Page 15 of Happy Ending
Tatum texts again, and then again, and then again. Before I know it, I have seven unread texts from her. This must be urgent because usually, Tatum doesn’t spam like this.
As I force myself to open our messages, I’m greeted with a long string of text bubbles containing too many exclamation points for any sane person to type.
Tatum 5:46 pm drew! did you see the local news?? DREW!! laine’s in the news, drew! apparently her painting has broken some sort of record! HELLO!! earth to drew!! DREW!! LAINE. IS. IN. THE. LOCAL. NEWS.
Me 5:52 pm what?? for what?
Tatum 5:53 pm it says she’s the youngest artist in fifty something years to make it on this gallery wall they even included a picture of her painting!
Me 5:53 pm okay good for her i don’t care
Tatum 5:54 pm wait it kinda looks like you…
My chest sinks.
I raise my phone and reread Tatum’s message to make sure I read it right.
Then, I press the call button. “What do you mean it kinda looks like me?” I ask her when she picks up.
“I meaannnn…” Tatum drags out her words.
“It kinda looks just like you, Drew. The face, the body shape, the hairline-” “The hairline?” “Don’t you be weirded out!
I’m your best friend. I may not know your current favorite color or newest food obsession, but I’d recognize your hairline anywhere.
That’s definitely you.” “Are you sure?” I ask, hoping with everything in me that she forgot to put her contacts in today.
“Drew.” Tatum’s voice deadpans. “I’m one hundred percent positive this is you, girl.
We’ve got to go see it!” “Um, absolutely not.” “Um, absolutely yes! Aren’t you at least a little curious to see what it looks like in person?
” ‘I’ve seen it in person,’ I want to say.
I literally modeled for it. In fact, the night I modeled for it was the night that Laine first kissed me, so I think it’s safe to say the image of that painting is ingrained in my brain.
There’s no need for me to see it again when I know the sight of it will bring all the feelings back up.
All the feelings I’ve spent hours drowning out in dumb animal videos on the internet.
There is no way I’m going to see it in person.
“Oh look!” Tatum’s loud voice booms through my phone speakers, and instantly, I’m reminded she’s still on the phone.
“The article included the address and the name of the exhibit.” “Cool.” “I’m going to send it to you, and then I’m going to meet you there in an hour, okay?
” “No, I’m not-” I start to protest, but she’s already hung up.
As much as there’s no way in hell I want to go see this painting, to show my face anywhere Laine may be, there’s also no way in hell I’m letting Tatum show up on her own, free to say whatever impulsive thoughts come to her mind.
I have no choice but to go. When I type in the address of the exhibit in my navigation app, a community gallery near Holy Trinity pops up.
My breathing accelerates as I click the “start navigation” button, and I almost turn off the ignition and go back inside.
Back to wallowing under my covers and crying more.
But I don’t. The fear of what Tatum’s big mouth may say once she sees the painting brings me back to earth, and I release the brake and start the long drive to the gallery. ******
After about forty-five minutes of anxiety-ridden driving, I pass what must be the most gigantic mega-church I’ve ever seen. It feels surreal to finally see the very building that pulled Laine away from me. The building that stole her from me. The building that changed her.
I take a minute to sulk, but then stiffen my posture and keep driving. I’m not letting this affect me right now. I can’t. I just need to get to Tatum, let her think I’m actually taking it in, and get her out of there.
As soon as I arrive at the gallery, Tatum bounces toward me, wearing her usual toothy grin across her face as she goes to hug me.
The gallery smells woodsy, and the floors and ceiling are covered in vibrant swirls of what must be every single color to ever exist.
“Come on, I think it’s over here!”
Tatum grabs my wrist and leads me down a dimly lit hall to the left of the main entrance.
The walls are littered with paintings of medieval-looking cats, women by grand water fountains, and olden-day circus jugglers in super tall hats.
I divert my eyes from the walls and focus on Tatum’s braids swinging as she walks with a pep in her step.
Eventually, we reach the room number listed in the news article.
Tatum dramatically opens the double doors, and I follow her inside.
As we walk in, a putrid smell hits me, and the room feels stuffy.
It’s evident that nobody’s been in this room in years until Laine’s painting got hung.
The drywall has spots that are peeling off, each of the floor tiles creaks when we step on them, and the whole ceiling appears to be moist from a leak that never got fixed.
“You’d think with the amount of money this area has, they’d keep everything up to date. This room looks a gazillion years old.” I pull the collar of my shirt over my nose and keep my eyes toward the ground, afraid that if I look up, dripping water may fall into them.