“You’re a dick.”
“I know. This is why we’re friends. Takes one to know one.”
“I’ll bring her around, just not tonight,” I tell him, then an idea comes to mind. “Are you busy this weekend?”
“I don’t know. I’ll check with Kate when I get home, but probably not.”
“Perhaps we can set up a date for this Saturday night then,” I ponder. “I would like you to meet her outside of the gallery.”
“Good, I’ll let Kate know.”
“Was there an actual reason you called me besides wanting to be a pussy and talk about our feelings?” I taunt him.
“Actually, I was going to ask you about her because Kate and I were chatting last night about the show. It was great. I think you should really look at getting your work online.”
“Maybe. I don’t know if I’m ready to dive headfirst into fame right now.” Even the thought of it has me panicked. Even though I’m sure I can handle it, the memories of my father are still fresh in my mind.
“Think about it. This could be your break from being at that gallery all day every day. Maybe you’ll be able to take a proper vacation,” he suggests, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone.
“Did you want to say something? Because I’ve never known Eli Boudreaux to keep his mouth shut when he had something to say.”
“I mean . . . You could always take Nea somewhere nice. I’m sure she’d love to go to Hawaii or Belize, some tropical beach where you can finally admit you’re in love again.” The guffaw that greets me after he speaks is the one reason I hang up, but I can’t stop my laugh as well. However, I won’t give Eli the benefit of hearing that I actually laughed at him making fun of me.
A text comes through not long after from Eli.
You can’t deny that I’m right, as always.
I can’t deny it, but I won’t tell him.Chapter 19NeaThe restaurant isn’t busy with only a few tables filled, including ours. We have the privacy that allows us to finally talk. I want to know more about Julian and, for some reason, I could never ask the questions I’d like to ask while we’re at the house. It seems too personal to bring up his father or the fact that I found out he had a wife.
I need to know more about the man, and I take a deep breath before I finally ask, “So, will you ever be able to talk about your past with me?” It’s a leap because I know how much Julian enjoys his privacy.
He seems pensive at first but, slowly, he settles back in his chair and regards me while he toys with his glass of beer. We’d both enjoyed a drink, dinner, and now that we’re almost ready to pay the bill, I wanted to ask before time ran out.
“My father enjoyed the fame more than I ever did,” he starts, shocking me because I was almost certain he was going to take me home and tell me never to return. “But when I was twenty-one, all things came to a head with his agent and the press. They had found pictures of him drunk, in various clubs with girls, models no less. He didn’t care what they said until the article came out talking about his drug use and the fact that his art was no longer of the quality they had come to admire.”
The pain in Julian’s words is evident, drenching the air between us in sadness. I wanted to go to him, to hold him and tell him he’s nothing like that, but I couldn’t know that. Perhaps if fame got to be too much, Julian could turn to alcohol the same way his father had.
“That’s why I am so afraid of finally putting my work out there. My best friend, Eli, keeps telling me to do it, to show more and more people what I can do. But with that talent I got from my father comes the other, darker side to it.”
“But would you go out partying and doing drugs with girls half your age if you were to finally become a household name in art?” I don’t know why I can’t believe that Julian is that type of man. He’s serious, grumpy at the best of times, but I don’t see him losing control like that. However, with fame comes a lot of pressure. “Is that why in the past you have never allowed people to see you? Even when you do your reviews?”
“Yes. For years I hid away, I had specific rules about any press coming to the shows. No photos, and I never featured in any articles,” he says, nodding before he takes a sip of his beer. When he sets the glass down, he looks at the liquid as if it were poison. “I love painting, and I enjoy the looks on people’s faces when they try to assume what a particular canvas means, but other than that, I don’t want anything to do with it. Not the art world. My father’s friends were always there, egging him on to do more and more shit.”