“Hush,” he snapped. “Don’t make a scene. Smile, and try to play this off. If you’ve ruined this opportunity for us, Lucian, I swear, you’ll–”
The soft music from the large speakers stationed around the gallery cut out, and Dad bit off the rest of his words as the crowd quieted.
“Hello, everyone,” Mr. Vender called through the microphone, pushing a wave of booming static through the system.
“Whoops, the sound booth must be delayed.” Mr Vender chuckled, though he shot a sharp look to the black window where the sound operator must have been. “I wanted to thank you all for joining us tonight for my art exhibit showcasing Valentine’s Day, the day of romance.”
He looked around at his guests, and Dad stepped away from me and my painting, like he was trying to remove himself from any affiliation with me and my disobedience.
“All of this,” Mr. Vender continued, “is for my lovely wife, Diana.”
He held out his hand, and an older woman with static curls, her hair shiny under the lights from her hairspray, took it. Mr.Vender spun his wife to his side, and she giggled with delight as the crowdaww-ed.
“My wife,” he kissed her hand, “I have put this together for you. I even selected a young artist with a true taste for what you love, and he agreed to paint you a portrait worthy of your beauty. Please turn your attention to…”
I swallowed thickly.
“Lucian Sterling!”
The crowd turned, as one, to my painting.
I saw Mr. Vender’s grin turn instantly sour. Mrs. Vender’s hand flew to her mouth, her dainty eyebrows scrunching in displeasure.
The crowd was deathly silent. Then, all at once, chatters sprang up, full of hisses of gossip and ridicule that I knew so well by now I didn’t even have to make out the words to hear them.
I’d done this to myself, really.
I knew my new style wasn’t what anyone wanted. And here I was, the fool who had done it anyway.
This might have been the stupidest decision I’d ever made, and I knew the fallout didn’t end tonight.
If it ever ended at all.
20
KNOX
Lucy had been a nervous wreck when I saw him this morning, but it had been silent since then. It was just Jackson and me, staring at each other and snuggling on the couch while sitcoms played on the TV and I fed Jackson way too many cat treats.
But he liked me now, so it was worth it. He came to greet me at the door when I came home for the night, and he was in my lap on the couch right now as we both pathetically waited for Lucy to come home from the Valentine’s exhibit.
Eventually, keys jingled at the door, and Jackson and I leapt to our feet.
“Hey, how did it–” I stuttered to a stop.
Lucy looked miserable. His gaze was low, only looking at the floor; his shoulders were drawn tight; his hands were empty except for his keys, so he must have left his painting at the exhibit for the weekend—or maybe someone had bought it, and Lucy could be happy that he never had to see it again.
Lucy didn’t speak as he hung up his jacket with trembling fingers.
When Jackson meowed and approached him, Lucy just gave him a sad smile before sweeping past him, trying to slip past me toward the hallway.
“Hey, Lucy!” I reached for his arm, and he froze when I grabbed him. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I’m fine.”
The sniffle I heard then clearly told me he was anything but fine.
“Just talk to me. Was it the gallery guy? Your dad?”
