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Dylan pressed a quick kiss to my forehead. “I’ll grab that. You greet your adoring public.”
He headed off, and I took one more steadying breath. I could do this. Straightening my shoulders, I turned to welcome my guests with a bright smile, pushing down the riotous butterflies.
The next hour passed in a blur of greetings, small talk, and answering questions about my artistic process. Marco arrived early and studied each piece, occasionally murmuring to himself as he took notes. I hovered anxiously to gauge his impressions, but his inscrutable expression revealed nothing.
More guests trickled in, friends and neighbors I’d come to know over this past year in Pebble Point. Their enthusiasm buoyed me, as did Dylan’s constant reassuring presence at my side.
But as the minutes ticked by, I grew increasingly agitated that my parents hadn’t arrived. Did they change their minds? Decide their rebellious daughter’s art show wasn’t worth their time? I felt Dylan watching me, attuned to my shifting moods.
Finally, they walked in just when I’d nearly given up hope. My mother looked elegant as always in a sleek dress and tasteful jewelry. My father had on one of his expensive tailored suits. They both seemed out of place amidst my studio’s exposed brick and unpretentious decor.
I hurried over to greet them, relief flooding through me. “Mother, Father, you made it! I’m so glad you could come.”
My mother air kissed my cheek. “Of course, darling. We wouldn’t miss this for the world.” But her tone sounded polite, more than genuinely interested.
My father gave me an awkward one-armed hug. “You’ve put together quite the showing here,” he said, glancing around. I waited for more, but that seemed to be the extent of his praise.
I felt my earlier confidence waning in the face of their lukewarm reactions. But before I could spiral too far, Dylan swooped in like a saving grace.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, a pleasure to meet you,” he said smoothly, shaking their hands. “Let me give you the tour...”
As he steered them around the studio, expertly fielding their questions, I felt gratitude for this man who knew how to handle my complicated family dynamics. I made a mental note to do something extra special for him later as thanks.
For the next ten minutes, I trailed behind Dylan as he guided my parents around the exhibition, highlighting details about each piece and the collection as a whole. My mother’s face remained politely neutral, while my father listened intently to Dylan’s explanations, occasionally nodding. I held my breath, waiting for their verdict.
We stopped in front of “Awakening,” Dylan tactfully only referred to it as a collaborative work, leaving out any hints of romance for now.
“This is the centerpiece of the show,” he explained. “It represents Avery’s growth both as an artist and a person since moving to Pebble Point.”
He looked at me then, a clear invitation for me to share the painting’s significance. Taking a deep breath, I turned to my parents.
“This piece marks a turning point in my creative journey,” I said slowly. “A ‘reawakening’ of my passion, you could say. I was in a dark place emotionally when I started it, filled with self-doubt. But through opening myself up to new perspectives and experiences...” I glanced at Dylan, hoping they understood my implied meaning. “...I was able to reconnect with the joy that first drew me to art. That’s what this piece represents - remembering why I love to create, and feeling free to pursue that creative purpose with my whole heart.”
I fell silent, watching their faces closely for a reaction. For a moment, neither spoke, simply studying the painting. Just when I couldn’t stand the tension any longer, my mother turned to me, an unfamiliar softness in her eyes.
“It’s quite beautiful, Avery,” she said gently. “I can see the emotion you described - a sense of hope, of light overcoming the darkness. Your technique has improved so much, but more importantly, I can feel your passion coming through. That’s the mark of real art.”
I was momentarily stunned into silence. It was the most open praise I’d ever received from her regarding my creative work.
“I agree. This is something special,” my father added gruffly. His gaze was fixed on the painting, and I thought I detected a sheen of tears in his eyes. “You should be very proud.”
“Oh...I...thank you,” I stammered out around the sudden lump in my throat. Their words meant more than I could properly articulate in this moment.
Dylan seemed to sense I was getting emotional. “Why don’t we give Avery a brief break,” he said gently. “Let me introduce you to Marco Sanchez. You’ll find his insights on Avery’s work most interesting...”
He steered them away, throwing a subtle wink at me over his shoulder. I mouthed a silent “thank you” in return, needing a moment to collect myself.
Could this be the start of genuine acceptance from my parents?
The buzz of conversation and clink of glasses surrounded me as I moved through the crowd. I’d found my rhythm now, flowing easily from one guest to the next, fielding questions and sharing laughs. The initial nerves had melted away, replaced by a sense of joyful exhilaration. This was my element.
My eyes scanned the room, drinking in the faces of those who had come to support me. Neighbors, friends old and new - their presence filled me with warmth. And of course, Dylan, my steadfast champion, anchoring me through it all.
I overheard snatches of Marco’s conversation as I passed by where he stood with my parents. “...exquisite use of color and light,” he was saying. “The way she captures the fleeting moods of the ocean is magnificent.” My heart swelled at his high praise. I met Dylan’s gaze from across the room and we smiled.
“Her technique shows remarkable maturity for one so young,” Marco continued. My mother murmured in agreement. “I fully expect Avery will go places in the art world if she continues on this trajectory.” Holding my breath, I glanced at my father, eager for his reaction. His eyes were fixed on a seascape painting, his expression contemplative. After a moment, he nodded. “She seems to have found her calling here.” The simple statement nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Dylan appeared at my side then, two glasses of wine in hand. He passed one to me with a knowing look. I took a grateful sip, letting the rich liquid soothe my emotions.
