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My first dedicated art exhibition is at a gallery in NoHo.
Brooke texted a little while ago to wish me luck and say she’d be first in line tomorrow.
The team is on a back-to-backs, so they’ll be spending every second from the end of tonight’s game until tomorrow’s afternoon one in recovery.
My collection tonight is not about sports but people captured in motion. I like movement. It implies change, momentum, celebration. Everything changes. Everyone does.
“And here you thought no one would come,” the gallery owner says.
“They are?” My heart leaps.
“We’re nearing capacity.”
I follow her out to the main gallery, and my jaw hits the floor when I see a few dozen people milling around with drinks and canapés in hand.
“Let me introduce you around,” she says, tugging me toward a couple talking animatedly about a painting inspired by dancers in LA.
An hour later, I’ve managed to consume a glass of champagne and I’m buzzing happily, but it’s from the atmosphere and this place.
From the corner of my eye, I see the owner sticking red dots on the name cards of not one painting but two.
My breath catches. “What does that mean?”
“Sold. At preview.” She looks around. “To him.” She nods discreetly. “And them.” Another couple. “If we’re not careful, you might sell out tonight.”
She takes another red dot sticker and places it on yet a third painting.
“Who bought that one?” I ask, spinning around.
“That was someone on the phone who bought it sight unseen from the gallery’s website.”
Here, I am valuable. I do matter.
“Excuse me,” says a pleasant voice that has the hairs lifting on my neck.
Her gaze lifts to something over my shoulder.
“We’ll pick this up later,” the gallery owner murmurs to me.
I turn, and the blood drains from my face. The man standing in front of me is wearing tailored jeans and a sport jacket. He has a beard, unlike the last time I saw him, but his face is the same.
“Brad,” I whisper.
“Long time, Nova.”
It’s like seeing a ghost.
A couple moves to pass us, and Brad smiles pleasantly at them and takes my arm, moving me toward the canvases.
“What are you doing here?” I demand under my breath, aware of the environment we’re in. I don’t want to make a scene.
“I wanted to apologize for the way things ended.”
My eyes widen. “Like how you disappeared in the middle of the night without a word? This is one of those instances you could’ve just texted.”
He blinks, surprised by my boldness. “I had to see what you’ve created.”
I shift toward the next painting over. “Creativity is the one thing we had in common. You got creative with the company’s clients and their money. And you set me up to take the fall for it.”
