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Every day I feel like I’m encountering a whole new level oftoo much.
My chest starts to restrict, making it hard to inhale.
That damn painting, it started all of this.
My all-white rendition of Michelangelo’s David. It’s just his bust. Shoulders, neck and head. But the statue is so famous, that’s all you need. And it was my first time playing with a monochromatic palette in whites.
I pick up my fork and push the vegetables around on my plate.
It was my last show. I was nervous––because I’m always nervous––and this friendly, nice-looking gentleman, sought me out. Wanting to speak to the artist.
He said all the right things. Told me how the palette choices spoke to him. How his mother was such a fan of Michelangelo, how he was raised hearing all about art, all the time. So, when he asked to purchase the all-white piece, the one Mandi had convinced me to list for twice as much as the others, I swooned. And when he asked me for my number, I gave it to him.
Then, three dates later, his wife’s brother murders him, I’m kidnapped, and now I’m sitting here, married to his killer, and staring at my painting, as it hangs on the wall behind his widow.
Conversation continues around me, but my brain is too overwhelmed to make sense of any of it.
How do these people act like everything is fine?
A hand enters my vision, startling me so much I drop my fork onto the small china plate.
“Pardon, ma’am,” the server dips their head, before picking up my untouched first course and replacing it with a steaming plate of risotto and roasted chicken.
It smells amazing, and my stomach wars with itself between feeling sick and starving.
Cici made us breakfast sandwiches this morning, which I carefully ate in King’s vehicle, but that was a long time ago.
I scoop up some of the creamy rice and place it in my mouth right as Mrs. Lucking leans against the table to look around King at me. “So how did you and your new hubby meet?”
The food turns to ash in my mouth, and I want to spit it out. But that would draw even more attention to me, and I want nothing more than to be left alone.
I hold up a hand, indicating that I need a moment to finish what’s in my mouth before I answer.
King takes that moment to lean back and rest his arm on the back of my chair. “Through a mutual friend actually. A dinner party.” He grins. “Kinda like this.”
“Isn’t that nice,” the woman coos. “And you said it was recent?”
King’s hand slides to my shoulder, and I finally swallow my risotto. “Yesterday,” I choke out.
“Yesterday!?” the other woman nearly shouts. “And you’re not on your honeymoon. Shame on you.” She directs that last sentence at King.
“Soon,” he promises. “Just need to find the perfect place.”
The subject changes to favorite vacation destinations and King thankfully sits forward, blocking me from the rest of the guests, as he talks about his last trip to Italy.
I chance a glance at Aspen, and for once, she’s not looking at me. But there’s a muscle jumping in her cheek, hinting at continued annoyance.
I manage to get another few bites of risotto down before another disaster of a question is asked.
“It looks different in here,” the man at the far corner of the table notices. “Have you redecorated since we were over last?”
This time I don’t drop my fork, I just lower it.
“We did,” Aspen replies, and I try not to flinch at her using the wordwe. “It felt like time for a little refresh.”
“Well, you did a wonderful job. The monochromatic look is really in right now.”
The man’s wife looks at me, “He’s an interior designer.” As if it needs explaining that he knows about color.