“Opening in five!” the gallery manager, a chic older woman with short hair and wearing a pant suit, says, meeting my eyes. “Everything good?”
I nod, not sure if she knew about the cat crisis. If not, I’m not going to enlighten her. She’s been just as nervous about this as I have.
If I’d been willing to let the guys throw their weight around for me, I probably would have had a showing a lot sooner than this. Actually, Iwouldhave. But over the past two years of the program, I’ve insisted that we keep our relationship quiet. That nobody in the art world should know about my connections.
I wanted to earn this on my own.
And now, I have.
The doors open, and people flood in.
My mom and dad with the rest of my siblings, who alloohandahhat seeing my artwork on the walls. Putting an arm around me, his voice choked, Dad says, “Proud of you, kid.”
Things are still notperfect. There are plenty of issues my parents and I don’t agree on. For example, they still think New York City is a stinky, crime-riddled hellscape. But they’re here for me, and they love me, and it’s really all I can ask.
Friends from art school, professors, and connections from Hunter follow, holding their champagne and gazing at the various compositions. My pulse flutters, and I accept their compliments, keeping my sadness just at bay.
Cole’s parents attend as well, gushing over me, his mom wrapping me in a hug when she sees me.
“It’s allgorgeous, Lucy. We’ll definitely be buying a piece.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I say, even as joy riots through me at the thought of someone wanting my art for their home.
“Ofcoursewe do,” she says, and a glimmer of delight sparks in her eyes, reminding me of Cole. “I mean, we’ll have it to show to our grandkids, one day…”
She’s been gently prodding at this since she met me. A retired woman with all the money in the world, wishing for a baby to take up her time.
“Lucy,” the gallery coordinator says, appearing at my elbow and saving me from answering Cole’s mother. “It’s time.”
Another wave of anxiety rolls through me, and I nod, following her like a little duckling to the front of the gallery, where there’s a small, elevated platform.
I know, logically, that it’s not a stage, but that doesn’t stop me from getting stage fright.
“Hello, everyone,” I say into the microphone after the coordinator’s introduction. A hundred eager faces stare back at me. Before continuing, I take a deep breath and look at the art on the walls around me.
A thousand versions of Frankie, smiling back. Some of them are more abstract than others, shapes and colors, an approximation of her smile. Waves and lines that represent her fearless attitude. One is a clear profile of her in her wheelchair, rolling across the graduation stage, reaching out for her diploma with a smile on her face.
This gallery is full of her. I knew that, even with so much in my life, I needed to do something for my best friend. The girl I lost.
Her parents are here, too, her mom clutching a handkerchief, which she dabs under her eyes frequently. I know they didn’t want Frankie to go to college with her condition, but I’m glad they didn’t stop her from living her life the way she wanted.
“Thank you all so much for coming out and giving my art an audience,” I say, and now the words come out fluidly, like Frankie has lent me some of her strength. “As you may or may not know, the subject of these pieces is my late best friend, Francesca.”
Her mother lets out a little noise, and her father tightens his arm around her. I give them what I hope is a comforting smile and go on.
“Frankie was fearless about living the life she wanted, though the universe made it hard for her. She taught me how to live life for myself, and that’s what I do now. If you’re standing on a precipice, staring down an idea or a choice, my sincerest hope is that you’ll allow my art to influence you toward the scary thing, the hard thing—the thing that’s truest toyou.”
With that, I raise my glass to the room, and I feel weightless when they raise their glasses back.
When I step down off the stage, it’s into three sets of arms, coming around me, holding me tight.
“That was amazing,” Cole says.
Nico adds, “Spoken like a true savant.”
“Lucy,” Dane murmurs, wrapping his arm around me and drawing me in close, his eyes sparkling, “I don’t know how you manage it, but every day you wake up and find a new way to make us the luckiest men in the world.”
I smile back up at him, eyes shining, and decide that I’ll tell him tonight.
