Three times, I almost e-mailed Finn to cancel. Once, because the gallery owner tried to tell me he could no longer accommodate that date. And twice because those guts I was hoping to have? They went missing.
The car drops me off on the sidewalk in front of Vee Gallery. It looks all wrong. Through the windows, I see nothing but light and white. Too-bright, empty walls. No person should pass by a gallery and see this, and I remind myself to thank the owner again for letting me do this, even if it’ll be the fiftieth time.
I let myself in and get to work. I have about an hour before Finn—hopefully—arrives. It’s a lot to hang onhopefully, but he’s worth it. When I finish, I dim the lights just a touch so he won’t see what’s inside before I’m ready to show him. After some debate, I decide to wait for him outside on this perfect May night.
And wait . . . and wait.
Twenty minutes past eight, my nerves have the best of me. He isn’t coming. What do I do? If I call him and he saw the note, I’ll look desperate. But if he didn’t, he’ll miss all this. And I don’t want that.
I was so sure he’d come.
I inhale and exhale deeply. I’ve started yoga aimed at people recovering from addiction. The teacher says when we crave something, one of the ways to combat it is to breathe through it. I crave. If I can’t have Finn, I crave something to make me forget him.
I close my eyes and breathe.
I’m watching the street, expecting a car. So when I open my eyes and realize someone’s standing next to me, I nearly jump out of my skin.
Finn looks down at me. “This dress can only mean one thing,” he says. “You brought me here to reconcile. If you break up with me for good in that dress, that’s just the cruelest thing I can think of.”
My laugh is nervous, but his directness helps break the ice. Right off the bat I understand that he’s here to make things work, not let me down easy. Benny was right. The red dress was a good choice.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I was going to catch a cab, but it’s such a nice night and I needed the extra time to . . . prepare.” He squints behind me. “I assumed this was a show or something, so I didn’t think I had to be here right at eight.”
I take his hand, and he looks back at me. “Is this okay?” I ask.
He tucks some of my hair behind my ear. “You tell me.”
I close my eyes a split second to relish the feel of his palm to mine, the brush of his fingers in my hair. Over my feather. “Come on,” I say, pulling him behind me into the gallery.
He steps inside and immediately drops my hand. I watch with bated breath as he takes in the scene around him. “What is this?”
I survey the space with him. This in and of itself could be an installation, but it’s not. It’s just a sketch of one. I’ve strung Christmas lights along each wall. Taped underneath are small five-by-five prints, ten to a wall. Benny printed them all off for me, and I chose thirty I thought showed Finn’s best work.
“It’s not much,” I say. “I just wanted to show you how it could look.”
He walks along the nearest wall, taking in each print. “How what could look?”
“I know the owner through the agency. I wore him down until he finally agreed to look at your work. He loved it, Finn, and I swear, he’s a hard ass about these things. It’s no favor.”
“What isn’t? I don’t understand.”
“He wants you to have your debut show here. I explained to him the kind of following we had, and after seeing your work, he’s convinced you’re the next big thing. That’s why he let me do this tonight. We want to show you how amazing it could be.”
He runs a hand through his hair, spun gold sprouting from his fingers. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “He’s between shows tonight, so I did some begging to get the space.”
“What about you?” Finn asks. “This is your body. Your boyfriend’s work. Some people will know it’s you.”
I take a breath. The thought of having my dad here makes my heart palpitate. But we’ve been working with Cindy too, and he needs to know this side of me for us to have an honest relationship. He has to meet Finn. “I’m good with it if you are.”
“Will he let us put your captions up next to the photos?”
“I want this to be about your work, not me.”
“They belong together,” he says. “Don’t you think?”
I swallow through the lump in my throat. Theydobelong together, yes. “I’m sure it could be arranged, but only your name goes on the promotional material. I have something else going.”
