CHAPTER 4

Levi Anderson. Gallery Assistant.

He looks like he would crumble if I keep my eyes on him any longer.

I keep my eyes on him.

He crumbles.

I'm used to people feeling lesser in my presence. It had been much worse when my name was connected to Nicholas, and even though I hated it, I understood it. Money and fame and power are all very attractive – and intimidating – qualities to possess.

This gallery assistant looks like he might die if he were to assist me. His eyes widen with effort, like he's smoked something and is trying to get away with it, and he gazes at me as if I've asked him to perform more than just his job.

He's stunning. My attraction to him is instant. There is no gradual climb. I take in his features at maximum speed: his long, curly hair currently pulled up into a neat bun at the back of his head makes me wonder what those curls would feel like between my fingers. His face has strong lines – a cut out jaw, perfectly shaped nose, wide lips currently in desperate need of lip balm. His eyes are lovely too – soft, brown, and presently filled with horror. I like his face.

Levi Anderson lifts his hand, touching his thumb to the corner of his lower lip. His forearm is covered in tattoos. I'm sure the tattoos continue further up his arm but, at the moment, they're covered by the sleeve of his white shirt.

My eyes are drawn to the hand at his lip. My breath stalls in my chest. On the delicate skin at the back of his hand, just above the space between his thumb and his index finger is a tattoo of a semicolon. The Pause. The promise to keep going. The declaration that it"s not the end. It's not a full stop. It's a pause to gather your strength and keep going. A symbol deeply significant to those living with a mental disorder. Bipolar Disorder to be precise.

Nicholas had wanted one, but he was too afraid of what the media would do with it if they knew about his diagnosis, and worse, if they found out how much he suffered with Bipolar Disorder. Nicholas felt immense shame for his disorder.

Levi Anderson moves his hand from his lip to rub the back of his neck, and I catch another tattoo on the inside of his wrist. If the semicolon wasn't an obvious sign, then the colon-parenthesis-colon – the happy and sad face – is another dead giveaway. Unless he's tattooed like this in support of someone else, I think the most beautiful man I've seen since Nicholas is just like him.

My eyes lift to meet those of the gallery assistant again. Nicholas would have smiled and set him at ease. I try.

"I'd like to purchase the painting titled A Place Not Found. Uh, please? If you could assist me with the purchase, I would appreciate it."

He clears his throat. "Uhm, well. The paintings here are not for sale. The purpose of today is to showcase emerging artists."

I frown. What is the point of making art and not profiting from it?

"Well. I'd like to purchase the one behind us."

"It's not for sale, uh, sir."

Levi Anderson, Gallery Assistant, is doing no assisting at all. "May I speak to the gallery manager?"

He clears his throat. He won't take his eyes off me, and something . . .

I shake the feeling off and repeat my question.

"Yes, sure. One moment, please," he says.

I watch him scurry off. He's stopped by a young, red-headed girl dressed like a bohemian princess. They exchange a few words, and then they both walk over to the other side of the gallery.

I return to the painting I've asked to purchase.

Nicholas was the art enthusiast between the two of us. I'd loved that about him so much that I learned to appreciate art pieces in some way over the years. There has never been a piece of art, though, that has reminded me of Nicholas as much as this one does. Or maybe it reminds me of myself.

Nicky would've purchased it right away. So, of course, I'll do it for him now.

My eyes rove over the painting. It feels sad. But more than that.

A man stands on a mountain, looking up at the stars, just like I sometimes look up to the stars, searching for Nicholas. The longing in his eyes is unbearable. He feels like me.

The man's hand is raised slightly, as if he's trying to touch the stars. Of course, he can't. He'll never be able to. They'll forever be out of his reach. Yet, his sadness is still profoundly disturbing. As if he cannot accept this cruel fact. Just like how I can't accept that I'll never see Nicholas again. Wherever he is, I'll never reach him, yet, despite understanding that it's impossible, I still look up, trying to get to him.

It hurts to be alive. I cannot escape the pain of living without Nicholas. The life I had before, with Nicholas, has been lost forever, never to be found again. The memories of our life together, and the knowledge that memories are all I have left, haunt me every waking moment.

"Ahem. Excuse me, sir."

I pull my eyes away from the painting.

"Hi. My name is Terri. You asked for assistance with the purchase of a painting," the Bohemian princess says.

"Yes," I respond crisply. A purchase for Nicholas.

"As our previous assistant who—"

"—Who didn't assist me at all."

She smiles nervously and picks at her nails. "I'm awfully sorry about that, sir. Sometimes he . . . Uh, anyway, the paintings aren't available for purchase. This is just a showing, but our gallery manager is willing to make an exception if you are really interested in it."

"I am."

"Okay." Terri walks to the painting. She gazes at it for a moment, as lost in it as I had been moments earlier. "A Place Not Found is about inner peace, sir. At first glance, it may look like it's about hopelessness," she says. "But really, it's about never giving up on trying to find your peace."

I disagree with this young woman's interpretation of this painting. What this painting tells me is that I'll never have peace again. It will forever be out of my reach. There is no hope.

Nicholas would've called her to the side and tried to pry her mind open for further inspection and insight. I have no such inclination.

I give her a tight smile and wait.

She clears her throat. "Well. If you'll come this way with me, please."

I follow her, texting my mother to let her know that I won't attend dinner after all. It will headline tomorrow, I'm aware, but today feels like I won't wake up from this nightmare I live day in and day out.

The gallery asks for nine hundred dollars since the artist is still in the early stages of their career. I pay five thousand dollars because I learned about the value of art from Nicholas.

Levi Anderson, Gallery Assistant, is nowhere to be found while we conclude the transaction. I make a request that the painting be delivered to my home and arrangements be made to have it hung up.

I can't help thinking as I drive away that even if he didn't smile, not even once, Levi Anderson, Gallery Assistant, would still be almost as beautiful as Nicholas. And a small part of me hopes that perhaps he'll be the one to deliver the painting.