Page 118 of None Of Your Business

Life has taken some strange turns.

We spent the last hour wandering through rooms I hadn’t seen yet and trading useless facts about ourselves like we’re trying to catch up on years we weren’t there for.

It’s been easy. Well, it’s been easy up until this point because now I’m fairly sure I’m going to be sick with nerves.

The front door opens, and my entire body goes rigid.

“Relax,” Hudson calls.

“I can’t.”

He appears in the kitchen a second later, sets a fresh coffee beside me, then puts a folded stack of newspapers on the opposite side of the island.

I stare at them.

“Did you read them?” I ask.

“No.”

“Can you read them now?”

“You want me to read them to you?”

“Yes.”

“Out loud.”

“Yes, Hudson. That’s generally what reading to somebody means.”

I’m pacing back and forth across the kitchen while Hudson unfolds the newspapers one at a time and spreads them across the island.

One has a full review and a photograph of me in front of the underwater piece, the image supplied by the gallery from the press preview.

Oh God.

I’m going to die in his kitchen, completely commando

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Hudson looks up.

“Just tell me. Put me out of my misery.”

“You sold out your first solo show,” he reminds me like it should make me feel better.

“I’ll never work again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nobody sells out their first solo show and then has a normal career. That’s probably a curse. I read about things like this.”

“At least you’ll be financially comfortable during your inevitable decline.”

“But for how long? A year? Two?”

“How recklessly do you plan to spend the money?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll go broke. Then what?”