Page 93 of Shattered

She walked away. I stared at Sarah. “Did that just happen?”

“That just happened. You’re welcome for the save, by the way. You looked like a deer in headlights.”

“I feel like a deer in headlights.”

“Well, you look like a successful emerging artist. So keep that face.”

Gianna appeared with Archer, both dressed like they’d stepped out of a magazine. “This is incredible,” Gianna said, pulling me into a hug. “You’re totally killing it!”

“Thanks, girl.”

“Your work is so stunning.” She studied the largest piece—the one titled “Seventeen Years.” “This one especially. It feels like waiting. Like patience that costs something.”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

Archer was studying another piece with the kind of focus that suggested he understood art. “The technique is remarkable. The emotion is visceral. You’ve created something important here.”

“He’s not just saying that because you’re my friend,” Gianna added. “He’s impossible to impress.”

“I’m appropriately impressed by quality work,” Archer said. “This is quality work.”

A man approached with a red dot sticker. Started placing it beside “Seventeen Years.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Sold,” Sarah said. “That’s the sold sticker.”

“Someone bought it?”

“Someone bought it for a substantial amount according to Caroline.” Sarah grinned. “You’re officially a professional artist.”

I watched the man place two more red dots. Three pieces sold before the night was half over.

This was happening. This was actually happening.

“I need air,” I said.

“You need to stay here and talk to the critic from ARTnews,” Sarah countered. “She’s been waiting to interview you.”

“I can’t do an interview. I can barely form sentences.”

“You’ll be fine. Just talk about your work. Be honest. That’s what people respond to.”

The critic appeared before I could escape. Asked questions about my process, my inspiration, what the collection meant to me. I answered as honestly as I could without crying. Talked about grief and recognition and building something new from broken pieces.

She wrote everything down with an expression that was impossible to read. When she finished, she said, “This is a remarkable debut. Thank you for your time.”

Then she was gone and I was left wondering if I’d said the right things or completely humiliated myself.

“You did great,” Axel said, appearing at my side finally.

“You were listening?”

“I was absolutely eavesdropping. You were articulate and genuine—exactly what that interview needed.”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s normal.”