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He swirls some more. "Why, Hayden—Hayden Kingstonnn, Mr. Kingston, good sir—how very kind of you. So generous, thoughtful, selfless, considerate, and all the other words in my pocket-size thesaurus... I'd take you up on your marvelous offer if…"
Cringing, his deep tenor returns, as does his playful expression. "You want the truth? Yesterday was leg day. I can hardly squat low enough to sit on the toilet, let alone on some floor mat."
"Jeremy!" Juliana hisses. "So inappropriate."
His palms shoot up defensively. "Sorry, Sis. I didn't realize your boyfriend was so squeamish." My lips twitch when he nudges me.
I glance at his form-fitting attire. "You couldn't have been that sore, if you managed to squeeze yourself into that suit."
"Ahhh, you got me with that one! I'll admit it. I've been bulking hard, so this is a bit tight. But I'm serious. Yesterday's split was brutal!" He winks at me. "Just ask my man, Elias."
My man.
I'll never get used to Jeremy's new nickname for my brother, ever since convincing him to lift weights, a feat that's more shocking than… well, anything. But against all odds, one month in, my brother's still going strong, adhering to Jeremy's four-day-a-week program.
"Did you ask him?" he prods again. "Huh? Maybe during your dinner tonight? Thanks for the invite, by the way." His eyes narrow into slits, half joking, half serious.
More often than not, we do invite Jeremy, but tonight was special for my brother. A celebration that I wasn't going to compromise on for the sake of appearances, even on a night like this. Because as of today, Elias is six months drug free. Not to mention, Kingston Entertainment's stocks are at an all-time high, having never trended downward since he took over leadership.
He's winning all around and was overdue for a margarita—or three. Which is why he's by far the drunkest person here, stumbling from painting to painting, smiling and snapping photos, despite the signs warning against doing so. But he's here showing support, and that's all that matters. Unlike our father, obviously, and our mother, who I didn't even bother calling, not wanting to hear her voicemail.
Although, Juliana's parents showed. They're around here somewhere, after having gushed endlessly over my showcase—and how beautiful of a couple their daughter and I make.
Amber and Raymond, Jeremy and Juliana—they're like my adopted family, and I'm grateful Elias is finally catching on to that fact.
I rest a hand on Jeremy, earning his immediate composure. "We'll invite you to the next dinner. And every one after that."
Jeremy sighs, and I feel Juliana release some tension as well, before he perks back up. "I know, man!" He pats my shoulder, his strength greater than he realizes, his gaze drifting toward a drawn-out crescendo, emanating from the piano across the gallery. "No worries, really. I was only—"
His entire body goes rigid. "Hold on…" He squints. "Is that… No, it can't be…"
Juliana whips her head, following her brother's stare. "Are you referring to the pianist?" Her brother just nods, incapable of forming syllables. "His name's Damien. That's all I really kno—"
Jeremy bolts from our vicinity, aiming for that grand piano, weaving between people like the man seated at its bench might disappear from thin air.
I blink… mimicking Juliana, before we exchange confused glances. I only shrug. "Who knew Jeremy was such a fan of classical music?"
"You should be so proud of yourself, Hayden."
As I guide us around the room still crowded with guests who shoot glances our way, I glance down at Juliana, only to find her already gazing back at me with adoration. It's the look every man dreams of and makes my heart clench every time.
"I'm serious," she presses, blushing when she notices me staring.
"I know you are, baby, and I am proud, but it's all thanks to you."
She deadpans, and God is it cute. Then I'm the one convincing her of my sincerity.
"And how's that?" she asks. "Every painting here is of your making, not mine."
We round a corner, exiting the East Gallery back into the main, starting up on a path we've walked several times now.
One by one, I glance at my paintings, each a testament to countless hours of work, noting the delicate white strokes at their bottom right corners that form the initials H and K. My signature still looks quite foreign to me, seeing as it's only graced the canvases for a short time, after months of Juliana's encouragement, chipping away the lies my father instilled so deeply within me.
At first, the process was gradual—sneaking out of my room at night like some meddling kid, just to sign a canvas. Just one. Then another, maybe three or five nights later. Until it all came crashing down at once and I signed every last one, so many my wrist was numb by sunrise.
I stop her suddenly in the throes of not-so-subtle onlookers who, in the wake of her beauty, may as well be the wind. Cupping her cheek, I sweep a thumb along her jawline, gazing down into her green eyes.
"That may be true, Juliana, but my paintings never would've made it to a showcase in the first place without your support. Without you, I wouldn't have signed a single one."
