I offer Sam my arm.
She takes it.
I squeeze her arm gently and nod toward the other wing. "Come on. Let's get you back."
We start walking. The gallery noise swells around us—voices, laughter, glasses clinking.
I glance down at her.
She's looking up at me.
My jaw flexes. There's something I should say, something I've been holding back all night, but the words are stuck behind my teeth. I press my mouth closed and keep walking.
Her eyes don't leave mine.
"You guys go ahead," Sam says, glancing at the Boss Babes and Wren.
They exchange looks but nod, drifting toward her exhibit.
Sam slows.
"Tom?"
I blink. Smile—small, not quite easy. "Yeah?"
She doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like she's waiting for something.
My jaw tightens. My hands go back into my pockets. My shoulders lock.
I don't know if she's mad. I don't know if I messed this up.
"Sam!" A voice calls from across the hall.
She turns. Someone's waving—a curator, maybe, or another guest.
I exhale slowly. I nod toward the sound. "Come on. They're looking for you."
She doesn't move right away.
She's still looking at me.
I wait.
She nods and turns toward the voice.
Chapter fifty-two
Tom
The crowd thins. A few people walk past me holding their coats.
I watch Sam from the side of the room. She's talking to a couple near one of her prints—nodding, gesturing, smiling. She's been like this for the last hour. Answering questions. Shaking hands. Being gracious.
We haven't spoken. Not really. Not since I showed her the Bronx series.
She's the artist. People want to talk to her.
But every time I catch her eye across the room, she looks away first.
