Eyes on Us

LANEY

Selling art is one of the most gut-wrenching experiences any artist can go through. Especially when that artist is an introvert like me. But today, my stomach is feeling even more upset than usual.

Why? I can’t explain it. Standing at the center of the Charpentier Gallery, showing off this piece and that, I’m barely keeping my shit together.

Maybe I can blame the extra butterflies in my stomach on the high-end guests and art critics attending this showing. That has to be it, I tell myself. It’s because I’m actually going to sell some art for once!

I drink some ginger ale just in case, greeting every person who walks through the door, when I feel my phone buzz.

LANEY

As I put away my phone, I notice an old gentleman with a scraggly beard examining each of my pieces one by one, with a scowl on his face.

My stomach tightens even more, if that’s possible, because I recognize the man. He’s one of the most famous buyers in the city. The one and only Sebastian Murphy.

And from the look on his face, Mr. Murphy does not like what he’s seeing.

He finally rests at a painting—my newest, the one I’m proudest of—and stays there for a few minutes longer than he’s looked at the others.

Bracing myself, I approach Mr. Murphy, prepared to be told I should never paint again.

“This is your work?” he asks, as I come to stand beside him.

I nod.

He scowls a bit more, furrowing his brow. “It’s…”

Uninspired. Meaningless. Garbage.

That’s what I’m sure he’s going to say. But then his expression shifts and he’s smiling.

“…Absolutely revelatory,” he says, and I have to resist the urge to gasp. “What inspired it? I have to ask.”

“Well,” I say, looking at the painting, uncertain where to begin.

It’s a silhouette of two people. A couple. You have to really look closely to even recognize their forms. The colors are bright and dark, passionate and muted. Like two clashing personalities. Two different worlds colliding.

“It’s called One Night,” I begin. “And it’s inspired by a chance encounter between…two opposites, you might say.”

Of course, that chance encounter was none other than the night I spent with Ace. This was my only way of telling the world without hurting his reputation.

I’ve been thinking about that night ever since, painting and repainting different interpretations of it. This is the closest I’ve come to capturing my feelings.

Thinking of the way I left Ace, I feel a tinge of discomfort. I’m not one to sneak out on someone, but that night, after we had sex, I checked my phone and saw a text from Melody.

“A player.” That’s what she called him.

I decided I’d spare us both an awkward conversation.

Looking at this painting now, I don’t regret my decision for a second. Without that unforgettable night with the rockstar, I’d never have painted the best piece of my life.

“Twenty-five thousand,” he says, and I do everything not to let my jaw drop. “Does that seem fair?”

I’m trying to keep my cool, nodding, smiling. But I’m losing it inside. Twenty-five thousand?! The most I’ve ever sold a painting for is six.

“One-hundred percent,” I manage at last.

He nods, satisfied. “Good. I think it will be worth a lot more in a few years. Your talent is…different. What can I say?”

I have to stop myself from hugging him.

“Thank you, it’s yours.” I place a red sticker next to the title of my painting. He shakes my hand, and when he turns around and walks away, I do a little dance, still in awe.

“Did I just hear twenty-five grand?”

I turn to see Addie, grinning.

“Yup,” I say, laughing. “Guess who is going to Europe this summer?”

“Ah, my twin sister, the artist!” She hugs me. “Congratulations!”

As we embrace, I get a strong whiff of her perfume, and for reasons I can’t explain, it makes my stomach turn. Again, the nausea. What is happening to me?!

I take a few steps back, suddenly feeling sweaty and pale.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” I stammer.

Frowning in concern, Addie accompanies me outside. Even though it’s only November in Chicago, the cold is bitter and bites to the bone. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Oh, I’m going to be sick,” I say, running to the corner of the building.

Addie grabs my hair just in the nick of time as I start to spew vomit. Jesus. It just keeps coming in waves.

“How much did you have to drink tonight, Laney?”

I shake my head and wipe my mouth. “Nothing. I’ve had an upset stomach all week. Your perfume just made me really nauseous all of a sudden, I can’t explain it.”

That’s when Addie’s eyes widen.

“My perfume makes you sick? You bought this for our birthday last summer—you even bought some for yourself, remember?”

I frown. That can’t be right. I would remember, wouldn’t I?

“It didn’t smell like that a few months ago,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know. Lately, everything makes me feel sick. Probably just my anxiety for the gallery opening or something.”

Probably. Most likely. Or something.

Addie gives me a hard stare. “There is one other possibility, Laney.”

I’m about to ask her what she means when it all clicks.

No. It can’t be. Anything but THAT…

ACE

I’m not a big fan of surprises. When someone has something to say to me, I prefer they just spit it out. But ever since Eric called me and told me to fly out to Chicago, I can just tell something is up.

The question is: what?

Eric claims he needs me to record some vocals for our new album. But then, why is Addie so involved in my visit? She’s been arranging everything from what I can tell.

I step out of the airport, and Eric is waiting for me in the car. I realize I underpacked the minute I step outside. Autumn in LA is a joke compared to Chicago.

How could I forget? The truth is, after that insane night I spent with Laney, my day-to-day life has felt a little…off. I can’t explain it exactly.

I know it was just a one-night stand. I’m not delusional. But the way our bodies connected, the way her lips felt against mine, her heat…

It’s enough to make a man hard in public.

I shake off the thought and get into Eric’s car. It’s not like I’m going to be seeing Laney anyway.

She made it abundantly clear when she left in the morning that she never wants to see me again. Right?

“Hey, man!” I say, reaching out to hug my cousin. But I immediately stop when I see the expression on Eric’s face. He looks…nervous.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

We talk a little bit about the band on the way to Eric’s, but I can still sense he’s distracted. Whatever the secret is, it’s starting to eat at me.

Goddamnit, will somebody just talk?

We finally pull up to an old brown building in a busy neighborhood. Definitely not Eric and Addie’s home.

“Did you guys move?”

“No,” he says, parking. “It’ll all make sense when we get upstairs.”

I shake my head, growing more frustrated and confused with every second. But I follow Eric out of the car, into the building, and up the elevator to the sixth floor.

As we step into a loft, I notice there are canvases and paint everywhere. An art studio. Huh.

And the art, I notice, is damn good. Definitely not created by an amateur. I notice one attempt, over and over, in different ways. Two colors clashing, almost like two personalities.

It stirs something in me for reasons I can’t explain.

“Eric,” I turn to him. “Who painted these?”

We round a corner and that’s when I see her. A strawberry blonde in overalls, throwing paint at the canvas, wearing headphones, lost in her own world. Unaware I’m even here.

It’s Laney Michaels. This is her studio.

I feel my stomach twist into a shocked knot.

“What the hell am I doing here?” I ask Eric. That’s when the front door opens and Laney’s twin, Eric’s wife, and my worst enemy right now, apparently, storms inside, furious.

“I asked one thing of you, Ace,” she shouts. “I told you not to sleep with my sister!”

Addie pushes me, and I barely move. Was it really such a big deal? And I’m even more surprised Laney would say something. I thought we had a mutual agreement to keep it a secret.

“You’re such a bastard!” Addie screams.

“Jesus, I mean, it was just sex.”

“Just?” she cries, shaking her head disbelievingly. “You have no idea, do you?”

“Addie, stop it!”

We both turn to see Laney standing there, headphones cast aside, looking mortified. There’s a trail of blue paint on her cheek.

“Do you mind?” Laney asks her sister.

Addie shoots me one last glare, then storms out with Eric, offering a grim shrug.

When we’re alone, I turn to Laney, surprised.

“I’m really sorry if I did something wrong,” I say. “I really thought we had a nice—”

“Ace,” she cuts me off. “It’s not that.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

Then, eyes watering, one lonely teardrop trailing down her cheek through the blue paint, Laney says the last words in the world I expect to hear.

“I’m pregnant, Ace. And the baby is yours.”