Page 138

My breath stutters for a moment, as does my brain, before I say, “Yes. Yeah—it is.”

Her smile is warm as she turns back to me, a slouchy purse on her shoulder that she slides down her arm gracefully. The soft worn sweater is a bright white against her warm brown skin, dark hair pulled back in a messy elaborate clip style that makes her look younger.

“Do I pay you or . . . ?” She lets the question drift off.

I explain the process to her quickly, where at the front she can pay and how to get the painting home at the end of the show. She smiles and listens, then gives me a big hug and tucks her hand into my hair gently.

“Everything is so lovely, Lily. You’re very talented.”

“My mother was an artist too.”

I don’t know why I say it. No one ever asks about her. Growing up I thought it made everyone uncomfortable or too sad. My dad yelled at me any time I’d asked about her, told me not to bring it up again.

Mrs. Harris smiles, her warm brown eyes glowing. “Yeah? I’m sure she would be so proud of you.”

My throat hurts. Why do I feel like crying?

“Yeah. Maybe.”

She lingers there for a moment, her hand settling on my shoulder before she raises it to fix my hair again. It feels soft. Affectionate and motherly. I want to lean into her palm and close my eyes for a moment, but I stay still.

“I’m going to go ring myself up. I can’t wait to hang this one in the house.”

Her excitement feeds me, as does the warm hug she gives me before excitedly scurrying to the front to actually buy my painting.

It’s not really a big deal. I try to talk myself down from the climbing excitement. Mrs. Harris bought it because of Toren. Because she knows him in some way, and she’s being nice by helping me. Since he didn’t show.

“How is it going?” the head of the gallery asks about an hour later, stepping over. She’s been very welcoming and kind, but I’m all too aware of how empty my area has been all night.

“Good,” I say, then I can’t stop myself from asking, “Did anything else sell?”

The woman shakes her head with a sympathetic smile.

“You can start packing up whenever you’d like, dear. We’re almost cleared out of guests.”

“Oh,” I reply quickly. “Yes. Of course.” My chest feels tight, and I have to clear my throat to speak again. “I’m going to wait just a little longer, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. And we’ll get all the pieces back to the school for you, so just take any of your personal items.”

“Thank you,” I say.

She nods, sending another sad smile my way, almost pitying.

What am I doing?

It’s exactly how my dad saw this going, me alone and nothing to show for it. I shouldn’t care, I really shouldn’t—and it doesn’t matter now, I can have art just because I want it. But still, my chest feels tight, eyes damp enough that I pat beneath them, desperate to keep away any stray tears of disappointment and confusion.

Why did I think this would be different?

“Hey!”

There’s a loud distant shout and some commotion—before two sweat-soaked hockey boys round the corner and stop running as they spot me.

“God, Lily—we’re so sorry—”

My eyes well up and I’m almost certain I’m going to cry.

I can’t stop myself from taking off in their direction, meeting Toren halfway, his arms already open for me.