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“Say no more.” A very pregnant Cora hobbles out of her chair and tugs me upright. Before I admonish her, she hugs me tight to her body—a challenge in and of itself. My arms wind around her frame as I bite the inside of my cheek to halt the threatening tears. “I love you, Shell,” she whispers in my ear. “No matter what, you can always come to me with whatever. You know that, right?”
Biting my cheek harder, I nod. “Yeah,” I choke out. “I know.”
She leans back enough to look me in the eye. Swipes my hair from my cheek. Studies my glassy irises. Tips up the corners of her lips slightly. “Whenever you want to talk, I’m here. Always. Doesn’t matter what time or what it’s about, I’m here.”
I nod again. “Okay.” I swipe beneath my eyes and sniffle. “But not today. Today is about you and”—I rub her belly—“Miss Clara.”
Cora narrows her eyes for a split second, then drops her gaze to her swollen belly and rubs large circles. “Can’t wait for us all to meet her, Shell. Pregnancy has been the most astonishing and uncomfortable experience.” We laugh. “But I wouldn’t trade a second of it.” Cora lifts her gaze and locks me in place. “One day, you’ll know too.”
“Yeah, okay,” I scoff. “Procreation requires a deposit, if you catch my drift. And no one’s stopped by the bank.”
Cora snort-laughs and braces herself on my shoulder as a hand holds her belly. “Oh my god, Shell. Finances have never sounded so dirty.” She laughs harder, then stops abruptly. “Shit. I gotta pee.”
I giggle to myself as my best friend waddles down the hallway as fast as her feet and belly will allow. What an interesting sight.
The rest of the shower goes by with more food, baby talk, and laughter. I smile and laugh at all the right times. I am happy for my friend. Happy that the stars in her life have finally aligned. Happy she and Gavin reconnected and rediscovered their love.
In many ways, their love story gives me hope. Tells me all things are possible.
Now, I need tobelieveit.
If romance novels have taught me anything, it is that love happens when you least expect it. Not all love is explosive. Not all love hits hard and fast. But… love happens for us all. In one way or another. I just need to practice patience while I wait for mine to show.
No matter how long it takes.
TWO
DEVLYN
Bars are not my scene.The noise and unruly behavior make my skin crawl. Hundreds of desperate people vying for attention. Countless others drowning their sorrows and problems with a temporary numbing agent. The occasional few just here for food and a laugh with friends.
Like me.
I wouldn’t be sitting at this high top if not for the guy across the table. Chet Yarborough. The man who got me through some rough days at Ringling. Days I avoid thinking of at all costs. Chet graduated with his Bachelor of Fine Arts spring of last year and moved to New York a month later to pursue his career. Since arriving in the Big Apple, his name has splashed the artist headlines a few times. In our world, having your name in the headlines is a big deal—no matter how big or small the media outlet.
When Chet called last week and said he would be in town, I jumped on the chance to hang with him. Even if that means sitting in a bar and shirking away from swaying bodies. It isn’t often I leave the house or my studio. Not without a reason. Some might call me a hermit. I don’t really care. There is no point in wasting gas or time or money if my leaving serves no purpose.
Chet dunks an onion ring in an odd but tasty barbecue-ranch sauce. Before it reaches his lips, he asks, “How’ve things been? Tell me what’s new.”
Before I get the chance to avoid and spin the question back to him, he shoves the onion ring in his mouth. If I say nothing, the empty time while he chews will be awkward. Not that I care about uncomfortable situations—life is full of discomfiture. I just go with the flow.
But Chet is the opposite. A rarity among our kind. The extraverted artist. The guy who paints and sculpts and draws for others more than himself. A people pleaser artist with a chatty disposition.
“Not much, man. Graduation was a few months back. Still doing my own thing—side projects, special requests, and whatnot—like before. Staying busy. What about you? How’s New York?”
He finishes chewing and washes it down with a swig of beer. “New York is its own world. Bustling and alive and nothing like Florida. Like all places, it has its ups and downs, but I love the energy. It inspires me in ways I never expected.”
New York is arguably one of the best places for the arts, in all forms. I never picture myself in places like New York or San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Miami. They are fantastic cities, hands down. Artist friendly and more welcoming than most. But the constant crowds, people in my space and nonstop business make me queasy. Bad enough I already live in one of the most populous areas of Florida. No need to up the ante and suffocate myself.
“That’s great, man. I hope to move away too. But somewhere less crowded. Somewhere I can sit outside with an easel, a blank canvas and my brushes, and get lost without interruption.”
Chet nods and then stares off into the crowd. Zoning out and getting lost in the idea. “Sounds nice,” he mutters.
More than nice, actually.
Before either of us gets in another word, a man’s voice booms from the far wall. “Good evening, ladies and gents. Welcome to another night of glory and excellent renditions. Also known as karaoke night.”
The night went from a three out of ten to a five with this announcement. I don’t necessarily love karaoke, but at least it may simmer down the crowd nearby. Have fewer people in my personal bubble for the rest of our time here.
