. “This is how it all starts.”

“So seven in total?” I ask, and Liam leans in, mouthing more insistently. “What is it?” His fingers absently skim up and down my legs.

After Mel answers yes, I cup a hand over the phone and whisper to Liam, “The gallery wants more paintings. And there’s another gallery in LA that wants some, too.”

He beams up at me, squeezing my calves in his hands, and it feels so good to see that smile on his face. I reach forward, tracing his lower lip.

“When do you get home?” she asks.

“Like in an hour,” I say, laughing, “because the math involved in traveling to and from Asia is make-believe.”

Mel laughs at this. “Okay, well, call me as soon as you’re settled so we can get this sorted.”

“I will.”

“Hopefully people will get to see them this time,” she says, laughing.

“Right?” I say, laughing back, and then my joy is turned briefly on its side. I think I’ve misheard her. “Wait—what do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, because the original three were purchased before the show even opened.”

I blink. “Before the show opened?” I ask and then I understand: I hadn’t spaced the gallery opening; it hadn’t even happened yet. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I ask, “Who was the buyer?”

“Anonymous.”

I stare at Liam, kneeling in front of me, so happy for me. So proud. So unsurprised by all of this. “Anonymous buyer,” I say quietly, and his smile falters for just a breath. “At five times the sticker price, too.”

“Amen,” Mel sings. “Okay, sweets, I’m hopping on another call, but we’ll talk soon.”

“Absolutely.” Numbly, I press End Call and stare down at the phone in my hands.

“So?” Liam says, tracing his fingers up and down the back of my calves. “Tell me the good news.”

I turn my face up to him. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

His expression freezes, and then he tries on another smile. “What was me?”

“The buyer,” I say. “The person who bought the first three paintings.”

Liam’s eyes flicker back and forth between mine. I silently beg him not to lie. “Yes,” he admits, finally.

A stone drops in the hollow of my chest. “Why?”

“Because you wanted it so much,” he says. “Because this is how these things work—buzz builds.”

“You’ve never even seen my art.”

“I saw it in your apartment before we left. I’ve seen your drawings on the island.”

I move to stand, and he has to shift back, standing, too, reaching for my hands, but I pull them up to my chest, curl them into my body. “I feel…” I shake my head, out of words. Honestly, I’m gutted. “I feel so incredibly stupid.”

“God, why?”

“Because I thought the person who bought the paintings had seen them and loved them.”

“I have seen them. I will love them because you made them.”

“This isn’t a third-grade art project, Liam. That’s not how it works.”

He steps closer, but I turn and walk over to the dresser. “Anna. Getting noticed in the art world is—”

“Are you really going to explain this to me? Because you’ve spent so much time in art circles?”

He frowns. “Well, I do know a bit—”

“Because your family is wealthy, and you know a lot of patrons?”

Liam steps back, sits at the end of the bed facing me. He’s still dressed in his suit from the wedding and I’m suddenly so happy that I showered, that I washed every trace of that place off me. “Okay, stop,” he says. “It was only a few thousand dollars.”

“Only a few—” I cut off, so irate that I’m shaking. “Do you realize that for someone like me a few thousand can feel as impossible as a few million?”

“This isn’t about our backgrounds,” he says steadily, so calm. “This isn’t about money. This is about helping you build a name for yourself.”