“No thanks, I’m good,” I said over my shoulder, knowing there was no way I could swallow anything past the lump of anxiety in my throat.
Outside on the sidewalk, I made my way toward the subway. I didn’t want to be late to the party, but I also didn’t want to appear too excited. A fireball of mixed emotions swirled in my gut ... and then my phone pinged.
You heading to the bakery?
How the heck did Price remember?
And did I want him to know?
Since it was time for me to go underground and get on a train, I decided to answer him when I got out on the other side.
Price had been conveniently busy the last few days ... after my relationship with Robby had blown to bits. Which was fine, because I had enough shit to deal with, like figuring out how to salvage my relationship with my dad while still looking for my mom.
On my way now. How r u?
The second part I added out of obligation. It was hard to be mean, especially when he’d just taken up for me in a bar a few days before.
Good here. Want some company?
Wow, I wasn’t expecting that response. Clueless as to what to say next, I did the easiest thing ... I ignored his text.
Quickly making my way to the bakery, I went over in my mind what I wanted to say to Bev’s mom. Of course, when I finally walked through the door and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and chocolate filled my nostrils, I forgot every last word.
“Em!” Bev called to me from behind the counter.
My eyes roamed the small shop. People were mingling, some holding hot beverages and others champagne flutes. Bright contemporary art I hadn’t seen before covered the walls. A dude in jeans, a white T-shirt, and cowboy boots—presumably the artist—stood in the corner, talking to a group of people.
As I waved at Bev, a woman made her way from the group chatting with the artist and joined her. Smaller than Bev, the woman was wearing a tie-dyed dress, cinched at the waist with a beaded belt, and a bright orange scarf tied around her head.
Bev waved me closer, and my feet moved of their own volition, the breath whooshing from my lungs. Above them behind the counter hung Paula’s painting—my lucky break at the Lucky Artist Bakery. The tips of my fingers and toes tingled with fear and excitement.
“Hey, thanks for coming,” Bev said while stepping around the counter and pulling me in for a hug.
“Place is packed.”
“I know, right?”
Bev’s mom joined us. “Hi, I’m Sheila. You must be Emerson. Bev hasn’t stopped talking about you,” she said to me with a smile.
“Nice to meet you ... glad you could be here. You know, that you’re feeling well enough,” I said, stumbling over my words and emotions.
“Me too. Do you like the work?” Sheila waved her hand around the bakery, and I scanned the bright splatter-painted canvases.
“I do. It’s fun, cheerful, hopeful.”
“That’s what I thought, and we can all use a dose of that,” Sheila told me.
“You can say that again,” I said, without going into the details of my week.
Bev gave me a quick grin. “And they’re selling.”
“Well, that’s good.” I looked around again, amazed by a neon painting and then one made up of primary colors. Completely out of my comfort zone, I never thought I’d be at a New York City art show.
“Bev told me you love that one.” Sheila changed the subject, glancing toward Paula’s painting.
“I do. There’s something that makes me feel settled looking at it. At ease.”
My phone burned in my pocket as lies spun from my mouth. I wasn’t the best version of myself, continuing to ignore Price’s text, telling half-truths to my only friend and her mom.
