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Janet gestures around at the rest of them. “We solved that problem.”

They gather around the painting, quiet for a moment as they take it in. Rachel hugs me. Blair tells me congratulations and means it in the serious way she says most things. Tom stands back far enough to take in the whole canvas before telling me he likes it.

Janet stays directly in front of the painting.

“I brought you that paint-by-number kit,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You hated it.”

“I hated the numbers.”

“I remember.” She looks at the painting again. “I just didn’t know you were going to do this.” She lifts one hand toward the painting, palm open, as though the whole thing speaks for itself.

I think about the tiny pots of paint lined up inside the box. “I liked the colors.”

Janet’s smile wobbles and her eyes fill.

Shannon points at her. “Oh, you’re crying.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Janet wipes quickly beneath one eye. “I’m having an artistic response. Leave me alone.”

Beside her, Locke studies the painting for a long time. Finally he says, “Nothing else here looks like this.”

I wait.

“That’s good,” he adds. “It means it’s yours.”

Coming from Locke, it feels like a very large compliment. Shannon checks the time on her phone. “We have to go. If we miss kickoff after driving all the way to Springfield for our own child, Evan will never let us forget it.”

“You didn’t have to stop here first.”

Rachel gives me a quick squeeze on the arm. “Yes, we did. We’re all so proud of you.”

Then, almost as quickly as they arrived, they’re heading back through the gallery toward the door, Janet still insisting she wasn’t crying and Shannon still telling her she absolutely was. For a moment, I stand beside Laura and watch them go. I like that they came.

Her hand brushes mine, and I let the back of my fingers rest against hers for a second before someone calls my name from behind us. Meredith crosses the room carrying a cup of wine, silver bracelets shifting softly at her wrist. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

She stops beside us and looks at the red painting. “I’m glad you submitted this one.”

“So am I.”

Laura smiles at her. “Hi, Meredith.”

“Laura. Good to see you again.”

“You too.”

Meredith moves away toward the other room, and Laura stays beside me for another minute before someone calls her attention to a painting across the gallery. A man I haven’t met stops in front of mine and points to the broken edge of red near the center.

“You planned that?”