Chapter 7: The Confrontation
The silence in the annex wasn’t quiet. It was a dense, humming thing, filled with the click of a cooling projector and the sharp, interested breaths of the seven people now staring at them. Aidan felt each gaze like a physical touch, cataloguing him, comparing the man in the rumpled navy suit to the anatomical study on the wall.
The woman with the thick glasses spoke first, her voice devoid of salaciousness, pure clinical interest. “Fascinating. The living subject provides a necessary counterpoint to the documentation. The variance in posture alone is telling.”
Catriona’s hand was still clamped on Aidan’s arm. He could feel the tremor in her fingers now. She didn’t look at the woman. She stared only at her sister. “You said the series was sold,” she repeated, her voice a low, wire-taut monotone. “You didn’t mention you kept a private exhibition.”
Keziah didn’t blink. She was in her element, the center of a perfect, uncomfortable truth. “The collector purchased the curated series for display. These are process shots. Reference material. They weren’t part of the sale.” A slight, sharp smile. “It’s not private anymore. Welcome to the rest of your story.”
One of the men, young and earnest with a sculpted beard, leaned forward, peering at Aidan. “The scale is even more impressive in person. It creates a unique somatic tension, doesn’t it? The viewer’s knowledge of the physical challenge?”
Aidan’s face burned. He wasn’t a person here. He was a datum. A problem of scale and tension. The kindness that usually compelled him to answer, to be polite, curdled into something hard and cold in his throat.
Catriona let go of his arm. The absence of her grip felt like a fall. She took two deliberate steps toward the triptych, toward her sister. The small audience parted for her, sensing a new, unfolding drama.
“The rest of our story,” Catriona echoed, stopping just before the third, most graphic photo. She didn’t look at it. She kept her eyes locked on Keziah. “You decide that, do you? You get to write the next chapter because you have the fucking negatives?”
“I have the truth,” Keziah said, her calm beginning to show fine cracks, a flicker of defensiveness. “I’m just not hiding it in a drawer. This is what we did, Cat. This is what it cost. Look at it.”
“I am looking at it!” Catriona’s voice finally broke, sharp and loud in the small room. It wasn’t a shout, but a fracture. “I’m looking at you turning the best, most messed-up, most real thing that’s happened to me in years into a… a case study for a bunch of strangers who think ‘somatic tension’ is a real thing people say!” She waved a hand at the audience, who were now utterly still, recording every word.
Keziah’s chin lifted. “It is real. You felt it. Or did you fake that, too?”
The air left the room. Aidan saw Catriona’s shoulders tense, saw the wounded fury flash in her eyes. It was a low blow, and Keziah knew it.
Aidan found himself speaking. His voice sounded strange to him, calm and flat. “We’re leaving.” He wasn’t asking.
He moved forward, placing himself between the sisters and the photographs, blocking the view. He didn’t touch Catriona, just stood beside her, a solid presence. He looked at Keziah, at the fierce, unrepentant artist he thought he’d understood. “You got what you needed. You don’t get anything else.”
For a second, he saw it: a flash of something like loss in her green eyes. Not regret, but the realization that a source had just been permanently capped. Then it was gone, sealed over by cool detachment. She gave a slight, conceding nod, a director dismissing an actor whose scene was over.
“Your purse is by the front desk, Cat,” Keziah said, turning her attention back to the eager man with the beard, as if the emotional earthquake had been a minor distraction. “The clasp was broken. I had them put it behind the counter.”
Catriona turned on her heel and walked out of the annex without a word. Aidan followed, the gaze of the seven strangers following them like a physical pressure on his back. The noisy warmth of the main gallery now felt grotesque, a party happening in the aftermath of a bombing.
They retrieved the purse from a smiling attendant who said, “Congratulations on the show!” Catriona took it mutely.
Outside, the night had grown colder. She still had his jacket. They stood on the pavement, unmoored.
“I need a proper drink,” Catriona said, her voice raw. “Not that acidic gallery piss. A drink that tastes like burning and forgetfulness.” She hailed a passing cab with a sharp, decisive whistle. It screeched to a halt.
“Where?” Aidan asked, opening the door for her.
“My place. Unless you have a sudden aversion to being in a room with me.” She slid across the cracked vinyl seat.
He got in after her, giving the driver the address. The cab pulled into the flow of traffic, leaving the glowing gallery box behind. They rode in silence for ten blocks, the city lights streaking past the windows.
Her apartment was the same as ever: books stacked on the floor, a mismatched couch, the faint smell of lavender and old coffee. It felt like a sanctuary from the white-walled interrogation room they’d just escaped. She went straight to the kitchen cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two mismatched tumblers. She poured three fingers into each, handed one to Aidan, and took a long, searing swallow from hers.
He drank. The heat was a grounding shock.
She leaned against the kitchen counter, cradling the glass. “Do you feel used?” she asked, staring into the amber liquid.
He considered it. “Yes. But I also said yes to everything. Every step. I can’t claim I didn’t.”
“That’s the genius of her,” Catriona said, a bitter admiration in her tone. “She makes your consent feel like a discovery, not a permission slip. She leads you to the edge of a cliff and makes you feel like you’re the one who dreamed of flying.” She took another drink. “I knew she was provocative. I didn’t know she was a… curator of lived experience. An archivist of orgasms.”
Aidan managed a weak laugh. It felt strange on his face.
“What happens now?” he asked. The question hung between them, wider than just the two of them. It encompassed Keziah, their friendship, the photographs now belonging to a man in Berlin, the lingering, messy truth of what they’d shared.
Catriona looked at him then, really looked at him, for the first time since they’d seen the triptych. The anger and humiliation were still there, but underneath, he saw the same weariness he felt. And something else, stubborn and enduring.
“Now,” she said, setting her glass down with a definitive click. “I’m going to take a very long shower. And then, because I am starving and emotionally eviscerated, I am going to order an obscene amount of Thai food. And you are going to stay and eat it with me.” She raised an eyebrow, a faint echo of her old mischief returning. “We can figure out the rest of the story tomorrow. But tonight, I’m not letting my sister have the last word. Or the last meal.”
Aidan felt the cold, tight knot in his chest begin to loosen, just a fraction. He nodded, finishing his whiskey. “Okay. What should we get?”
“Pad kee mao. Extra spicy.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Might as well feel fire somewhere I actually want to feel it.”
She pushed off the counter and walked toward the bathroom, pausing at the doorway. She didn’t turn around. “And Aidan?” Her voice was softer. “Thank you. For not staying behind to discuss your ‘unique somatic tension’ with the beard guy.”
He heard the bathroom door click shut, followed by the roar of the shower. He stood in her quiet, cluttered living room, the taste of whiskey and a fragile, shared defiance on his tongue. The story wasn’t over. But for tonight, they had chosen a different page.