Okay. Whoa.
You can’t please everybody. I get that. But “doomed to hell”？
I mean, ArtWeenie911 clearly had some issues. The level of his or her viciousness toward pleasant, smiling, fairly photorealistic portraits of people from all walks of life was … a bit extreme?
I tried not to take it to heart. For all I know, ArtWeenie911 was a troll bot. Sent to sow discord in … what? The barely-making-ends-meet online portrait painting community?
Maybe not.
I was two for two with random acts of douchiness today.
Not counting the Joe-in-pajamas incident. By far the douchiest of all.
On the heels of that, after spending several cold hours in a medical gown in waiting rooms and various imaging scanners, I got a totally unhelpful report that showed no reduction in the edema—and then I was told again to “just be patient.”
Which of course I would. Because what choice did I have?
But how much time and money did I waste just to be instructed to do what I was already doing? There was “no change” in my situation? I could’ve told you that.
I’d been hoping against hope for a last-minute disappearance of the swelling. A lifetime of movies with underdog champions had primed me to expect that I’d find a way to triumph just in the nick of time.
But that wasn’t happening.
Not to mention all day long I was getting stalked by Lucinda, who insisted she needed to speak with me “urgently” about “a matter of great concern.”
Texts and phone calls I ignored, of course.
Pro tip for dealing with Lucinda: If she ever says anything is urgent, just run and hide.
Add to my list of grievances: Strappy sandals that were giving me a blister. A phone with three percent battery. The moment when I forgot my purse in a waiting room and had to race back to find it. Not to mention: The art store was still out of linden-green gouache, and the grocery store was out of the only vet-recommended dog food that Peanut would eat.
By the time I limped home, the sun was setting, my Achilles tendon was stinging, and I felt like the day was positively bullying me. Somewhere along the way, I’d started keeping a mental tally of the insults and injuries—almost as if I could submit the list and demand a refund.
Even the prospect of seeing Joe that night felt like an attack. Either he wouldn’t tell me about Parker—which would be bad. Or he would tell me—which would be worse.
One thing I knew: I did not want to know.
But there was no wriggling out of any of it. The only way out of this day was through. So as I geared up for the home stretch, I stopped at Bean Street for a half-caf latte—for both comfort and caffeine.
And that’s when Parker descended upon me, just as Hazel One handed me my coffee.
“Lucinda’s been trying to reach you all day,” Parker said.
Parker. Of course. Who else would reek of Poison and know that about Lucinda?
“Yeah. Well. I’ve been kind of busy.”
“I bet you have.”
She wanted me to ask her what that was supposed to mean. So I didn’t.
She went on. “Saw you smooching the Vespa guy last night. Which of course provoked me to retaliate.”
Retaliate? What did that mean? Did that explain his morning walk of shame? Had she shown up at his door at midnight in a bustier and garters? I felt disloyal to myself admitting this, but Parker was, technically, a good-looking person. She had enough to work with in the looks department that she could have pulled off a stunt like that.
She wanted me to react to that. So I didn’t.
And then I had a freeing thought. I didn’t have to stand here.
I could just … leave.
I didn’t have to stay. I didn’t have to let her push my buttons. I didn’t want to let this escalate. I just wanted to get outside. I could see the sunshine just past the windows.
I started walking toward the exit doors. But Parker followed me. I’d just reached them when she caught up.
“You didn’t let me give you my news,” she said. “I’m coming to your show.”
And there it was. So much for just leaving. She got me. I turned back. “My what?”
“Your little art thingy.”
The portrait show? The biggest, most important moment in my entire career? She was coming to that? “You can’t,” I said. “You’re not invited.”
But she shook her head and shrugged. “Open to the public. It’s on the website.”
“You’re not invited,” I said again.
“Sure I am.”
“You can’t.” Then, panicking—looking for a strong enough word: “I forbid it.”