Chapter Thirteen
“It’s going to be great,” Theo said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. We stared out over the crowded gallery, taking in the packed space. “TheLA Timesart critic sent me an advance copy of his article. He loves your new pieces.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And thanks for everything you’ve done to make this possible.”
“Of course,” Theo said, but his attention was elsewhere. “If you’ll excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with.”
He patted me on the back before heading in the direction of a tall woman with dark red lips and glossy raven hair. I raised an eyebrow, wondering who the mystery woman was.
Ma came to stand next to me, handing me a flute of champagne. “I’m so proud of you.”
I took a large gulp, nearly draining half the glass. “Thanks.”
I could feel her eyes on me, watching, assessing. She’d always been a keen observer and not just because she was my mom. “Alexander, is everything okay?”
“It’s great. Why?”
“Because you’re stomping around like there’s a storm cloud over your head.”
I laughed.She didn’t.
“I’m serious.” Her expression was stern despite the air of celebration surrounding us. “What’s going on?”
“Did you ever wish I were different? Wish I’d done something different with my life?” I asked.
She placed her hand over mine, looking me in the eye. “No.”
“Do you think that’s because you’re also an artist?”
“Maybe. But I’d like to think it’s because I’m your mom, and I’ll love you no matter what.” She gave me a soft smile, squeezing my hand. “What’s this really about?”
“I—” I cleared my throat. “One of my students is struggling. Her parents don’t understand or support her career choice.”
She nodded, her silent encouragement bolstering me to continue. It had been a long week, and I couldn’t keep up the act anymore. Suddenly exhausted, I felt as if all my secrets were going to come pouring out.
“Do you ever feel like a fraud? An imposter?” I asked, glancing at the crowd that had gathered to see my art. It wasn’t my first exhibition by any means, but this time, it felt different.
Ma leaned in, bumping her shoulder against mine. “More often than you’d think.”
“Really?” I stared at her, eyes wide.
“Of course. Motherhood, raising two boys, being a photographer—it doesn’t matter what role you’re in, you’re always going to feel that way. But—” She lowered her voice. “That’s why you have to surround yourself with people who love you, who see you for how amazing you are.”
Like Kate, I thought. She had seen past my fears, my flaws, my insecurities. She had seenme. Not the famous artist, Alexander Kline, or even the professor. But me.
A man approached, extending his hand to shake. “Xander, I’m an art dealer, and I have a client who’s very interested in your new work.”
I smiled, knowing him by reputation. “Thank you.”
Ma excused herself, leaving us to talk. He asked me a few questions and I made conversation, but my heart wasn’t in it. I should’ve been excited or at least relieved, but all I felt was numb. At least until I saw a flash of long blond hair. That familiar zing shot through me, excitement pulsing in my veins.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted him, even knowing he had the kind of clientele to generate a lot of income for me.
I followed the golden mane, my heart pounding fast despite my slow progress through the crowd. I reached the woman and lifted my hand to tap on her shoulder. But when she turned, it wasn’t Kate.
My heart plummeted, and I frowned. “I’m sorry. I thought…” I backed away. “I thought you were someone else.”
She smiled but returned her attention to the art. One of my earlier pieces—one of the ones I’d created before the accident, before Kate. I lingered on the canvas, admiring my work but feeling as though it lacked something.
