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I began sweeping up and Dylan grabbed a rag and started carefully wiping down the paint-smeared easel and worktable. We continued working together, orbiting each other with an easy, natural sync.
Occasionally we would make eye contact and exchange amused grins, both entertained by how in-tune we were. We could sense each other’s movements, unconsciously coordinating our cleanup choreography.
Before long, the studio was returned to its previous tranquil state. Dylan and I stood back, admiring our work.
“Well done, team,” he said, holding up his hand. I gave him a high-five, feeling a rush of gratitude.
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” I told him sincerely. “Thank you, Dylan.”
He smiled warmly at me. “Anytime. What are fake fiances for?” he added with a playful wink.
I laughed, then boldly stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him in a hug. His strong arms enveloped me as he held me close.
We lingered there for a long moment, swaying slightly together. I felt so safe and comforted, pressed against his sturdy frame.
When we finally stepped apart, Dylan reached up and affectionately tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek. My heart fluttered at his touch.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you a coffee to help you get over your raccoon trauma,” he said softly, with a smile.
Chapter 17
I stood at the threshold of my studio, gazing at the transformed space before me, filled with pride for all the recent work I had created over the last week since Dylan suggested a cozy soiree at my studio. My heart fluttered with anticipation for that evening, a culmination of my artistic journey thus far.
In just a few hours, my studio would be filled with people—not just ordinary people, but my parents, Marco Sanchez, the art critic, Dylan, and others from this community that had become my home. They would each view a piece of my soul, encapsulated within the frames that lined the walls.
I glanced around, taking in the careful arrangements Dylan and I had made over the past few days to prepare the studio for this event. Each painting was displayed with intention, guiding the viewer through the ebb and flow of my creative process. Subtle lighting highlighted areas of focus, and minimal decor allowed the art to speak for itself.
My eyes lingered on “Awakening,” the collaborative piece Dylan and I had created together, which held such meaningfor us. The lighthouse scene depicted a pivotal moment in our real and symbolic relationship. I hoped its significance would be clear to my parents when they saw it later.
I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. So much rode on the success of this exhibition. It represented my one chance to prove to my parents that I could make it as an artist, and that my work had value. Marco’s endorsement would lend credibility to my ambitions. And sharing this intimate view into my world with Dylan felt monumental.
Self-doubt began creeping in, but I pushed it away, remembering Dylan’s encouragement. He believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. I clung to that, letting it bolster me. This collection represented my passion, my tears, my soul. What more could I give?
The door creaked open, and Dylan poked his head in to speak of the devil.
“Hey, just wanted to see if you needed any last-minute help before the crowds descend,” he said with an easy smile.
I smiled back, drinking in his familiar presence. “No, I think we’re all set. I was just having a minor panic attack while gazing dramatically at the walls,” I replied, only half-joking.
He walked over and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve got this. Your art is incredible. Anyone with eyes can see that.”
I rolled mine at his bias, but his steadfast faith in me never failed to lift my spirits.
“What did I do to deserve you?” I mused aloud.
“Wooed me with your charm and good looks, obviously,” he deadpanned.
I laughed, the nervous energy momentarily dissipating. Dylan had a way of putting me at ease, of grounding me when my anxieties threatened to spiral out of control.
Glancing at the clock, I saw it was nearly time. The sun had begun its descent towards the horizon, casting the studio in a dusky orange hue. Dylan helped me turn on the lights, illuminating each piece and transforming the space into a glowing beacon of color.
“Perfect,” he declared.
I nodded, hardly trusting my voice. He seemed to sense my nerves returning, giving my hand another supportive squeeze.
“No matter what happens tonight, I’m proud of you. We all are. This,” he gestured around the studio, “is just a reflection of your dedication. Remember that.”
I clung to his words like a lifeline, letting them steel my resolve. Before I could respond, the doorbell rang, signaling the first guest had arrived. Showtime.
