We speak silently—a secret, unique language we developed years ago. Blinks and brows and smiles are an entire language to us.
She’s asking me why he’s smirking and why my cheeks are painted the same color as his.
I blink back.Don’t ask questions.
Her brows dip, a sassy, subtle head movement, and I know this conversation, while over now, is going to be revisited later.
I throw my arms around her, pulling my sister into a suffocating hug.
“Congrats!” I squeal.
“Thank you! I’m so happy you made it.” She squeezes me back, just as tight.
“Wouldn’t miss it. Even though I was at your first unofficial show.”
“Computer paper and finger paints.” We release each other. “However, the playdough sculptures never did get the admiration they deserved.”
Since the day I met Meave, she’s always been an artist. Pictures lining our shared room moved to dotting the fridge and Dad’s office. In frames lining the entryway. A full mural at Mom’s shop.
Painting—watercolors is her specialty, but she loves all mediums. Photography, ceramics, oil pastels—and she doesn’t consider it art, but I do—needlepoint and sewing.
The dress she’s wearing, I know, is one of her creations. It’s long with a fitted bodice, and scooping silk from the waist down,a dark amethyst. She’s the most exquisite piece of art in here tonight. Deep brown hair in big loose waves, one side pinned back with jeweled clip. Blush perfectly placed on her warm olive skin, and an ombre of cool toned eyeshadow.
I quickly peruse the front room with only my eyes. Bright pieces of artwork line the walls. Stationed in the room are cocktail tables with black tablecloths. A handful of servers walk around carrying small bites and wine.
“This. Is. So. Cool.”
“I know.” Meave beams. Giddy, her feet can’t stay still. “Can you imagine if I had accepted that job at the big gallery in London? This probably wouldn’t have ever happened.”
“It would have,” I reassure her, but quietly I’m agreeing. I’m so happy she’s a drive away instead of a trans-Atlantic flight.
Cooper’s cousin’s best friend, Emerson, lives in London. She’s an editorial and travel photographer. Meave spent a summer there a few years ago, learning from her and staying in her husband’s hotels. Emerson connected Meave with a gallery there which turned into a job offer after graduation.
“Are there more rooms?”
“Two more rooms.” Meave can barely contain her excitement. “They gave me theentirespace.”
“As deserved.”
She pulls me in the direction of a black and white painting. Cooper waves bye, pocketing his hands into his jeans.
Meave walks me around the gallery, giving me a private tour and explanation about each piece. She politely ignores the people trying to pull at her.
This entire night is about her, but here she is, arm looped into mine, hand grasping my bicep, squeezing when she gets specifically delighted about a piece. Voice octave jumping up with passion. In between pieces, she gossips with me like we are back in middle school and sneaking across the hallway intoeach other’s bedroom to have a sleepover. We’d hide under the comforter with a flashlight and books, talking and giggling till mom and dad cracked open the door, reminding us that it’s bedtime. They gave up eventually.
“When were you going to tell me aboutthat?” Meave pinches my side, not bothering to lower her voice in the crowd of people that’s beginning to form.
“There is nothat.” I laugh. The kind you do when you are hiding something. I’m not hiding anything from her, maybe myself.
“Uh-huh. That’s why he’s been ten steps behind us, following you like a lost puppy all night.”
“No, he hasn’t.” I throw my chin over my shoulder, looking for Cooper.
“I was joking, but damnnnn.”
“We’re friends again.” No one notices my misstep, my body physically tripping on my verbal admittance.
“Friends or more than friends.”
