What I Should’ve Said
Chapter 13

Saturday, August 7th

Bennett

Nine Inch Nails pounds from the speakers hung discreetly around my studio, and Trent Reznor sings about how nothing really matters anymore.

I wish I could agree with him.

I push and pull my brush across the wall-sized canvas before stepping back to get a vision of the piece as a whole. An abstract vision of yellows and blues and reds and greens stares back at me. The work is undefinable, but at the same time recognizable.

It’s exactly what it should be.

I’ve never been the kind of artist who stays boxed into a certain style. I’ve dabbled in impressionism and surrealist-style portraits with a raw edge. I even spent a year doing purely conceptual art that was meant to shock my audience.

But for the past two years, I’ve been immersed in the abstract, my intention focused on creating a picture, a painting, that I haven’t planned. That might seem arbitrary and even a little destructive, and truthfully, it is, but what it isn’t is predetermined—because life isn’t either.

The beauty in this, I’m replaceing, is that even though nothing I’m creating is preset or even visually something tangible, the human brain will still want to associate it with something we’re already familiar with because it craves logic and comfort.

I inspect the edges and the center, and I run my fingers across a part where I know the paint has yet to dry. Indentations that mirror the size and shape of my thumb and index finger imprint themselves into the wet paint, serving as a signature that I was here.

Three weeks of work, finally done.

My sister Breezy will want to sell it to the highest bidder. I kind of want to burn it.

My oldest brother Logan used to call my destructive impulse with my creations “madness.” But he’d also light the match and watch it burn with me. Looking back, that’s probably a good metaphor for why our relationship ended up the way it has.

I turn my back on the canvas and head over to the sink to wash my hands. When I turn around, it’s still there, staring back at me, a talisman of my demons.

Maybe a bonfire is a good idea tonight.

Disgusted with my own predictability, I shut off the music and head out of my studio and back into the main house to distract myself with coffee.

Unfortunately, my cell phone rings before I can even make it inside. There are only a handful of people who utilize this number—who even have this number—and I already know who the caller will be before I answer. I finished a painting and, somehow, she knows it. I swear she’s got to have a hidden camera in my studio at this point.

“What do you want, Breezy?” I question the instant I put the phone to my ear.

“A simple hello, how are you, sis, would be nice, you know?” She lets out a sarcastic laugh. “But I guess I should just be thankful you at least answered your damn phone.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, sis?” I ask, cutting to the chase. I may be an asshole who doesn’t answer, but Breezy doesn’t call without business.

“You know, I read the most interesting article today in a small-town newspaper. It showcased a hero of sorts. A hero who apparently punched some guy in the face and ended up in handcuffs a few days ago.”

Fucking Eileen Martin. Clay made sure he stopped by my place the day the article came out in the Red Bridge newspaper. Although only first names of the people involved were published, Eileen made sure she got a good photo of me in the back of Sheriff Peeler’s car.

“Sounds like an interesting read,” I comment as I step into the kitchen. Cold coffee from this morning still in the pot, I grab a mug from the cabinet beside the sink, fill it up, and pop it into the microwave while she’s talking.

“Oh, it was very interesting,” she agrees, and the snippy tone of her voice does not hide her anger. “Bennett, what in the hell happened?”

Beatrice Bishop—aka my sister Breezy—is three years older than me and a total shark when it comes to business. Nothing gets by her. And when I say nothing, I truly mean nothing.

“I think the bigger question here is how did you get a Red Bridge newspaper?”

I know for a fact that Eileen Martin still hasn’t managed to get it online. Apparently, it’s something she’s been working on for a few years now with no success, and because the woman is a stubborn old mule, she refuses help from anyone, even if that means her precious newspaper is stuck in the Stone Ages of delivery.

“Nope,” she refutes. “That is definitely not the bigger question. Seriously. What happened, Ben?”

“Don’t stress,” I tell her as the microwave beeps. “I’m not in any legal trouble. No criminal charges. My record is still squeaky clean in Red Bridge.”

“I’d like to remind you that you moved to Red Bridge to stay out of trouble.”

“And I am.” Mostly. I’ve sworn myself away from CAFFEINE and anything else that could have anything to do with Norah Ellis for the foreseeable future, so I don’t see any reason why I’d replace myself in trouble again.

“You promise this isn’t anything I should be concerned about?”

“Breeze, I stepped in to help a woman out of an ugly situation. That’s it.”

Anyone else, and I would tell them to fuck off. But Breezy was the one person I was able to count on during the roughest part of my life, and I know she doesn’t want me to hit rock bottom again—knows I can’t afford to. For that, I’ll be forever grateful to her, even though most days she is a total pain in my ass.

“All right. But just know I get the paper mailed to me, so I’ll know if there are any more crime-ridden heroics.”

I snort.

“Now, for the real reason I called.”

“Oh boy. Here it comes…”

“You need to get an assistant.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need an assistant, Breeze.”

“Yes. You. Do,” she states firmly. “Trust me, Bennett, I love being your agent and I’ll always be your agent, but my real job is to run our family’s galleries. And if you recall, that’s quite a big task. So, I need you to get an assistant because I can no longer do all of your dirty work.”

Bishop Galleries has been our family’s business since our grandfather founded it sixty-five years ago in Uptown Manhattan. After starting as a single location, Bishop Galleries has since expanded to two other New York spots, one in Chelsea and one in Brooklyn, and has dabbled in the Chicago, Miami, and Paris markets as well.

If my family’s gallery chooses to represent you as an artist, it will undoubtedly certify your success.

All things I should probably be thankful for, being an artist myself.

Eight years ago, with our grandfather having passed away, our parents went through a nasty divorce and switched their priorities from business to one-upping each other with younger and younger spouses.

Our mom is now on her third marriage and currently living with some twenty-eight-year-old surfer in the Bahamas. And our father is still based in New York but spends a lot of time jet-setting around the world with his twenty-five-year-old supermodel trophy wife.

Saying our family has turned into a dysfunctional mess would be the understatement of the century.

Knowing there was a desperate need for actual leadership, Breezy took over.

“If I do recall, you’re the one who wanted to be my agent,” I interject. “And I also recall you making a shitload of money in commission doing it.”

“But that was when our parents were still capable of running the galleries and you were willing to sell your art,” she claps back. “You haven’t sold a piece for over two years, Ben. At this point, I’m doing my job for free.”

I start to open my mouth to remind her that my priorities are way more important than selling fucking paintings to rich assholes, but her voice is in my ear again.

“And so are you.”

“Breezy—”

“I know you’re going to say you don’t need the money, but you do,” she says gently, interrupting me. “The medical bills pile up every month. Your savings and investments are getting smaller by the day. And your insurance stopped covering home health six months ago.”

“Breezy, my finances are fine.” Sort of.

“Ben, you know as well as I do that now is the time to get as much financial security as you possibly can. Or else…”

“Or else what?” I question. “I will never let her be put in some fucking facility—”

“And neither will I, you idiot,” Breezy chastises. “I would never even think about letting that happen, and you know it. But I am suggesting that you sell a painting or two. It’s not like you don’t spend every waking moment, besides the ones you spend with Summer and mysteriously rescuing women in trouble, in your studio. Get paid for it. And hire a damn assistant!”

“I’ve been trying to replace one,” I hedge.

This assistant conversation started a year ago, and I sort of attempted to follow through. Though, I wouldn’t say I’ve kept up any sort of effort since. It’s not my fault everyone I interviewed was insufferable.

“Putting up some stupid flyer and making people go through the strangest interview process I’ve ever heard of doesn’t count as trying,” she counters on a sigh. “You and I both know you haven’t hired anyone because you don’t want to. Which is why you don’t have to do anything now, because I’m sending you someone. Fully vetted. Ready to go.”

“What?”

“His name is Paul. He’s a graduate from Harvard and has his master’s in Art History. He is the perfect candidate.”

I furrow my brow. “He sounds boring.”

“Well, you’re not going to be paying him to entertain you. He’s there to do all of your boring work shit that I no longer have time to do. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me,” she continues championing Paul like he’s some kind of golden-assistant-man-boy. “Plus, he’s willing to move to Red Bridge—”

“No. That is not going to work. I’m not having some bumbling stranger lurking around my house…around Summer. No way.”

“I’m not sure if you know this, but in order for an assistant to assist you, they have to be with you.”

“I don’t give a shit. It’s not happening, Breeze. Find another solution.”

“There are no other options. You need an assistant. You need someone who can handle all the daily calls that come in related to your work. Someone who can manage your email. Someone who can continue your online presence.”

“What online presence?”

“Your website and Instagram and—”

“What the fuck? I have an Instagram?”

“God, you are so clueless.” She sighs. “Thankfully, Paul isn’t. He’ll be there—”

“Nope,” I cut her off before she can try to finalize this crazy bullshit. “Not happening. If you’re so hell-bent on me having an assistant, then I’ll hire one myself.”

“We already tried that route.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to try it again.” The line goes quiet. “Do not send anyone here, Breezy,” I add. “I mean it. I won’t play nice.”

“You are so frustrating!” she bellows on a groan.

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

She huffs and puffs her irritation into the phone. “Fine. But this is on a short timeline, and if nothing happens, I’m sending Paul.”

“Breezy, enough.”

There’s a small pause—just long enough for her to consider my tone of voice and the seriousness in it before moving on. “Yesterday, I had a phone call with the curator for MoMA. They want to showcase some of your pieces, but they need your permission.”

“Well, they’re not going to get it.”

“Bennett.” She sighs again. “You can’t spend the rest of your life creating art that you don’t show to anyone.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone,” she responds with a tight edge to her voice. “Every day, I’m fielding calls from people who are desperate to get a Bennett Bishop hanging on their wall, and yet I can’t sell them anything, even though our gallery represents you, because you’re on some kind of small-town sabbatical and have become absolutely impossible.”

“A sabbatical insinuates that I’m planning to come back. And I am. I just need time.”

She lets out an irritated breath. “Are you really going to sit here and tell me to tell the curator from MoMA that you refuse permission to showcase your art in one of the world’s most coveted museums?”

“Yes. Plus, I’d like to remind you they already have some of my pieces on display,” I answer. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have errands to run, shit to do.”

“This is exactly why you need an assistant.”

“Breeze, if I’m going to hire an assistant, I’m going to replace someone who can challenge me. Someone who can provide an edge. Someone who can be a true asset to my creativity. Someone I can trust. What I don’t need is some gopher to get my groceries and make me coffee. I can handle that shit on my own.”

“I’m not telling the curator from MoMA no.”

“You want me to tell him?”

“No, I want you to get your head out of your ass and realize you’re being stupid.”

“Bye, Breezy.”

“Bennett! Don’t you dare—”

I hang up the phone before she can say anything else.

Though, I’m not surprised when two texts chime in a few seconds later.

Breezy: YOU ARE IMPOSSIBLE.

Breezy: And since you’re RUDE AS HELL and ended the call before I was able to tell you everything, Logan called me this morning. He was asking about you. Wondering what you’re up to and how you’re doing. He’s in New York for some kind of movie premiere.

My response is instant.

Me: You can tell Logan to fuck right off.

Breezy: Yeah, that’s pretty much how I expected you to respond.

My older brother is a self-involved, narcissistic snake. He’s also a pretty popular Hollywood actor, and the only thing we have in common is our last name and that we slept with the same woman—who just so happened to be my girlfriend at the time.

Out of nowhere, I hear the words Josie told Clay Tuesday night at the bar. “Sometimes we have to make exceptions and do things we absolutely don’t want to do because it’s for the people we love.” Words I know I need to hear myself. For Summer and for Breezy.

Before I can overthink it, I type a text onto the screen and hit send.

Me: I have a finished painting you can sell. Large. Abstract. I’ll send you a photo by the end of today. And you can tell MoMA yes.

Ready to think about something else, anything else, I shove that conversation out of my head at the same time I shove my phone into my jeans pocket and start looking inside my fridge to see what else I might need from Earl’s.

It just so happens, the front of the grocery store is where the town keeps the board for employment ads. I can get groceries and take the first step to replaceing someone other than fucking Paul.

Sometimes, small-town life isn’t so bad.