Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,75

mistake at the gallery truly been bad enough for needing to think?

Channing’s cheeks were flushed a deep pink. “At the party with Ian and all your fancy art friends, you were a complete asshole. I told you I was worried about going and you insisted—said you’d be with me the whole time, and then you left me to the wolves! I wanted to support you and see this world you love so much, but I felt so out of place. I don’t know shit about art, Reagan, or anything that those people cared about. Why did you even want me there?”

I cringed, but instead of taking a moment to breathe, I let my defensiveness speak. “You’re being a child, Channing. I can have more than one group of friends, and you don’t have to like them all. You didn’t have to bail at the party without a word—and hiding away all weekend instead of just talking to me isn’t okay. This all could have been resolved by now if you’d just faced it without my having to corner you.”

“Fuck you, Reagan,” he shot back. “I want you to think about this from my point of view and then decide who’s being a child. You said you wanted to share a part of your life with me, and then you ignored me through dinner, left me at a party to go socialize with other people, and didn’t notice I wasn’t there for over an hour. On top of that, I asked you for a bit of time. Instead of letting me have it, you texted and called all weekend. You sent a fucking email! And now? You’ve embarrassed me in front of my brother-in-law and coworkers, pulling the fucking boss card and forcing the issue.”

He was so confident as he listed everything I’d done wrong, and I was feeling smaller and smaller with each word. But Channing wasn’t finished.

“Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad you’re focusing on your needs and trying to find your passion again. It’s important to me that you take care of yourself, too. This weekend, though, you forgot about everyone but yourself. And this ‘let’s clear the air right now’ thing is about your needs, too. Not mine, and not ours. Now… who is being the fucking child?”

God, he was fuming. And I was gobsmacked. It had felt so good to be in the show, and I had wanted Channing to see that part of me—but instead of sharing it, I’d fallen right back into the egotistical artist that craved nothing more than validation—the same mental headspace I’d been in when Ian had taken me as a lover. The same headspace that made me see that as a gift rather than the manipulation it had been.

Then, to make things worse, I’d taken my shame and turned it into anger. I’d been so fucking unfair to Channing.

“Fuck,” I sighed, dragging my hands through my hair. “You’re so right, Channing. I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t just forgetting me, Reagan. I told you I was nervous about fitting in, but I came because you asked me to—because I knew it was important to you. I was so fucking uncomfortable, and Ian was a douchebag. He called me your boy toy—called you his boy toy. So if you think he’s changed, he hasn’t, and I pretty much hate him. None of your friends tried to get to know me. That art world? I’m not interested in being a part of it.”

My heart twisted hard and my eyes swam with the start of tears. I blinked them away. “But I think I want to try to be a part of it again—not the way it went down last night. That was unfair to you, and uncool all around. But producing that kind of art? Having other people see it? I haven’t felt this excited about something I’ve created in so long.”

I finally feel like myself again. And I don’t want to lose you over it.

“That’s fine,” Channing said. I leaned back, wary. “You can do the art and the shows. Just...I don’t see myself fitting into that part of your life.”

I scrambled to make sense of where the conversation was going. “But I’ll be at more events like that one. Hell, Ian’s extended the show and is picking my piece for part of a tour. My shit is about to blow up and I want to be pumped about it. How will you feel if I went to a lot of shows and galleries without