The gallery overlooks the Tetons, and every few minutes, someone drifts toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, distracted by snow-covered peaks glowing beneath the late-afternoon sun.
I don't mind, though. Some things deserve to steal the spotlight.
Jackson Hole feels different than New York ever did.
Slower. Quieter.
People linger instead of rushing. They study brushstrokes. Ask about color palettes. Wonder aloud what inspired one piece over another before reaching for the little red sticker that marks another painting as sold.
The gallery owner warned me that this collection would resonate with people. I didn't believe her. Now nearly every placard wears a tiny red dot.
Every painting hanging in this gallery costs me something. Some demanded sleepless nights. Others took months before I could bring myself to touch the canvas. A few required tears I didn't realize I was still carrying.
Every single one holds a piece of the woman I used to be.
None of them are about survival anymore. They're about what I survived—what I lived.
I wrap both hands around a glass flute of champagne, more for something to do than because I actually want to drink it.
It's strange. For years, I painted because I didn't know how to survive without it. Now I paint because I'm finally learning how to live.
A familiar laugh echoes through the gallery. I'd recognize it anywhere.
“Sav?”
I turn just as Savannah barrels into me, nearly sending champagne over both of us.
“There she is!” she squeals, wrapping me in one of her trademark bone-crushing hugs.
I laugh harder than I have in weeks. “You flew all the way to Wyoming?”
She pulls back, feigning offense. “Please. Like I’d miss my best friend’s gallery showing.”
My chest warms. Behind her stand three men I’ve only met in person a couple of times.
Hunter gives me a small nod. “We figured she’d be unbearable if we let her come alone.”
Rory grins. “She was unbearable anyway.”
“I heard that,” Savannah shoots over her shoulder.
Luke steps forward with an easy smile. “Congratulations, Blake.”
“Thank you.”
Savannah loops her arm through mine and immediately starts turning slow circles in the middle of the gallery. “I swear every time I look at one of your paintings, I want to cry.”
“That's because you cry during dog food commercials,” Rory deadpans.
“I have a tender heart,” Savannah defends.
Luke snorts. “You cried because Hunter trimmed his beard.”
Savannah wrinkles her nose. “It was a difficult transition.”
Hunter sighs dramatically. “I live with this.”
I laugh until my stomach hurts.
