Page 57 of Follow Me Back

Just when the horrible strains of John Tesh were about to send me over the edge, the phone clicked.

“X. Hello. I must say I’m rather surprised to hear from you,” Mr. Randall said. He sounded cold and less than thrilled.

“Yes, I understand. I didn’t make the best impression when we met,” I said, hating to grovel, but what other choice did I have?

“I believe that is an understatement,” Mr. Randall scoffed.

He was starting to piss me off and I had to work hard to rein myself in.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t in a very good place back then. Things have changed considerably since then.” I paused a moment, mentally preparing myself to beg.

“I wanted to know if you’d still be interested in seeing my work. I’ve put together some amazing pieces—”

“X, after our last meeting, I think it’s safe to say that you wouldn’t be a good fit for my gallery.”

I felt myself bristle at his automatic rejection.

“Sir, I get that I was a bit of a mess. I was dealing with some stuff. Not that that excuses my horrible behavior. But I don’t think it’s exactly fair—”

“Look, I’m sure there are a lot of other galleries out there that would be interested in you and your...eccentricities.” The jackass wouldn’t let me get a word in. “But Bellview Gallery isn’t that place. I’m sorry.”

I felt what little hope I had about possibly using my art to generate a livable income dwindle away.

I crumpled up my pride into a tiny ball and shoved it away. “Sir. Please. Just give me another chance. I think you’ll change your mind if you just see my work. My real work.” I sounded desperate. He had to hear it in my voice.

Mr. Randall was quiet for a bit. I chewed through the skin on my lip and tasted blood, the sharp sting keeping me grounded.

“I’m sorry, X. When I saw your street art I thought you were a different artist. I thought you were someone I could promote and nurture. Unfortunately, the impression you gave wasn’t one of someone ready to work hard and take their talent seriously. I just can’t take that risk. Not right now.” He actually sounded a bit sorry.

But he wasn’t as sorry as I was.

I couldn’t beg anymore.

“Okay, then. Well, thank you for your time.” I felt despondent. Dejected. Lost.

“Best of luck, X. I really mean that,” Mr. Randall said, sounding sincere.

I wanted to tell him where to shove his unnecessary well wishes.