It’s done; time to let it go, Mason would say, and he’d be right. The critique was over. In fact, my professor had probably already assigned it a grade.
We finished up with minimal tears shed, after which Professor Mendez wished us all a good weekend and cut us loose.
“Jett,” she called just as I was leaving. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
I hoped this wouldn’t take long. I had an appointment with my therapist scheduled for after class, followed closely by Mason’s art show—his first in over three years.
I joined Professor Mendez in front of my painting and tried not to make it obvious that I was itching to go.
“I told you at the start of the semester that I wasn’t going to go easy on you just because your father is Mason Black,” she said. “But I’m pleased to say, you’ve impressed me all on your own.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Professor.”
“I heard your father has an opening in the East Village tonight. The gallery owner is a friend of mine. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
A little trill of anxiety skittered up my spine. I had no idea what to expect from Mason’s show tonight. He’d insisted on keeping this series a surprise. For all I knew, he was planning to debut the watercolor close-ups of my pussy he’d painted last fall.
That would be awkward.
I hustled the few blocks to my therapist’s office, arriving only a couple of minutes late. Dr. Kelley had my usual cup of green tea waiting for me on the coffee table, beside a fresh box of tissues that I would surely plow through.
It had taken more than a few sessions for me to concede that talking about my shame and anger and disgust was better than trying to bottle it up. At the same time, it took twice as many sessions for Dr. Kelley to accept that my relationship with Mason was both healthy and consensual, if a little—okay, a lot—unconventional.
We ended the appointment early so I could hustle back to my dorm room to get ready for the art show. Although I spent most of my nights with Mason, he insisted I have a private space to crash on campus. It had come in handy more than once, and we even managed to christen the tiny twin bed one afternoon between classes. Fucking on our sides with my back to his front and his hand over my mouth to catch my moans. It didn’t matter how many times my daddy fucked me; his love had a way of making me feel brand new.
Half an hour later, with my hair straightened and lips stained candy-apple red, I squeezed into a white lace dress and a pair of red pumps before heading out.
The gallery, a hip, modern space with walls that didn’t quite reach the vaulted ceilings, was already teeming with people when I arrived. I recognized most of the pieces from Mason’s collection, still life paintings of antique children’s toys and sketches of my body—throat, earlobe, the arch of my foot. Lines clean and crisp, yet impossible to distinguish unless you knew my body as well as he did.
I said hello to Mason’s artist friends, then went to stand with his agent, Michelle.
“You must be really pleased with how this all turned out,” she said.
I nodded. “I was with him when he bought some of those old toys.”
Her brow crimped. “You haven’t seen the main exhibit?”
“There’s another exhibit?”
Michelle smiled and captured my arm. “Come with me.”
She steered me through the crowd toward a wide archway leading to an interior space I hadn’t realized was there.
“This has to be some of his finest and most personal work yet,” she said.
I steeled myself for the reveal.
We waited for the mob to dissipate, then stepped inside the enclosure. The walls were covered in drawings of children.
No, not children. One child. Me.
They were the drawings from my father’s sketchbooks—the ones my mother had returned—blown up, sharpened, splashed with color and arranged with care.
My heart swelled like a balloon.
“They’re remarkable,” said Michelle, squeezing my hand. “He’s titled the series Lost and Found. You can really feel how much he loves you in every piece.”
I nodded, unable to speak.