Through the open doors of the connecting archway to Harper’s dance studio, I saw happy people enjoying Aspen’s delicious food. The sounds of the string quartet drifted through, contributing to the comfortable atmosphere. It wasn’t stuffy or pretentious. It was just comfortable; peaceful somehow.
I continued to drift between paintings, trailing my fingers over the air like a ghost afraid to touch the living. I watched as people posed with my art—selfies, group shots, even a few “serious” patrons trying to look more profound than they probably were. I caught my mother, Nanette, in the act of straightening one of my business cards on the reception table, her face a brittle mask of pride that looked more like a disbelieving joy, but I knew her well enough to understand. She’d spent years telling herself I’d outgrow my rebellion. Now here she was, standing in a room built by that same stubbornness, and the only thing left was to feel it.
It was overwhelming, almost suffocating. I’d spent so long in the trenches, painting as an escape, attending art school as we hid from wicked men, that being here—seen, appreciated, respected—felt obscene.
That’s when Gunner appeared at my side.
He was in his finest: black Tom Ford suit, crisp white shirt and black silk tie. His auburn curls wrangled into something tamer than usual. Thesuit clung to his shoulders, all business from the neck down, but his eyes still held the wildness of a man who’d rather be out on the range, or naked in a bed, than under gallery lighting.
He leaned down, his breath warm at my ear. “Look at you, Maverick. You built this.”
I tried to laugh, but the emotion caught in my throat. “I just hung the paintings.”
“Don’t do that.” He squeezed my hand. “Don’t undersell yourself. I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my life.”
I shook my head, blinking fast. “Don’t say that. I’ll start crying and ruin my makeup.”
He grinned. “Then I’ll have to carry you out of here, won’t I?”
“God, you’re such a caveman.”
He kissed my cheek, and the heat of it stayed with me long after he pulled back. “Stay close tonight.” His voice had gone low and tight. “Want you near me.”
I nodded, too grateful for words.
We did a slow lap of the gallery, taking in the spectacle. Nanette caught sight of us and beamed, straight-up beamed, as if she’d never once doubted her wild, artsy daughter would amount to something. She flagged us over with an urgent wave.
“Oh, Brie, darling, I’d like you to meet the McCulloughs from the Amarillo Museum!” Nanette was on a cloud. “This is my daughter; she owns this gallery! And her paintings are the ones along the walls in the gallery.”
I managed a smile, shook their hands, and endured a round of soft-voiced compliments that bordered on embarrassing. Nanette squeezed my arm, and for a heartbeat I thought she’d actually cry, but she didn’t. She just looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer she’d never had the nerve to ask for.
Across the room, Lysander was holding court.
He’d dressed for the occasion. The velvet lapels of his suit wouldn’t have worked on anyone but him. And with his platinum hair styled just messy enough to look deliberate, he was impossible not to notice. He moved through the clusters of guests like an eel, magnetic and always just a little out of reach. He laughed at the right moments, touched arms and shoulders, drew people into his orbit, and when he talked about my art, he made it sound as if I’d invented painting from scratch.
I watched as he drew two older women and a banker from the city over to the big triptych in the far corner. He set up the group, hands gesturing, describing my brushwork, then paused so the others could step up and stare. He caught my eye across the room and winked.
I flushed, but this time it wasn’t embarrassment; it was gratitude.
At the edge of the crowd, I caught Harper in a pale blue sheath dress, hair up, her arm through Arsenal’s. He looked quite dapper in a navy suit that included a vest. She caught my gaze and grinned, her eyes shining with pride.
This was what I’d always wanted: not fame, not money, but a moment where I could see, with my own eyes, that I belonged somewhere.
I glanced at Gunner, who was deep in conversation with Big Papa and Wrecker near the front door. He looked up, caught my gaze, and gave a chin nod. It was enough.
The noise rose and fell, conversations orbiting Inez’s paintings, people moving from wall to wall, some even making notes on the little cards Lysander had supplied. The wine flowed, the food disappeared, and as the sun went down, the world inside the gallery became its own universe, untethered from the rest of Dairyville.
I let myself bask in it.
For once, I didn’t feel like an impostor.
I felt real.
I felt seen.
And that feeling, that impossible, intoxicating feeling, was worth every sleepless night, every hour spent doubting if I’d ever get here.
I let myself believe it.
