Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“I was thinking more along the line of being a patron. Sponsoring indie artists, finding talent, then helping that artist break into the art world. Get their pieces shown, be their champion,” he explained as soon as we calmed down. “You could even open your own small gallery. The family is known in the art community. We are on the board for the Met. Why not use those connections and do something similar while supporting up-and-coming artists?”
“Could I do that? I really don’t want to compete for gallery space in Manhattan, and worse, Mother would try to sabotage anything I would do.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Manhattan. I was thinking of smaller, more modern art. Like small up-and-coming artists. Either here in Dumbo or even Williamsburg.” Harrison sat back on the couch, and Rose leaned against him. They both looked tired, and I wondered what their lives would look like if they had broken away like I had.
It was tempting, but I wanted something more hands-on than cutting a check and attending the occasional party.
“That or you just give up and teach,” Harrison joked. “Isn’t that what they say, those that can’t do, teach?”
His words struck a nerve.
Rose was quick to defend me, but it got me thinking.
He had a point. There was no way my passion could be a viable career option as an artist, but it wasn’t really my art I was passionate about. It was the process. It was learning new mediums and playing with them. I had more enthusiasm and passion for the process of creating art than for the final product. Even when looking at the masters, I wanted to know what they were thinking, what they saw that they tried to convey in their work.
“Maybe my mission in life isn’t to create the next great work of art, or even support someone else who does. Maybe I’m supposed to stoke that passion in others and help them find their passion,” I said, interrupting an argument about chopstick etiquette.
Rose looked at me like I had lost my mind.
“Explain.” Harrison set down his beer, took Rose’s chopsticks out of her hand, and gave her a plastic fork.
“What if I’m supposed to teach art, maybe to kids? I know art programs are poorly funded in public schools. What if I could help fill that gap? I could create a school or an after-school program for children to learn and find their own passion.”
“What would that look like?” Rose asked.
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “I’d probably have to look at getting a teacher’s certification. Then maybe a volunteer position or a part-time teacher’s job to get some hands-on experience. Then look into what it would take to start programs or something.”
Harrison had nodded then excused himself for a moment to make a call. It was weird, and he was cryptic when I asked him about the call.
It really didn’t matter. Rose was even more excited about this idea than I was. With her as my personal cheerleader and Harrison’s more practical help, I was enrolled in a teacher certification program within a week.
The classes were hard, and so was living on my own for the first time even if I was living in an upscale building with a doorman. But with the help of some college friends like Marco, I was acclimating to my new life of independence. I had only set the kitchen on fire twice… this week.
My life was suddenly my own. It was challenging, exciting, and sometimes a little unpredictable. The only thing I missed was him. Luc Manwarring.
Sometimes I thought I saw him or his assistant or one of his security goons out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned, they weren’t there.
My days were spent full of life and new adventures.
Classes, new restaurants, the occasional club with friends, things I had not been permitted to do while under my parents’ roof.
But at night, when everyone left for their own homes and I lay in bed, cold and alone, that was when loneliness and depression set in.
Most nights I dreamt about him, and I woke craving his touch.
I would also use my fingers to touch myself the way he’d touched me, thinking not just of the night he’d been gentle and adoring but also of the times he was rough and demanding.
More than once I had brought myself pleasure with my fingers clutched around my throat, applying just the right amount of pressure by squeezing the sides as I thought about his heavy breathing in my ear as he said the vilest things to me.
When he called me his whore, his desperate, needy slut, his good girl.
The more I thought about it, I wasn’t sure if it was the honesty in the degradation—because for him then I had been all those things—or if it was being called his.