Shock rolls through me. “This can’t be happening,” I whisper, applause clamoring around me.
“It is happening, sweetheart,” Nick says. “Go accept your award.”
“I’m trembling,” I say. “Nick, I’m trembling hard.”
“I got you, sweetheart,” he says, standing up and taking me with him, guiding me to the center row, which from the back, now looks incredibly long for someone as unsteady as I am right now. Nick seems to know this, hitching my hand to his elbow before taking a step, walking that one, and every one that follows with me. “Deep breath,” he murmurs softly.
I nod, and draw in air, holding it before I let it out, while my mind focuses on one coherent thought:My dream of a career as an artist is becoming real.I repeat this thought about ten times before we reach the stage. “Congrats, sweetheart,” Nick says, as a man in a suit offers me his arm and helps me up the stairs.
In five steps, I am on the stage and completely unprepared for a speech. I’m most certainly unprepared for Macom’s greeting, which includes pulling me into a hug. “It was fate that I presented this award,” he murmurs in my ear. “We’re going to celebrate tonight.” He releases me and I’m too overwhelmed right now to do anything but dismiss him immediately and step to the microphone.
Suddenly, lights are shining on me and unknown faces are looking up at me. Seconds tick by before I realize this is where I need to speak. “Hi everyone.” Audience voices reply, and smiles abound, which eases my nerves. “To say that I am stunned and appreciative would be a gross understatement,” I continue. “It seems I almost forgot how to walk while trying to get to the stage. Which brings me to the person who helped me make that walk and who not only encourages me daily, but inspired one of the paintings on display tonight.” I search for Nick and find him at the edge of the stage. “Thank you, Nick. I know that I would not be here without you. And I know you would tell me that I would have found my way no matter what. But it’s a better journey with you.” He presses two fingers to his lips and then does a little motion toward me before I refocus on the audience. “Thank you specifically as well, to those who saw my entries, and then my work, and offered me this amazing recognition and opportunity. I hope everyone enjoys the show tomorrow.”
I step away from the microphone to the clamor of more applause and I fully intend to join Nick at the bottom of the stage, but the man who’d helped me up the stairs stops me. “We need you for a photo op backstage.”
I’m then ushered away, and I try to turn to find Nick, but the lights are in my eyes. The next thing I know, Macom is at my elbow and cameras are flashing around us.“Congrats, baby,” Macom says, as we shove through a curtain.
I’d tell him not to call me baby, but I have no idea who the other man at my opposite elbow is, and I’m swarmed by people before I can reply anyway. Cameras flash at close range and I’m hurried to stand in front of a photo backdrop. I’m also holding a statue that is a paintbrush and palette that I’m pretty sure I was given on stage, and the fact that I don’t remember getting it is a testament to just how consumed by nerves I am.
Suddenly, Macom is sent back to my side for additional photos, along with a show sponsor, both instructed to stand beside me. Both place their hands at my back, but Macom’s is low, too low for comfort. I don’t want to seem as if I can’t support the organization when my ex is involved and I try to be savvy in my avoidance. The minute the shot is done, I step to the opposite side of the sponsor, placing him in the center. And this kind of push and pull with Macom continues until I can take no more.
“Excuse me, please,” I say to a man who seems to be in charge. “I need to attend a meeting. Thank you for everything.” I hold up my statue. “Really. Thank you.” I dash toward an exit sign, and I don’t stop. I close the space between me and it, and push the bar on the door beneath it. On the other side, I find myself in some sort of narrow hallway that renders me trapped if Macom tried to follow. Wanting out of this maze, I head down the path, and I’m close to an archway leading to another room when a door opens in front of me and Macom steps in my path.
I start to back up, but he’s fast and already he’s in front of me, his fists on the wall on either side of me, caging me. And with the statue in my hand, I’m at a disadvantage that reaches beyond his size versus mine. “Please move,” I say, not because I want to be civil, but because I know him. If I set him off, this gets worse.
“Baby, please talk to me. Don’t put me through seeing you with that man for another minute. I saw the painting. I know what it means. I hurt you. I get it. But you’ve punished me.”
“That painting wasn’t about you, but me.Step aside, Macom.”
“It killed me to hear you thank him tonight. It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me.”
“There is no you and me.”
“I’ll be more supportive in all things, your art especially. Whatever he’s doing to help you at the winery, I’ll do ten times as much.”
I laugh without humor. “Priceless. Josh took all of thirty minutes to run his mouth to you. And you can’t do ten times what Nick does because Nick is a hundred times richer than you.Move.”
“Faith—”
“Move or I will put a knee in your groin so hard that your balls will retract and disappear.”
He reaches for my face and leans in, intending to kiss me, and I don’t hesitate. I raise my knee and I don’t hold back. He grunts and doubles over. “Fuck, Faith. You fucking bitch.” He sucks in air and straightens, leaning close again, his breath warm on my cheek. “You will pay for that. You will not get into another gallery in L.A., ever.” He turns away from me and starts walking, or rather hobbling in obvious pain.
I sink against the wall, aware that I’ve provoked the vicious monster I was trying not to provoke right up until the moment I stuck my knee in his balls. But I also know him well enough to know that he’s gone. He’s not coming back.
“What the fuck,” he growls and I look right to discover Nick is standing under the archway, his shoulder pressed against the wooden frame. “Move out of my way,” Macom orders, trapped the way I was just trapped.
“Here’s the thing,Macom,” Nick says. “No. Not until I’m ready.”
“You don’t want to fuck with me.”
“I have compromisingnakedphotos of you,” Nick says. “I have IRS documents, bank records, and the list continues, all of which have your name on them. And if you don’t believe that I will use those things fifty ways to Sunday, you haven’t researched me the way I have researched you. Touch Faith or her career again, and Iwillcome for you.”
They stare at each other for all of two beats, before Nick steps aside and Macom quickly leaves. I walk to Nick and he immediately folds me into his arms. “How long were you there?”
“The entire time,” he says. “And I let you handle him as you wanted to handle him, certain that he’d give me a reason to punch him. But then you went off and retracted his balls before I got the chance.”
I laugh. “I can’t believe I said that.” I cringe. “I can’t believe I told him that you’re a hundred times richer than him.”