The spark dwindles, but it doesn’t go out.
“Great,” I say, ignoring the drumbeat in my chest. “It’s important, Kael. I know you said no celebrating, but…” I let a little guilt trip slip into my voice. “It’s important to me that we have tonight.”
“I know. I’m doing my best.”
The line clicks off. I hold the phone long after the call ends, staring at the blank screen like it might fill in the parts Kaeldidn’t say. I want to textI love you,just to see if it would steady anything. But the words stay lodged, heavy and unspoken, burning in my chest.
His best isn’t an explanation. It isn’t reassuring. It’s… suspicious.
Cleaning will have to wait. I’m going to the gallery early to see it for myself.
I shower, shave, pull on my best sport coat and slacks, add a touch of cologne. The little ritual of preparation feels as hollow as the work I shut inside my laptop. As the car pulls up to 65 Bluxome Street before seven, the painted tentacles framing the red brick building seem to writhe in the evening light.
The studio’s two large front windows stare back like darkening eyes. They hold Kael’s work, but even that looks ominous. A chill pricks the back of my neck despite the cashmere.
Inside, Jenny’s setting up with brisk efficiency. She’s in a sleek, ivory blazer with a flowered blouse and matching scarf, an outfit that screams badass litigator, not “secret accomplice to my surprise party.”
“Kael canceled our dinner plans,” I say, trying to keep my voice light as I grab a beer from the makeshift bar.
“I know,” she says. “Hi to you too.”
“Hi. You look incredible,” I manage. “But seriously, what the heck is going on?”
“Don’t forget that theoretically, and because you didn’t tell him, he doesn’t know how important this is to you.”
“He literally said on the phone that he does know,” I say, anxiety bubbling into irritation.
She gives me an I-told-you-so look that I deserve.
“I think… maybe I should’ve told him about all this. I spent a fortune, put in so much work… what if he doesn’t show?”
“He’ll show.” Jenny’s voice lacks conviction, but she she reaches to rub my arm. “Oh my God, is this cashmere?”
“Thanks,” I mumble, pulling away. “I’m serious, though. This might sound dumb, but… thank you for being here.”
Jenny’s expression tightens. Her eyes flick around the room like she’s looking for an exit.
“Kael is going to kill me,” she mutters. “But I think I need to?—”
The door opens, and Sharon and Walt stroll into the gallery, eyes wide, beaming.
Walt whistles.
I force a smile and stride across the gray tile floor, past a vase of sunflowers.
“This place is incredible,” Sharon exclaims. “Kael did all these?”
“We’ll get some of yours in here next time,” I say, hugging her, then Walt. “It’s so good to see you. Jenny, remember the people who literally saved our lives?”
Walt offers his hand, and when Jenny takes it, she pulls him into a hug.
“Thanks again,” she says. “Is that what you say to someone after they save your best friend’s life?” She laughs a little too sharply.
“Can I get you a glass of wine? Or beer?” I ask.
They say yes, of course, because they don’t know this whole show is collapsing around us. I pour drinks, ask about Paradise and try focusing on nodding in the right places. Forced pleasantries stretch for fifteen agonizing minutes. I laugh, refill glasses, and straighten a frame that doesn’t need straightening.
Jamal arrives with several artists from Kael’s studio, adding to the growing crowd. Another ten minutes tick by, and my perspective narrows until there’s nothing left but the door and the clock.
