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“Emery, hi.” She smiles warmly. “We’re letting all the special guests inside early. A few of your team are already here if you want to go wait with them.”
“Sure.” I bid farewell to Ava and Drew, and head inside. Eric and Tomek are there, chatting animatedly, and they both hug me when I enter the room. I recognise several of the other artists and game designers here, and before long I’m talking and relaxing.
When the front doors open, people flood into the gallery. The walls of the main room are covered with graphic art, concept sketches and artistic diagrams. One wall shows an entire creation process from the first rough outline to the final multidimensional game pieces. It’s cool and creative and I’m so fucking proud to be part of it.
The centre of the room contains life-size sculptures that look like chess pieces, but made of a clear black substance. There’s a smaller room with painted canvases depicting people playing games—an old man and his grandson playing chess, a tense poker match and an abstract one that I honestly cannot understand. But it shows how universal games are. How they bring people together.
I spot my friends filtering through with the crowd. Hannah in a sleek black pantsuit and her partner, Owen, who looks smitten as always. The twins are in next, Drew in glimmering black and Presley—always her opposite—in a pale pink silk. Their partners, Flynn and Seb, come in behind, talking animatedly. Ava and Daniel bring up the rear of the group, holding hands and generally being the sweet lovebirds that they are. The group rushes straight over to us, all smiles and hugs and shaking hands.
“This is amazing.” Hannah grabs my arm. “I had no idea what to expect but it’s...wow!”
“Yeah, you did good, girl.” Presley comes up beside me and slips her arm through mine. “This is incredible.”
“It’s all him.” I shake my head. “I only helped with the contacts.”
I look through the crowd. It’s been an hour and I haven’t spotted Rowan. Is it possible he’s not here? My heart sinks. Despite being nervous as hell, I wanted to see him tonight. But then I haven’t seen Dom, either, and this place is busy, so perhaps there’s more going on behind the scenes that keeps them busy?
Just then, a noise comes over speakers mounted to the ceiling. The sound of laughter—a child’s laughter. The whole room goes quiet. Slowly, people start moving out of the room we’re in and back into the main room. There’s one empty wall, and I’d wondered earlier if an artist had pulled out at the last minute. But now I understand its purpose.
A video is projected onto the wall. A mother plays Twister with her two little boys. The woman is beautiful, with flowing soft brown hair and long graceful limbs. The boys are energetic and they bounce around, breaking the rules as they try to contort into the shapes required. The woman laughs and the sound is pure joy.
Instinctively, I know it’s Rowan’s mother. I can spot him between the two boys, his youthful face already showing what a handsome man he would become. As the video flickers, the old film a little grainy and unstable, young Rowan looks at the camera and says, “She always wins. It’s lucky I love her.”
A sob catches in the back of my throat and the video starts over again, this time without sound. I don’t know if everyone else is aware of the meaning of this video, of the pain and the joy it must be causing.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and when I turn around, it’s him. He’s dressed in one of his slick suits, a well-fitting light grey with a white open-collared shirt underneath. His hair is styled and he looks gorgeous and sharp-jawed as ever. But I see the pain in his dark eyes, the way it’s hard for him to swallow.
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him. Even if we’re not together, I can’t turn off my caring like that. I know this means the world to him. But when I pull back, I can barely look at him. Being in his arms feels so real, so right. I know it does for him, too.
“I was worried you might not come,” he says.
“I have to support my team,” I reply with a nod.And you.But I can’t say those words aloud. A hug between friends is one thing...but words are another. “You’ve done a magnificent job with this.”
“It wouldn’t have happened without you.” He nods. “So, thank you.”
This is so awkward. I want to say everything and nothing, I want to draw him in close and push him away. I want my spikes out and I want them in. It’s like I’m split into two halves and I don’t know which one to favour.
“There’s something I’d like to show you,” he says.
“Sure.”
He leads me out of the main room, past a velvet rope that blocks off another section of the gallery, and my heart starts beating faster. But I don’t dare say a word—partly because I have no ideawhatto say and partly because I don’t want to ruin whatever this is. Rowan leads me to a smaller room. It’s not part of the show, but the walls are filled. All of his paintings are lined up, each one more beautiful than the next.
“You didn’t get rid of them.” I can’t explain the relief that filters through me, but I know he would have regretted that more than anything. “Why did you change your mind?”
“A wise lady said I shouldn’t stifle my passion.” His lips lift into a smile. “So, I didn’t.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.” My eyes coast over the paintings—a few of his mother, some landscapes, and a picture of a bed with a figure in it, a bare foot dangling over the edge of the mattress. Blue hair trails across the pillow and outside the city glimmers.
I look back at Rowan, hope hammering a steady drumbeat in my heart. He’s painted me. I feel seen and understood and...cherished.
You felt that before he cut things off.
“Why are you showing me all this?” I ask.
“I felt like...” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I felt like I owed you an explanation.”
“Of what?”
