“Artie! Darling!” Marianne’s voice bursts through the speaker, bright and energetic. “You’re not going to believe this.”
I sit up straighter. “What happened?”
“Your painting. The winter landscape series? It sold.”
“It—wait, really?”
“Not just sold.Sold. There were two buyers bidding against each other. It went for eight hundred over asking price.”
The breath leaves my lungs. “You’re kidding.”
“I am absolutely not kidding. Artie, this is huge. You’re connecting with people. The work is resonating.”
I press my hand over my mouth, emotions swelling in my chest. Eight hundred dollars over asking. For my work. Myart.
“This is just the beginning,” Marianne continues, her enthusiasm infectious. “We’re going to sell so many more of your pieces. None of that stuffy, elitist gallery bullshit. Nah, just real people responding to real art. You’re going to be big, Artie. I can feel it.”
“I don’t—” I laugh, slightly hysterical. “I don’t have any more paintings ready. I’ve been so busy with school and this Christmas thing. My progress has been really slow.”
“Then paint faster!” She laughs. “I’m kidding. Sort of. But seriously, congratulations. You deserve this.”
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of my room, staring at my closed sketchbook.
Maybe things are starting to look up.
~ ~ ~
The next afternoon, I arrive at the common room with renewed energy. The painting sold. I have money coming in. The party preparations are on track despite the sabotage.
I can handle this.
The four volunteers from yesterday show up again, plus a new girl named Sophie who heard about the project from Christie. They’re chatting and laughing as they work, and the atmosphere feels lighter than it has in days.
And then Raiden walks in.
Again.
My heart sinks and soars simultaneously, which is an extremely uncomfortable sensation.
He doesn’t greet anyone. Just nods once and starts working on the frame assembly where he left off yesterday.
The volunteers whisper among themselves. I catch fragments of their conversations:
“—didn’t think he’d actually come back—”
“—Raiden Blackwell doing manual labor, can you believe—”
“—why is he even here—”
I try not to think about him and try not to look at him. It’s very difficult when I can feel his gaze on me every few minutes—a weight between my shoulder blades, prickling at the back of my neck.
He’s planning something. He has to be. Hockey players like Raiden Blackwell don’t volunteer out of the goodness of their hearts. He’s here to torment me, to come up with new and creative ways to make my life miserable.
Except… he hasn’t done anything. No cruel comments. No public humiliation. He just works quietly and leaves everyone alone.
It’s more unnerving than if he were actively antagonizing me.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve compiled a list of smaller tasks that need to be delegated. I scan the room for Raiden, rehearsing how I’ll ask him to help with the lighting installation outside.
