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Whole. Healed.
Home.
THE FUTURE
EPILOGUE
DAMON
Five Months Later
A sheenof sweat covers my forehead as I stare at the illuminated sign above the door, my lip twitching. It’s not straight. It doesn’t look straight. Such incompetence. I told them. I fucking told them to fix it! This can’t be happening. It’s almost 8 p.m. Maybe I should cancel. Maybe I should forget about the whole thing. This was a stupid idea.
Who do I think I am?
“Oh my God!” Sage groans as she approaches me. She scowls, brow lifting. “Again with the sign?! Damon, for the last freaking time, it’sstraight! Everything is perfect, okay? You need to calm down. You’re a second away from popping a dang blood vessel.”
I draw in a shaky breath, fingertips tingling as I take in the exterior of the gallery.Mygallery. Cavanaugh Gallery. If I were simply hosting other artists, I’d heed Sage’s advice and calm down. I’d relax. I’d loosen the tension in my shoulders and my posture. I’d be confident that tonight’s opening will be a success. That critics will sing the praises of the artist.
But it’smyexhibit.
Mine.
I swallow, glancing down at the exhibition catalog in Sage’s hands.
Cavanaugh Gallery Presents:
Grief by D. Cavanaugh
Five Rooms. Five Stages. One Immersive Experience.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” I mutter, closing my eyes. “What if they hate it?”
“What if they love it?” Sage bumps me with her hip. “It’s normal to be nervous, Damon. Tonight’s a big deal. This exhibit, it’s…it’s vulnerable. Raw. I get it. You’re allowed to be anxious, but you should also be excited. Look at what you accomplished.”
We step into the gallery, and I glance around the temporary walls that split the gallery into a structured maze. Five rooms. Five titles. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
I didn’t like the idea at first. Why would peoplecare? Why would they want to walk through a visual representation of my trauma? My pain? Plus, I barely had any finished pieces. They were a disaster. Half done. Chaotic. Nonsensical.
And now those paintings are hung on the walls. Separated into stages.
Emery said that it’s honest. That it’s real. The first painting in denial is simply a canvas with a long, black, jagged line. That’s it. Nothing else. I remember that day. It was three weeks after the helicopter crashed. After they died. I sat down in front of the easel, and I was in utter disbelief. I tried to paint. I tried to convey my emotions, but I could barely hold the brush.
That incredulity is now art.
Quin said it was always art.
I hope the rest of New York City agrees.
“Come on.” Sage yanks on my elbow. “Let me show you the gift shop.”
She drags me through the gallery until we stop in front of the display. I grin. Next to the various prints available to purchase is a variety of ridiculously out-of-place handmade mugs.
“Awesome, aren’t they?” Sage’s eyes glitter. Sage…my friend. I have a friend. “I think they’ll sell out in minutes.”
“Definitely.” I rein in a laugh. “They’ll be a hit.”
