Finn stroked my cheek with his thumb. “If you need me, you call. No matter what.”
“I will.”
We stood like that for a minute, neither of us wanting to break the spell. But life didn’t wait, and I had work to do.
He peeled off, boots thudding down the sidewalk, already on the phone with the club. I watched him go, a pang of longing settling behind my ribs, then squared my shoulders and turned toward the gallery.
The day was young; the sun was hot, and I had cinnamon rolls to deliver.
If the darkness wanted me, it would have to wait in line.
By the time I got to the gallery, the air was thick with the smell of drying paint, overpriced espresso, and Lysander’s cologne, which today was something between a forest fire and an absinthe hallucination. The entire main floor was chaos: almost finished temporary walls, extension cords snaking across the raw floorboards, Inez up on a ladder in paint-splattered overalls, swearing in what I was fairly certain was a mix of Spanish, Italian, and direct invocations of the Virgin.
I dumped the pastry box on the reception counter and called, “Breakfast, if you don’t want to die before lunch!” It got their attention immediately. Inez clambered down the ladder, wiped her hands on her thighs, and snatched the box as if it might grow legs and run off. Lysander, who’d been in the back office, glided out, his phone tucked between shoulder and jaw, gesturing at me with his free hand.
“Darling, you have saved our lives,” he mouthed, then into the phone: “No, not you, Bruce, the actual artist, yes—” and vanished into the makeshift office.
Inez broke a cinnamon roll in half and offered me the gooier side. “You look tired,” she said, which was her way of being polite about the bags under my eyes.
I shrugged, mouth full of pastry. “Didn’t sleep. Too much on my brain.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t let Lysander boss you around. He gets dramatic when he is hungry. Like a child, that one.”
I laughed, and for a minute, it was almost like last year, before the universe decided to treat me like a chew toy.
We took our breakfast onto the metal benches in front of the gallery. It was early, not yet hot, and the pale light made the whole place look softer. Inez told me about her latest commission (a mural for a yoga studio in Santa Fe), then pressed: “Really, Brie. Are you okay?”
I looked at her, at the paint still clinging to her hands, and decided to just say it. “I’m having nightmares. Bad ones. Finn too. And they’re getting worse.”
She frowned, then crossed herself—a gesture she usually reserved for hospital dramas and horror movies. “Mal de ojo,” she muttered, then in English: “You need to break the curse, no?”
I snorted. “If you have a recipe, I’ll try anything.”
She leaned in suddenly solemn. “If you want, I’ll make you a protection candle. My abuela taught me.”
It was so sincere, I almost cried. “Thank you, Inez. Maybe after the install, we can do a whole exorcism.”
She grinned. “I’ll bring tequila. That’s how you get rid of all evil spirits.”
We finished the rolls and went back inside; the sugar made the next hour blur. Lysander ran logistics like a cruise director on speed, organizing everything: lighting, installation order, photographer schedule, even the catering walk-through. He was a machine, and I let myself get swept up in the forward momentum of it all.
At eleven, we broke for coffee and regrouped in the office. Lysander sprawled on the couch, legs crossed at the knee, while Inez perched on the window ledge, feet swinging. I collapsed onto the couch next to him, letting the caffeine do battle with the exhaustion.
“Alright, darling,” Lysander said, voice soft for once. “Are you ready for the good news, or should we do bad news first?”
I stretched, feeling the ache in my back. “Let’s get the bad out of the way.”
He waggled a finger. “Cynicism, my dear! I love it. Okay. The bad news is, the main gallery floor still smells like industrial glue, and we might need to open a few windows and pray it airs out before tomorrow.”
I snorted. “Noted. And the good news?”
He sat up, and suddenly he was closer than I expected, eyes very blue and very, very serious. “The good news is, you’re going to sell every piece you hang. Maybe more. I got an email this morning—there are buyers flying in from Boston and Santa Fe. Not for Inez, foryou.”
My jaw dropped. “That’s—what? How?”
He beamed. “Because I am a genius, darling, and because your work is honest. People can smell the blood and the sweat. You’re not trying to impress them, and that’s why they want it.”
I blinked. “Wow.”
