I looked down at the bouquet of anemones, and my mouth fell open.
“For me? Why?’
“Wanted to give you your flowers before tonight even starts. You’ve worked hard. You deserve them.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just held out my hand to receive them. He passed them to me like it was no big deal. Like he was just handing me a bottle of water.
“Quade,… these are beautiful.” I admired the arrangement of plums and pale pinks. The colors clashed and went together so perfectly at the same time. It was whimsical and radiant, and it had me speechless.
“The lady at the florist said they were called anemones.” He filled the silence between us, his eyes still on the road. “I hope you like them. I picked them because they look like they could come outta one of your paintings.”
My eyes burned a hole in the side of his head as my fingers grazed the flower petals one at a time, trying to wrap my head around the fact that he’d brought me flowers and not just a grocery store assortment. Nah, this kind, he had to put thought into. He had to have gone to an actual florist. My heart swelled. It had been so long since someone other than Teagan had brought me flowers.
“You didn’t have to do that.” I finally spoke.
“I know.” He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his eyes bouncing between me and the road. “I wanted to.”
I didn’t say anything else. I just pushed the bouquet into my face and inhaled the scent. I wasn’t sure what this meant, or what Quade meant, or what I was supposed to say. Did heconsider this a date? Was this a date?No. Of course it isn’t.Friendly flirting was one thing, but dating was another. This was just a friendly drop off. There was no way a man like Quade was interested in a woman who couldn’t even stand on her own.
“Thank you. They’re perfect,” I finally said, and he nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. We didn’t talk much for the rest of the ride, but the silence wasn’t heavy or awkward. It was comfortable. He put on my favorite song like he’d been paying attention to the daily playlist, and we just rode. My nerves about the show were gone, replaced by thoughts of Quade that had my body heating and my nipples waking up.
When we pulled up in front of the gallery, I took a glance at myself in the mirror. The soft makeup I’d applied was still flawless, and not one hair was out of place. I looked like myself again. I wasn’t the version of me that was illness-free, but I was still me.
“You ready?”
I nodded even though my stomach was doing cartwheels. I placed my hand on the door handle, and he placed his firm hand on my thigh.
“Don’t,” was all he said, and my body froze and then melted under his touch. Maybe allowing Quade to bring me here was a bad idea because now the seat of my panties was wet.
“Your chariot awaits,” Quade stated, opening my door. I blinked. I hadn’t even noticed him getting out of the car or grabbing my wheelchair. One minute, he was next to me, his hand caressing my thigh. The next, the door was wide open, and my wheels were waiting.
“Can I?” he asked, leaning down and offering me his body for support. I stared at him for a second. His body was so solid and steady. My weight didn’t bother him at all as I transitioned from the car to my wheelchair. He helped me out of the car like I was important, and I let him. I rarely needed any help, but Quadehad my body going weak. There was something about the way he moved that made it easy to surrender to him.
Once I was seated, he bent down to double-check the locks on my wheelchair, then he rose to his full height with a look so calm it took my breath away.What is happening?I swallowed hard, trying to gather my composure while he grabbed the wrapped canvases from the back seat like they weighed nothing and nodded toward the entrance.
“Let’s get you inside.”
“Hello, my name is Noa,” I began, my voice a little wobbly. “I didn’t think I’d ever do this again—not paint, but… um… sit in front of a crowd.” The crowd leaned in. All eyes were on me, waiting for what I had to say next. The night had gone by so fast. The moment I rolled through the doors, Christine, the show director, took the paintings from Quade and shoved a clipboard of itineraries and forms in my face. I’d barely had any time to be nervous. Once I was done getting settled, the guests were arriving, and I was mingling, laughing, and feeling like myself again. Now, I was sitting in front of a crowd of about thirty people, introducing my collection.
“It was a time, a few years ago, that I believed if I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t paint. That because my body changed, my art had to fade. But what I’ve learned is that my voice isn’t in my legs. It isn’t this shell we call a body. It’s in my spirit.”
A few applauses rang out, and I gestured to the walls lined with my pieces.
“This collection is called ‘What Culture.’ It’s my answer to the lie African Americans don’t have culture. We all have heard it at some point. I answer that by saying our culture is everywhere. It’s in our joy, our fight, our softness. In the way we cook, dance, pray, laugh, and love.” My smile widened, and my eyes found Quade standing in the back of the crowd, recording. His proud smile gave the little push I needed to finish up my speech. “This collection is my love letter to black culture and also my promise to myself that, even when life changes, even when it’s hard, even when I don’t know what’s next, I still belong here. We still belong here.”
Soft applause echoed through the gallery as the crowd slowly moved on to the next exhibit. I released the breath I had been holding, and before I could even think about what was next, Quade was there holding a cold bottle of water in front of me.
“Hydrate, superstar,” he said, handing me the bottle like I was fresh off a basketball court, and he was my water boy. I looked up at the man who had been the perfect plus one all night, and a smile spread across my face.
“Thank you,” I replied, already unscrewing the cap and taking it straight to the head, no class at all, but all that talking had me feeling parched. “Whew.” I exhaled, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I forgot how much work it is pretending to be social.”
“You sure you’re pretending?” He smirked.
“I’m sure my awkwardness verifies that statement.”
“Nah, you don’t look awkward at all. You look like you belong here.” His eyes dragged my frame in a way that made my body temperature rise. There he went again, saying things that made me speechless. I didn’t have a comeback for that. Before I could even figure out what to say, my name rang out from across the gallery.
“Noa Green! Is that you?”
