Total pages in book: 230
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
“This is really nice,” Pilar said after a moment. I blinked and watched her as she looked at the photographs on the walls.
“It is. Children took these photos,” I said.
“What?” Her brows rose as she turned back to look at the rest. “I’m impressed.”
The point of this particular exhibition was to raise money to provide art equipment to underprivileged children. The focus of the Drake Foundation was the kids, but I figured I’d break the events up into parts. This one was about the art, the next would be centered around sports. It was incredible how many children around the world played baseball with a tree branch and a rolled-up sock.
“Where are the kids located? All around the world?” She looked at me briefly before moving on to the next photograph.
“Yes, but the goal is to focus on certain areas at a time. Otherwise, it will get too hectic.” I nodded at the next image, a dusty-gray cloud. It looked like just that, a dusty, gray haze, but the reality behind the image was horrifying. “That was taken by a seven-year-old boy in Syria. In the midst of the war. With bombs dropping all around him.”
“Oh my God.” Pilar gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. “That’s terrible.”
“It is, but that’s how life is for some people in the world. This serves as a good way to show that.”
“It’s so sad though.” When she turned to me, she looked like she was on the verge of tears. I fought the urge to pull her into my arms. “What happened to the boy?”
“He made it.” My smile felt tight. “His parents didn’t. His baby sister didn’t.”
“So sad.” She shook her head, turning back to the next photograph.
It was more of the same. Pain disguised as art. Agony wore a lot of masks, but when it was disguised as art, it actually moved people.
“Why Syria?” Pilar turned to me again.
“My brother was a photojournalist. One of his assignments was in Syria during the war. He wasn’t welcome there, but he continued to do his job. Despite the treatment, he made friends with some residents, told me great stories about them, about the suffering and sacrifice.” I paused, swallowing. I hated talking about this, but she’d asked, and I owed her an explanation.
“My parents didn’t approve of this.” I signaled toward the photographs. “They said I could have shown the suffering that goes on anywhere in the world. They’re bitter about my brother’s experience there, but it felt right. We don’t get to choose who suffers and who doesn’t.”
She swallowed visibly and looked at another photograph. “Where are your parents now?”
“Tel Aviv.”
“Oh.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never been.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Is that where you’re from? I thought you were from London.”
“My father’s from London, my mother is from Tel Aviv. I was raised between both places, but my heart was always in Tel Aviv.”
“I want to hear more about your family.” She smiled up at me.
I chuckled, hoping she’d drop it. A lot was missing from most of my personal stories, and I’d opened up to few people about them. It hadn’t bothered my past girlfriends. Kayla was one of the only ones who knew about my parents, and that was only because we’d been hooking up for so many years. Somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred, right before I scrubbed them clean and made it so they’d never blur again. Kayla was what the WAGs, the wives and girlfriends of footballers, called a hardcore groupie. When the lines started blurring, it took a sit-down with a few of the spouses for me to realize that she wasn’t the woman for me. She’d been sleeping with more than a few of the players on my team behind my back. I probably wouldn’t have cared about that as much, had a lot of them not been married. I didn’t consider myself above anyone, but their wives were kind, respectful, and much too giving to deserve that kind of treatment. And because I was the one who’d brought Kayla into the mix, I felt guilty. I’d ended things with Kayla, but still kept a casual friendship with her out of habit. Despite being wronged by her, it was difficult for me to completely turn my back on someone I’d known for most of my life.
“I’ll tell you about them another time.”
“And your brother.” Her eyes were filled with questions, but she didn’t ask them. It was either because she sensed that I didn’t want to speak about any of it, or because she knew it wasn’t the place.
She simply smiled again and continued looking at photographs. I wondered how many opinions and questions she kept to herself. I’d seen her in front of her family enough times to know that most of what she did in public was entirely for their benefit. I wished she’d drop the pretense around me. She would. Soon, she would. I just had to prove to her that she could. Though the fact that I wanted to do that at all was a problem in itself.