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“You know,” Sadie says in her low, smoky drawl. “Liam is gonna be really upset he missed his favorite.”

Lily smiles. “Yeah?”

“He never shuts up about Toren,” Sadie continues, tilting her head to rest on Rhys’s shoulder as he feeds her a bite of pancake. “Drives Rhys crazy.”

Rhys blushes and shakes his head, muttering lowly, “It does not.”

“Mm-hmm.” She gives him an eye roll. “Whatever you say, hotshot.”

The doorbell rings and Freddy scoots out from underneath Ro, both of them tall, their limbs all a tangle together, before he goes to answer it.

“Hey, Kane,” Freddy smirks, coming back in. “Your best friend is here.”

The words sound like a taunt, but they’re true—Holden stands in the doorway panting.

“You good, Dougherty?” Rhys asks with a laugh.

“Yeah,” he huffs, looking at me carefully. “Just making sure none of you assholes were being mean to him.”

Freddy laughs and shakes his head. “Us? Mean to Toren Kane? Never. We’re stealing him out from under you, actually.”

And I can’t explain it, but it’s almost like some half apology in the way he says it. One I’m almost sure I don’t deserve.

But I smile and nod anyway. “We’re about to start making fucking friendship bracelets over here, pup. You’re just in time.”

Chapter 52

Lily

I can’t really hear anything.

There’s a speaker right next to me, dangling from the industrial-style ceiling, and the bustle of people is echoey in the space, enough that it’s difficult for my ear to pick up the right sounds in the right direction.

That weird swimmy feeling in my stomach that makes me almost lightheaded won’t go away. I’ve had to sit twice because the dizziness kept getting worse, but it’s slowly calmed.

The gallery showing is on a weeknight and it’s raining, which Dr. Ann informed us sometimes means a smaller crowd. But it doesn’t seem smaller. It just seems smaller around me.

A trio of younger patrons walks by, one of them eyeing my work with what I’m almost sure is interest. I straighten up, uncrossing my arms and awkwardly waving with a smile.

They don’t stop.

I didn’t miss this part of art. The constant rejection without really knowing. I can’t stop each person and berate them with Do you not like this piece? Why? What could I do to improve? And it wouldn’t be helpful. Art is meant to be subjective. If everything looked the same, there would be nothing beautiful.

Besides, no one liked Van Gogh. He died thinking he was a failure. And now he’s one of the world’s most recognizable artists.

“Excuse me, is this one for sale?”

My eyes practically bug out of my skull, and I spin around too fast, coming face-to-face with Sahara Harris.

“Mrs. Harris,” I say, polite. Why do I feel like curtsying? “I-I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Toren mentioned it,” she says, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s looking at my artwork.

Specifically, the elaborate vase I painted.

It’s on too big of a canvas, I think, for people to want to buy it for their homes. But I wanted the design to be intricate and detailed, like a mandala of florals in earthy tones, a tile backdrop to imply the kitchen counter. It’s my biggest piece.

“So—this piece? Is it for sale?”