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"Amazing night, Jake," Daphne, Melanie's sister, says, breaking into my thoughts with a gentle touch on my arm. "Melanie must be thrilled."
I nod, glancing over to where Melanie stands, her expression a mix of pride and nervous anticipation. "She deserves all the credit," I say, and mean it. Because without her, none of this would be possible. Her spirit is in every detail, her energy infusing the air itself.
"Here's hoping he sees it too," I mutter, mostly to myself, as Melanie's boss turns away from the painting, his face unreadable.
I spot Melanie across the room, her eyes wide as saucers at the sight of her boss. With a steady stride, I cut through the throng of art lovers, dodging a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes. Her back is ramrod straight, a sure sign she's on edge.
"Hey," I murmur, coming up beside her. My hand finds the small of her back—a touch meant to ground her. "You okay?"
She nods, but I see the tension in her jaw. "Didn't expect to see him here," she whispers.
"Trust me," I say, and there's a promise in my voice. I lock eyes with her, willing her to believe. "It will all work out."
Melanie takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and together we approach her boss. He's peering at a canvas, his head tilted. We make our way through the crowd, and it parts for us, like they sense something pivotal is about to happen.
"Mr. Calloway," Melanie greets, her voice steady now. “Thanks so much for coming.”
"Melanie," he says her name without turning. “This is quite the event you've put together.”
"Thank you. Jake here has been instrumental in all of this." She gestures to me, and I nod at her boss, my face betraying none of the anxiety gnawing at my gut.
"Is that so?" Calloway turns, finally, and looks at me with newfound interest. "Very impressive."
We walk, side by side, and I keep a protective stance near Melanie, ready to intercept any curveballs. The boss shakes hands, exchanges pleasantries, and with each step, the atmosphere seems to buoy him up. He's not just being polite; he's genuinely interested, taking in the local artwork, the vibrant energy of the place.
And then it happens—the moment that feels like a home run in the bottom of the ninth.
"Melanie," Calloway begins, his tone softer, warmer than the brisk cadences of our previous encounters. "I'll admit, when you first brought your proposal to me, I didn't give it the consideration it deserved." He pauses, and I see him offer a hand in a gesture that's both conciliatory and respectful. "But seeing all this tonight... well, I was wrong. This is impressive."
She takes his hand, and her smile lights up the room. "Thank you, Mr. Calloway. It means so much to hear you say that."
The patrons around us are none the wiser to the significance of this exchange, but to Melanie—and to me—it's everything.
I watch as Calloway nods, his eyes scanning the room filled with artwork and lively chatter, the community coming together in a way that's never happened before here at Pitcher's Brew.
"Success like this deserves recognition," he continues. "And I’d like to make sure it gets just that."
Melanie's shoulders relax, and I can tell she's soaking in the words she's worked so hard to hear. There's a vibrancy to her, an energy that seems to spill over and touch everyone in her vicinity, including me.
As Calloway excuses himself, promising to speak more later, I can't help but let out a slow breath. The kind of exhalation that comes when you've been holding onto something tight, afraid to let go, and finally, the tension breaks.
I'm standing near the edge of the room, a half-empty glass of beer in my hand, watching the crowd, but really only seeing her.
Melanie’s laughing now, talking to Dean and Daphne, who've come to support their sister, and there's a pang in my chest—a mix of pride and something deeper, something like awe.
Like love.
It hits me then, that tonight isn't just about the art on these walls or the buzz in the room. It’s about Melanie, about her vision and her passion. And it's about us—how this project has tangled our lives together in ways I never would have imagined.
The sense of accomplishment sitting heavy in my chest isn’t just because the gala is a hit; it’s because Melanie’s idea, her dream, has been lifted up for all to see, acknowledged and appreciated. And to think, I played a part in that, in helping her get there, it makes every bead of sweat worth it.
I watch her move through the crowd, a force of nature in her own right, and I know—this is a significant milestone. Not just in the life of my bar, not just for the town, but for us. For Melanie and me. Whatever happens from here, we've shared something indelible, a victory neither of us will forget.
Chapter Eight
MELANIE
I weave through the crowd, my heart swelling with pride.
