Page 42 of Keep My Alpha

The gallery is bright and packed. Folding chairs, a microphone on a stand, Kendra at the front with her clipboard and her enormous earrings, radiating her usual tell-me-your-trauma-for-the-audience energy. Four of us on the panel: a ceramicist, a photographer, a textile artist, and me. The tree is behind us on the display table, branches reaching. I can’t look at it without seeing Soren’s face when he figured it out.

The first three artists talk about their process. Inspiration, materials, emotional stuff. Fine. Normal.

Then Kendra turns to me.

“Wren, your piece is extraordinary. The tree, the bark texture, the way the birds nestle into the canopy—it all feels alive. Can you tell us about the emotional core of this work?”

“I like making things,” I say.

Kendra waits. The audience waits. The silence gets loud.

“Can you say more about the tree specifically?” she presses.

“Trees hold things.” My jaw aches from clenching. “They don’t drop stuff on purpose. They just stand there and let things land.”

“They’re honest,” I say. “They don’t pretend to be anything they’re not. And they keep showing up, even when you don’t—“ My throat closes. “It’s about paying attention. To the things that keep appearing in your life. Building them somewhere they can’t get knocked over.”

My voice sounds wrong in the speakers. Too big for what I’m saying. I’m not the poet. Soren is. But Kendra leans forward wanting more, and I’m out of words.

“I need water,” I mutter, and I’m off the stage before anyone can stop me, pushing through a side door into the hallway where the air is cooler and nobody is looking at me like I cracked myself open for sixty strangers.

I lean against the wall. Close my eyes. My hands are shaking.

I leave early. In the parking lot, I check my phone. Three texts from Soren.

What time is your install slot tomorrow?

Kendra wants to confirm my reading order—do you know if she changed the schedule?

Can you check if the gallery has extra easels? Thank you!

All logistics. All properly punctuated, because Soren always texts like he’s writing a letter. The “thank you” with the exclamation point, that’s still him.

But nothing real. Nothing personal. Business. I read them four times anyway, like there’s a hidden message in one of them if I squint.

And there it is. The thought I’ve been pushing down all day, pressing against my ribs since this morning when the purring stopped.

He loved the mystery.

Then the story turned out to be me. Quiet. Clumsy. Walks into doorframes. Can’t get through a panel without bolting for the exit. The birds were romantic. I’m a guy with sawdust in his hair who hid behind them for months because standing in front of him with nothing in my hands felt impossible.

I end up in the workshop. Of course I do. Where else would I go? There’s always something to work on, something to distract me. Three beats smooth, one beat catch.

An hour later, the door bangs open.

Aaron doesn’t knock. Never has in his life. He walks in, takes one look at me, and crosses the room in three strides.

He plucks the sandpaper right out of my hand.

“Hey—“

“Nope.” He holds it over his head. He’s only one inch shorter than me, but somehow stretches himself way above my head. “You’re done.”

“Give it back.”

“You’re going to sand your arm off at this point. Sit down.”

“Aaron—“