Page 118 of Out of Control

It wasn’t like Rossi and I could exactly be a couple tonight anyway. We were more going to be in the same space at the same time.

So does it really matter that we arrive separately?

Chickenshit. My inner voice calls me that over and over at the top of her lungs to add to the shame I’m feeling.

I can’t handle this right now. I have to finish tonight and then fix everything else.

But before I can process any of it, the door is opened and my grandfather, his nurse, and myself are ushered out of the car and into the rear entrance of the gallery.

Cruz and Maddix. Lilith and Zach. The few employees I’ve hired, several other friends, and a few cousins. All cheer as we walk in. By the look on Cruz’s face, it seems I’m not the only one surprised by my grandfather’s appearance.

I accept the champagne flute handed to me and plaster a smile I don’t feel onto my face. Fake it until you make it.

“Everything okay?” Maddix asks as Cruz narrows his eyes at me.

“Yes. Fine.” No. It’s not. I draw in a fortifying breath. “Should we do this?”

Another cheer as I glance back toward Midnight Madness. To the painting on the far wall with its stark colors and violent emotions for all to see, much like it seems most of my family makes me feel most days.

Maybe that’s why I am so touched by this painting. The anger. The longing. The violence. The dark hope for better.

“You did this, Sof. You really did,” I murmur to try and hype myself up as I unlock the door and welcome the public into the gallery. To my gallery.

To our gallery.

Time passes in a blur of people. Each minute lapsing has me questioning myself and the person I thought I had become. That Rossi had helped me become.

I accept their praise.

And glance around wishing he were here.

I welcome their gratitude for a new gallery that appreciates local artists.

And smile at the memory of us making love on the floor right over there covered in paint.

I listen to stories about how certain pieces have touched them.

And I think of a man who believed enough in me he papered the entire town to make me see it too.

I put sold signs on over half the pieces I have on display.

And I stare at a painting unattainable to everyone else that he made sure to get for me.

It’s a good night. Surreal. Astounding.

It’s a horrible night. Lonely. Empty.

My gallery is packed. It’s so full people are still waiting outside to get in and yet the suffocation I feel is real.

From the rules and parameters of a last name I never had a choice to make.

From a man I owe the world to—my legacy, my history—but that doesn’t realistically live in mine.

And from another man, one I love with all my heart, who stepped back tonight so I could step up.

“Cruz.” I call to my brother as a sudden sense of panic takes over.

What am I doing?