Arranged By The Bravta King

7

Maria

I run up the subway stairs and out onto the busy streets of SoHo, clutching the card from Mikhail the other night. The city buzzes around me, making my heart race with excitement. I'm going to my first contemporary art gallery! It's a feeling I've never experienced before, and I feel giddy on the inside while doing my best to keep my cool on the outside.

My gaze is drawn to a sleek concrete and glass building with teal banners above the door, displaying the name "Chrysanthea" in bold gold letters. This is it. I stare at the abstract painting in the window by Kimoto Kaori, briefly wondering if I might actually meet her. I step inside, immediately captivated by her work adorning the walls.

The air-conditioned space is a welcome relief from the humid summer heat. The room is alive with the hum of other patrons commenting on the art on display. Finally, I have found my tribe.

I feel a sense of pride for going out alone and avoiding Mercy's club scene. The low lights and loud music with strange men taking creep shots of me. Gross. Mercy took me there and then had the nerve to scold me and tell me to toughen up. I can't pretend to be a party girl when I'd rather go to the Met.

I can head back to Holtsville if I want someone to boss me around. But just the thought of Holtsville sends guilt bubbling up to kill my excitement. I know my dad is looking for me. I know he says he only wants to protect me, and I can't shake the feeling that I've betrayed him by running away.

Stop, I tell myself. I have a right to be here on my own.

I'm here on my own. My life is under my control, and I'm loving it. But the pang of guilt doesn't fade, and I make a mental note to call him when I get back to Mercy's place tonight to let him know I'm okay.

I grab a glass of wine from a nearby table, nearly choking at the way it tastes. Books always say that wine tastes rich, but all I taste is the sting of alcohol against my tongue. Discreetly, I put it down somewhere and continue wandering through the gallery, drawn to an oil painting directly in front of me.

Its subdued palette and ethereal strokes are a stark contrast to the bold statement of the other pieces surrounding it. I approach it slowly, studying the brushstrokes. Why did Kaori create a piece that is so different?

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a deep, familiar voice rumbles beside me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I turn around and my breath catches at the sight of Mikhail Ivanov, his dark hair, and his piercing green eyes. He smirks when he sees me, and I feel my face flushing with equal parts embarrassment and excitement as I stare at him. I should stop gawking and start talking.

"Y-yeah," I stammer like a fool. "It's really nice."

Ugh! I cringe. That is the worst response ever. I sound so stupid, like I've never read a book on art. Slowly, I look back at the painting and hope for him to walk away. But when I smell a hint of his intoxicating blend of scents, I know he's still standing next to me and I fidget with my wrists.

"It is nice," he replies, still looking at the painting. "It soothes without being boring."

I nod, choosing my next words carefully. "It's not like Kaori's other works," I reply. "It reminds me of Mark Rothko but with a feminine palette. Sometimes we need to connect with something unexpected to expand our perspective."

I turn to look at him and see that he's staring at me hard. A mixture of surprise and impressiveness in those emerald eyes.

"Exactly," he agrees as he looks at the painting again. "Art should challenge our limited views of the world."

I stand a little taller as he takes a step closer to me, and I feel my heartbeat quicken at his presence.

"Good to see you again, Maria." He extends his hand to shake mine.

"You too, Mikhail," I say, shaking his hand firmly. The warmth of his grip flows into me effortlessly in his strong yet gentle grip. His green eyes hold me in place, and a small shiver runs down my spine.

"I'm glad you accepted my invitation." Mikhail's gaze flickers across the room. "I was almost afraid I'd been too subtle."

"The card in my book was a nice touch," I reply, doing my best to avoid biting my lip. "But you sure know how to read me."

"Come." He looks at me again, a playful smile on his lips while his hands still grip mine. "Let's look at some more paintings."

I nod and follow him. His tall frame seems to overshadow my body. Or maybe it's his confidence? Quickly, I sneak a look at his left hand and feel my breath calm slightly when I don't see a ring.

"Chrysanthea is certainly an interesting place," I say, trying to keep the conversation going as we walk. "I've always wanted to visit an art gallery like this."

"Really?" Mikhail asks, genuinely curious. "Is this your first time?"

"I don't get out much." Embarrassment sends my cheeks flushing again as I nod. "My father doesn't appreciate art like me. I love being surrounded by so much expression that it makes me feel creative," I explain. "It makes me want to start painting."

"Do you paint?" Mikhail smiles, clearly appreciating my enthusiasm.

I look away from his gaze. "I'd like to ..." My voice trails off, not willing to admit to him that I've never so much as touched a set of paintbrushes my whole life.

Another painting—the centerpiece of the gallery—catches my eye, isolated on a wall by itself. It's a beautiful image of a single chrysanthemum suspended above a body of water, the petals seeming to shimmer in the dim light of the gallery. A small crowd stands in front of it, murmuring as they discuss just what it means.

"Whoa," I murmur, unable to tear my gaze away. "Kaori never paints figuratively."

"What do you think Kaori is saying?" Mikhail's gaze follows mine to the painting.

I pause for a moment, collecting my thoughts and falling into the painting as I consider the words.

"To me," I finally say, "it represents the beauty of isolation. Often, we're led to believe that being alone is something to fear, but there's a certain charm to isolation as well. A chance for growth, self-discovery, and finding our own voice in a world full of judgment."

"Correct," Mikhail praises me. His eyes meet mine with a newfound interest. "It was a personal commission."

"Personal commission? You've met her?" I lower my voice to hide my excitement. "That's so cool." I cringe again as the words leave my mouth.

"Perhaps one day you might," Mikhail muses. "You have a gift for finding meaning in things, Maria."

"Thank you." I blush slightly at his compliment. "I'm just glad to have a chance to talk about art. My dad doesn't share the same interests as me."

We stand there for a moment, simply taking in the painting in quiet contemplation. I can feel the pull between us growing stronger.

And I know I'm not the only one.