Her Rules, His Ring

Chapter 1 

Emma

         The roads begin to wind a little bit tighter, but with my favorite playlist coming through the speakers and the idea of this weekend finally happening, I can’t help but be excited. I’m actually trying not to bounce in my seat with the excitement that I’ve been containing. I push some of my dark curls back behind my ears.

         I could hardly believe it when I received my invitation to participate in this art show. As an artist, of course I had already heard about this exclusive show, but I had never been invited to be part before. It feels like I’m finally getting somewhere, getting noticed. 

Better yet, all my expenses are paid. An entire weekend to sell my work, being around other incredibly talented artists, and I don’t have to pay a penny? Sign me up!

“I think I’m almost there,” I mutter to myself, eyeing the road. “Or am I? Can you imagine? Me on my way to some rich people art show, and I’d be the only one to get lost driving straight up a mountain that only goes one way.”

         From my research, I’m aware that this is a pretty prestigious event, and they’re very selective about who gets included. The goal is to invite people they think art investors will be excited to meet and work with, and by limiting the pool of talent, they draw the attention of big shot investors who don’t want to waste their time unless they’re guaranteed quality. I can’t believe I’m considered quality. 

My mind keeps picturing one of these people buying one of my pieces. My name spreading like wildfire. This could be my big break.

The weekend is going to bring me endless possibilities, and I have barely been able to sleep the past few days.

         I think about the pieces I have in the backseat, going over them in my head and why I chose them. If I had to describe my style, which is something I find myself doing often, I’d classify it as neo-abstract expressionist. My mind and the canvas are one in the same, which is the way I like it. I don’t always know what I’m creating, either, but I love the process. The way I got lost in the colors, in the creation on the canvas.

         It makes me feel alive to create, and I often re-emerge hours later without realizing just how long I’d been painting.

         I find that to be inspirational. How many people can get that lost in their work and find such joy in what they do? I’ve never found the answer, but I love the way I create art.

         These pieces I’ve brought along with me are the best for the ‘rich guy’ audience that I’ve been given. It’s never been this kind of audience. Usually anyone can look or buy, but they never go for quite as much as I really want to sell them for.

         This weekend is going to be different, though, and I’m so eager to finally get inside the lodge and show off what I’ve brought along. I’m sure the other artists will be fantastic, too. But this is my chance to finally shine, put myself in front of this grand audience, and I find myself bouncing in my car seat again as I get closer to the location on my GPS.

         “Here it is!” I finally crow triumphantly. “See, I knew I could make it.” Considering I’m alone in my car, I’m not sure who I’m really talking to, but it doesn’t matter. 

I pull up to the mountain resort, taking in the place. The outside looks like a classic ski lodge, with wood logs making up the exterior. It has a certain grandeur to it, with big, glass windows and a high, peaked roof. But the chimney extruding from the top also gives it a certain quaint, charming appearance. 

         I get myself parked and begin to walk around, my curiosity boiling over. I get inside, exploring the different sections of the lodge. There are signs everywhere, pointing visitors towards the rooms, or towards the cafeteria, and most importantly, the show room.

         I tremble with a mixture of delight and apprehension running through me. As I walk, though, the enthusiasm begins to dwindle down.

         This place is lavish. I can’t find a better word to describe how fancy each location is. Every spot my eyes land on takes my breath away. Everything here is completely over the top, most likely to make sure all the art investors feel like they’re in the right place.

         But I do not feel like I’m in the right place. The thrill from earlier becomes a sinking stone in my stomach, and I feel the urge to run, to get out of the lodge and go home to where I feel safe.

         But I know that’s not plausible. I gave my word I would be here, and I came all this way with all this art. I was bound to deal with this eventually in my art journey. There are times newer, smaller artists will have to play with the big leagues. I have to accept that this is going to be my first time. It doesn’t mean anyone else will see me the way my mind is screaming they all will.

         This feeling will pass. It’s temporary.

         I find my coordinator, who welcomes me with a broad smile and informs me where I’ll be set up, gives me the room key, itinerary, and other information I’ll need. I thank him as I return to my car to grab my pieces. I’ll do everything in one trip.

         I pass people who are setting up, and others that are already admiring the art work. I love being in this secret little world with all these different people and this one common denominator. I may be the small fish in a big pond, but I remind myself I was still invited to be here. I’m just paranoid.

         Once everything is in my section, I begin to display some of the best pieces I brought with me. I smile at the memories that come with each abstract painting. I’m putting all of those together before hanging up the few surreal pieces. It always causes a rush to go through me when I can see all my pieces together hanging up.

         With a few canvases left to hang up, I start to look out at my stand, and I’m proud of how I’ve decorated. I put my hands on my hips, and I let myself smile.

         See, Emma? You got this. You’re just as talented as every other artist in here. Besides, these people are art experts. They feel art. They’re not going to be turned away for superficial reasons.

         I take another step back, trying to determine where to put the last few paintings when I accidentally bump into a person.

         “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry!” I tell him, putting my hands up. “Are you alright?”

         He’s tall, with this terrible haircut. He’s wearing sunglasses – indoors? Why? – and he lowers them and his phone to talk to me. “You could have ruined my suit,” he tells me in a monotone voice. “Do you realize how much money this suit costs?”

         I’m honestly flabbergasted at his rudeness, and my eyes widen. I try to say anything, but I’m too caught by surprise. Besides, it looks like any other black suit I’ve seen people wear my entire life, so I’m not sure what he thinks I should be able to tell.

         “Do you even speak?” He’s so impatient so fast.

My throat tightens, and I force myself to choke out a response. “Yes,” I answer in a small voice. It’s exactly how I was afraid people would treat me, one of the few Black girls here.

         “Watch where you’re going from now then, won’t you? If I have some chick ruin my suit before the first night has even truly begun, you’ll be getting my dry-cleaning bill.”

         I knew that there would be douchebags here, mostly because douchebags are the ones who usually have money. But this guy is already exceeding my fears and expectations of what I would encounter all weekend. I only hope this isn’t a sign of what’s to come. 

         He looks past me at my art and stifles some type of noise in his throat. “Is this your art? You’re one of the artists here this weekend?”

         I am still struggling with getting words out, so I just nod to his question. I wish I could explain what my style is, explain that I’ve been creating for a number of years now. But instead of saying anything half-way decent, he actually lets out a chuckle.

         “Wow. It’s very…charming, I must say. Good luck this weekend, I’m sure someone will find your art worthwhile. And don’t run into anyone else. You could have a pretty rotten weekend if you keep ruining peoples’ wardrobes.”

         He gives me and my work another look, shaking his head before he turns and flips his sunglasses back down to his face. As if he needed to look more douchey. Then he glances at his phone and moves away from my section.

         “Charming?” I can’t even register what just happened. The man spoke rudely to me, looked at my art for half a second, and judged it and me. I’m surprised he didn’t let out a slur, considering how much animosity he seemed to hold for me. I apologized immediately; he didn’t have to be such a dipshit.

         I try to tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m Black, but I can’t help wondering if it does. Or maybe I just want that to be it, because assuming he’s racist means I can hope everyone else will still love my work. Not that I enjoy dealing with ignorant people, but I’d rather think that there’s nothing I can do about him, and none of this has to be a reflection of my talent. 

         Of course, when someone says your work is ‘charming,’ it’s hard not to take it personally. I have to swallow hard, choking back the voice that says maybe I’m just not good enough to be here. 

But as I look around the room at all the other artists, admiring their work that seems lightyears ahead of my own, I’m suddenly not so excited anymore. 

Chapter 2 

Benjamin

I have a massive headache, and I don’t think being on this airplane is helping. A child has been screaming in my ear for the last hour, and I think the majority of this plane would back me up if I went over and put a handkerchief in his mouth. Is that harsh? Maybe, but I feel like my head is about to split open and some Alien type monster is going to burst out of it.

I don’t even want to be here. My father, the man always looking for money, is to thank for this lovely plane ride. Until a few days ago, it was a normal week. I was enjoying the weather, New York was as beautiful as ever, and then suddenly my dad tells me I’m going to spend my weekend looking at art. He doesn’t ask, he straight up tells me I’m going.

         “What do you mean?” I remember asking him over the phone on Wednesday.

         “There’s an art show being put on, one of those invite only shows? It’s out in Colorado this weekend, and I was thinking this would be the perfect time for you to go invest in some of the art they’re selling out there.”

         All I heard was, “Spend a weekend looking at art you have no interest in.”

         I cleared my throat to give myself time to come up with something to say to him. Unfortunately, that plan fell flat. “Dad, come on, what am I going to do around artists? I don’t know the first thing about art. Why do they even bother with so many different types? Why can’t people just write what they feel instead of having to paint it for us to interpret?”

         “Ben, I’m telling you. This is where you need to be.”

         I crinkled my eyebrows at that. “Why?”

         “You’ve never gotten investing, have you?” My dad sighed on the other end. “Ben. It’s not about liking art at all. You don’t have to like it. You don’t even have to look at it, once you buy it. But it’s a good way to make money. You just have to go there and invest in some art that you think will increase in value. Besides, they make weekends like this pretty fun. Lots of food, drinks, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

         I sighed. As usual, he was right, and I was wrong, and there was no choice about that. Everything was already set in stone, and I would have to go along with it.

         Now, with the plane still flying for another half hour, I am starting to regret letting my father talk me into all of this. Especially while this baby keeps screaming. Strike one, Dad. It is as bad as I was making it out to be.

         As the plane finally begins its descent, and we taxi into the tiniest airport I have ever seen, I groan at the idea of traveling the rest of the way to this mountain lodge. I’m in some place called Crested Butte, Colorado.

         Strike two, Pops.

         I’m already imagining myself flying back to New York, on a plane that is much larger than this one, with access to first class, no children, and absolutely no giving a damn about art. I huff a laugh, thinking how this whole thing reminds me of my ex from college.

         Emma. I haven’t thought about her in a while, but that doesn’t stop my mind from calling up every detail of every date I ever had with Emma. She haunted my dreams for two whole years when we first broke up, and now she comes back with a full force.

         My old life. My old hopes and dreams. Emma was part of my plans, an aspiring artist who wanted to create. I loved her, but still to this day, I think her aspirations were so much whimsy. I never understood how she could choose a job that wouldn’t always guarantee money, one where she couldn’t climb the ladder to be at the top. I used to laugh to myself when she talked about being true to herself. To me, it sounds a lot easier being true to a job. 

         But I never said any of that to Emma.

         We met in college, Temple University in Philadelphia. She was a freshman when I was a junior. It was great, the relationship. We were in sync. We were happy. We were together for nearly four years. 

Then one day, right before her graduation, she ended things. I knew things felt different lately, and I understood our lives were moving in different directions. I had been out of college and working for a few years, while she was still finishing her education. It wasn’t easy, and the gap kept growing.  

But there was no fight. One day, it was just over. She was done. I never really saw it coming.

         Was it because she loved art, and I didn’t? 

         Was it because she wanted to be independent?

Or was I just not good enough and didn’t even know why? 

         I push the painful memories to the side as I finally deboard the terrible plane. I make my way to find the driver that I had arranged. I find him quickly, thankfully, and we get moving to the stupid lodge.

         It’s really too bad Emma isn’t here to deal with this mess. This may be a nightmare for me, but it would be a dream come true for her. Maybe then she could tell me what I’m supposed to look for, or even supposed to like.

         She could never explain art to me in a way that made me care. When I saw her paintings, I found myself staring for way longer than I should have. I just didn’t get it. They were lines and streaks on a white background. Sometimes the blobs looked like they could be a football or a dolphin in the ocean, but I was never truly sure.

The whole thing was stupid. I’d tell her how talented she was and that she simply had to keep creating – but looking back, that was a poor decision on my part. She didn’t understand why I thrived in the business world.

         Business has a clear beginning, middle, and end. With the kind of business I do, I start out planning what is best for each group that comes to us. Then I go over the numbers and budgets and make sure all is in order. Finally, I sit back and watch as not only my client’s money grows, but so does mine.

         Investing money for companies makes more sense than investing in some stupid canvas with paint slapped on it like a toddler.

         When the driver opens my door, I look at the dark wood lodge before me. It’s like they made it with Lincoln Logs from when I was a child, and I laugh to myself as I go inside.

“Benjamin Peffer,” I say at the front desk. “I have a reservation.”

“Let me see,” the attendant says, clicking some keys on his keyboard and glancing at the computer screen. “Oh, yes. Here you are. Are you here for the gallery exhibit?”

I roll my eyes. “I guess,” I admit. “If I have to be.”

The man pauses, like he isn’t sure what to say. Finally, he just hands me my key. “Have a nice stay.”

         I head for my room, telling myself I need to chill with the bad attitude already. Seeing the place I’ll be spending the weekend helps some. It’s very lavish, and I do enjoy the cabin in the woods feeling that the whole place has been designed with. I still think this is a waste of my time, but I resolve to be a little less bitter about it.

         I change out of my plane clothes into a nice cream-colored button down and slacks, grabbing a pair of dress shoes to complete the look. I hesitate, not wanting to leave the room. Then I take a deep breath. I’m just going to get this over with. Stare at some colors and pretend I know what I’m getting into, before ultimately choosing something at random.

         I brush my hair out with my fingers, and I feel the irritation running through me. I have to put on a straight face. I have to act chill, calm and composed. I may not want to be here, looking at all the art, but a man’s true first impression is something I always believe needs to be perfect.

         Who would want to do business with someone who comes into the room with a sour attitude?

         I let out one annoyed groan before I put on a fake smile and begin to walk back the way I came. I see there are signs everywhere pointing me to where I can go to find the artists and their work. I pretend I know what I’m looking for as I hide the fact I have absolutely no enthusiasm for any of these artists. At least some of the art is clear – a boy with a balloon, or the ocean during a storm. I know what those are.

But not much else seems to be getting through my mind. I have no clue what the hell I’m supposed to be looking for, anyway. “What is that?” I mutter. “Do you think it’s a fish?”

A man beside me snorts, then squints his eyes. “Maybe? It could very definitely possibly perhaps be a fish,” he agrees. We look at each other and smirk before moving on in separate directions.

         As expected, I’m already bored out of my mind.

         I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure, but it takes a few moments until I’m able to put together what – or rather, who – I’m seeing.

Emma is standing on the other side of the room, chatting with someone about something. Emma. My Emma. Or, ex Emma, but still. Of all the art shows in the country, she’s here. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

         And that makes strike three. And man, oh man, do I want to be out of this damn game.