Page 217 of Barinov

“No, don’t call them.” I groan, fishing my phone out of my pocket. “Here.”

I unlock my phone, scroll through my inbox until I find the email, and hand it to her.

“What’s this?”

“I sent in a painting to a gallery,” I say.

“What?!” she shrieks.

“Just read it.”

“Dear Mr. Whitmore,” she begins, pacing as she reads. A few lines down, her sage green eyes widen and her steps come to an abrupt halt.

“Oh my God!” She smacks my chest with the back of her hand. “We’d like to inform you that your application for the Emerging Voices Showcase at the Glasshouse Gallery this summer has been accepted, pending interview and submission of your final collection.”

Her eyes snap up to mine. “Cade.”

I rake my hand through my hair. “I know.”

Haley shakes her head. “Do you actually know?!” She thrusts the phone toward me. “This is one of the biggest galleries in Manhattan.”

“I know.” I nod, huffing out a quiet and stressed laugh.

“Then why the fuck are you acting like this is bad news?” she scolds, genuinely frustrated on my behalf. “This could launch your entire career. Like… literally change your life.”

“Because I haven’t painted or sketched a damn thing in weeks,” I admit, glancing down at the two blank canvases mocking me. “And the showcase requires a minimum of ten cohesive pieces.” I motion toward the wall lined with a few of my finished pieces. “I’ve got eight.”

“Oh,” she whispers, looking over at them.

“They want each showcase to spotlight the artist within. Those who make me… me I guess,” I say as Haley gets closer to a painting of Bella and I two-stepping in Nashville. “So I figured I’d create our wild and crazy family.”

“Cade…” Her fingertips drift across the edge of the one I created of her and Knox cuddled up in a corner booth at The Obsidian. “Us too?”

I nod. “You’re a part of this family, Hales.”

“These are incredible,” she breathes.

“Thanks.”

I suck in a deep breath and release a harsh exhale. “But I need those last two finished by next Friday.”

“Next Friday?” Haley spins to me. “I thought Roman said that he—“

“Wexley isn’t as lenient as Northvale,” I cut in, the pressure inside bubbling out in my voice. “Especially in the art department. They gave me as long of an extension as they were willing to, but now that Bella’s back…” I swallow. “They want the paintings. And it’s not even just graduation that’s looming over me now. The gallery said they only review the sample of the completed collection before deciding which artists to call in for the interviews.”

“When are interviews?” she asks, turning her focus back to the row of art.

“You won’t know until you get the call. But most of them are between now and sometime in June. They want online scans of the ten pieces to look over before seeing me or my paintings in person. I’m running out of time.”

“Okay, I have a semi-related question,” she says, glancing up from another painting.

“What is it?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell any of us?”

I shrug. “Because there wasn’t anything to tell. That email is just an invitation to submit my entire collection.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “Cade James Whitmore.”