Pure Red Read Online Free Page B

Dad’s paintings at various Miami hot spots.
    Dad stops the waiter and grabs a cube of cheddar off the tray. “Is this your first time visiting the gallery?”
    “I’ve been here a couple of times before with my aunt. But I’ve seen your La Fleur collection at the SOBE museum a million times,” Graham says, eyes bugged out like he’s hoping he got the pop-quiz answer right.
    I’m standing next to them, smushing the crac ker crumbs inside my pocket into pixie dust. My face is hooked on Graham’s, which is hooked on Dad’s.
    “A museum regular. That’s great.” Dad’s eyes don’t leave Graham’s face. Everyone is a potential subject. He studies each feature carefully, even though he doesn’t paint people he knows—except lucky me!
    A woman bellows over the crowd, “Bye, Jacques.” I turn toward the door.
    It’s her. The blond lady.
    Dad just smiles and gives her a fluttery wave. He is so dating her. Excuse me while I go puke. I squint my eyes and curl my upper lip in her direction, but she’s already flickered away. I’ll catch her next time.
    Graham and Dad launch into a discussion about mixing colors, Dad doing most of the talking and Graham the nodding. I, on the other hand, am trying to get the blond lady out of my head and focus all my brain power on Graham.
    “When I was younger I used to be careless with the tubes of paints.” Dad runs his fingers through his hair and knocks a gelled clump loose from the rest of the bunch.
    “That’s totally me,” Graham says, laughing. “But I’m learning to be more conservative.”
    “I used to be like that with food,” I say, biting the inside of my lip. “Order way too much, eyes bigger than my stomach.”
    Nobody says anything. The celebrity and the fanatic both stare at me with sympathy in their eyes.
    Dad snatches a glass of red wine off another tray and Graham shifts his weight back and forth. Then they smile at each other in some sort of secret artist code. I take a deep breath to calm my inner stupidity. Breathe in. Breathe out.
    “Thirsty.” I point to myself and swiftly move toward the mini-fridge in the back. Anything to get away from all that starry-eyed, oh, how I’ve always worshiped you stuff. So here I am, standing in the corner after I’ve chugged almost the whole bottle of Aquafina, wondering why the hell I’m pissed off. I should be happy that this really hot guy is gaga over my dad. That makes my dad young, hip, and cool. Except what about me? Did they even notice that I walked away? Okay, so you don’t have to get an A in psychology (I did get an A, though) to realize that I’m more pissed about the lady pawing Dad than I am about Graham. But why does my dad need a girlfriend now? We were managing fine without her. When he said he was going to try dating again, I thought it meant catching an occasional movie or grabbing a bite to eat now and then. More like finding hang-out buddies, not one specific, potentially desperate woman.
    I try to calm down, like I didn’t just have a major internal hissy fit, and shake loose all my negative energy. Then I screw the cap back on the water bottle, walk over to the recycle bin, and shoot. Score! A three-pointer.
    Dad and Graham are now in front of Moonlight Bisque , talking about technique. Dad spent forever trying to get the moon right in that picture. While he was mixing the creamy-colored paint, my stomach had growled, and I told him it looked like the soup Lucien serves every Christmas. Not even ten minutes later, while I was watching Gilmore Girls reruns, he yelled out, “You’re right! That’s it! Moon Bisque”—which later became Moonlight Bisque .
    “Hey, Cassie.” I feel a jab in my side.
    “Hi, Thomas,” I say, even before confirming it’s him. No matter how many times I correct this kid, he still calls me Cassie.
    “What’s up?” he asks.
    “Not much. Just taking in the beauty.” I point to the abstract with no name in front of me, but my eyes quickly flit over