“Like you’re not drowning under all that work anymore.” She offers me her brightest smile.
I smile and kiss her cheek in response before heading out for my classes.
Juliette fits into Oxford like she was folded into it on purpose. She’s been preoccupied with opening up her gallery and having meetings with people who already know her name. I watch her navigate it all with this calm confidence that still surprises me sometimes, like I forget how much space she’s allowed to take up. The privilege is astounding, but she uses it for good.
Still, with everything on her plate, she makes me a priority. She packs my lunches every day, drives me to class and back because she doesn’t want me using my motorbike. We’ve become a domestic couple in a way, and I never thought mundanity could feel so exhilarating.
Today is different, though. Nothing mundane about her gallery opening. It’s been all she’s been focused on for the last few months and I’ve seen all the hard work she’s poured into it. She’s been pretending she’s fine about it, but I know better.
“What if no one comes?”
“They will.”
“What if they don’t like it?”
“They already do.”
I rub her shoulders, plastering kisses all over her face, trying to calm her down. Because I know any second now people will be flooding through the gallery doors. She collapses in my arms, and I hold her until exactly what I predicted would happen does. Hundreds of people start flooding in when the doors open. Our friends couldn’t make it, but they were here last week to congratulate Juliette on it. She seems surprised that so many people came, but I think she forgets that she’s a Kingston. This is no surprise to me.
I take a step back while Juliette roams around, introducing her art and speaking with countless people. The gallery is bigger than anything I imagined when she first told me about it. White walls, high ceilings, clean light pouring in from every direction. Her work hangs like it belongs there, like the space was built around it.
I watch Juliette talk to strangers with a different air around her. She’s unusually shy, and I find it the most adorable thing ever. I watch her smile like she’s finally letting herself enjoy this instead of bracing for it to disappear. When she finds me later, flushed and glowing, she squeezes my hand and introduces me to every single person in the gallery.
“This is my girlfriend, Adaline,” she says about a thousand times in the night, and it doesn’t fail to make me blush every single time.
She disappears again eventually when an art collector steals her away to ask about one of her oil paintings.
I sip on champagne, still just watching her and feeling my heart swell up. Through my peripheral vision, I see Miss Kingston walking towards me. A few months ago, that would’ve made me throw up. Now it’s different. She apologised for her behaviour a while ago and we’ve been making great strides since then.
“Hi, Adaline,” she greets me.
“Hi, Miss Kingston.”
“Samantha,” she corrects me.
I nod with a smile. “Samantha.”
“She’s a natural,” she says, gesturing to Juliette, who is standing with that art collector describing her painting. Her arm flailing around and excitement painted all over her expression.
“She really is,” I agree.
“Thank you,” Samantha says suddenly, squeezing my hand.
“For what?”
“For being here for her, for loving her,” she says. “I know how much you’ve helped with this.” Juliette and Samantha are the same in the way that they both have trouble expressing gratitude, so this means a lot more to me than she thinks.
“It’s the easiest thing in the world,” I tell her, and she pulls me into a hug. Eventually she leaves and I go back to staring at Juliette.
Once the night draws to a close, I wander over to Juliette, who seems positively exhausted.
“Hi, is that the most famous artist ever?”
“Hi, baby.” She smiles, immediately resting her head on my chest.
“Not a single piece left,” I beam. “Do you miss them?”
“A little, but I know these people will appreciate them.”
