Page 46 of It Should Have Been You

“You’re sure you don’t mind babysitting?”

It’s my last-ditch attempt to stay home. I wait for any hesitation on her part so I can kick off my heels and curl up on the sofa with Hannah.

“Beth,” she starts, releasing a stuttered breath. “I missed out on so many years with the girls.” There’s no blame in her voice, not for me at least, only sadness tinged with regret. “I want to soak up every minute.”

“Okay.” I pull her into a hug. “I love you.”

“Love you. Now go. You could meet your future husband tonight, who knows?”

I give her a sideways glance, waiting for her to realize how crazy she sounds. Then we both burst into laughter.

Ten

The low bass of music muffles the voices around the art gallery. My heart is beating in sync, bashing against my chest in a steady rhythm. Blood gushes behind my ears as I wipe my clammy hands against the black satin of my dress. I wish I had worn my hair up because sweat breaks out on the nape of my neck.

I need air, but I can’t leave yet because I’m trying to blend in.

The red light that shrouds the room plays across the floors and ceilings in slow motion while the twinkle from a disco ball caresses the white walls. It’s unusual for the lighting at an art exhibition to be so dim. Yet, there’s something sensual about it. It gives me a place to shrink away inside the dark corners.

The artwork is displayed on the rows of walls, a single light hanging over each piece and illuminating it for the guests streaming by to admire.

I take another step inside, plucking a glass of champagne from a waiter as he strolls by.

Slowly, I work my way into the center of the room.

These events aren’t new to me, but I feel like I’ve stepped into the deepest part of the ocean with no shore in sight. It feels foreign, irritating. My new skin doesn’t fit in here. It brings back too many emotions of the way I used to feel. The constant eyes on me no matter where I went. The reinforcing hand on the small of my back, always seen as a gesture of affection but spoke a thousand violent words. This place reminds me of how I had to evaluate who I spoke to and how I acted if I did.

Eyes.

Eyes always on me.

I halt my steps as I drain the glass, catching sight of a familiar painting. A woman with long flowing hair nurses an infant. Their skin is painted an array of colors like a cross-stitch blanket. The adoration in one simple look is undeniable. I lean an inch closer, studying the strokes, so fine some would mistake it for a photograph.

‘Sold’ is stamped right beside the artist’s name.

Cassie Emmels.

She’s come a long way from teaching art classes at any gallery that would give her the time of day. I haven’t seen her since I left ten years ago, and although I choose to ignore the painful tug in the center of my chest when I think of that day, an unusual sense of pride swells there.

In the next breath there are arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a tight hug. “You made it.” Claire beams as I squeeze her in return.

My cheeks are flushed when she pulls away, and it could have more to do with the champagne rather than the heat in here.

“I’m so proud of you for coming,” she says, tears swimming in her eyes as the glare from the disco ball floats over her face.

“Oh, Jesus, don’t cry again.” Jake appears at her side, rolling his eyes with a smirk as he wraps an arm around her waist and leans in to kiss me on the cheek.

She sniffles. “Shut up.”

Tumbler in hand, he gestures toward the painting. “Like this one?” he asks, his eyes narrowing on me.

I look away to hide the truth from shining through. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s sold.”

His eyes are boring a hole in the side of my face. “I can see that.”

“Someone bought it today,” he continues. I know by the probing tone of his voice he’s figured me out, but I don’t say a word.

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