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I take a deep, calming breath. “I think so,” I admit.

“Okay, good,” she says with a nod.

Sita rests her elbows down on the counter opposite of us. “Why so serious?” she asks with a mock pout.

“Greyson’s here,” Maggie and I answer at the same time. Her with a level of calm that I’m obviously still lacking.

“What?! Where?” Sita asks.

Maggie guides her attention to an unsuspecting Greyson.

“What in the actual fuck, Jess?” Sita exclaims under her breath. “I see you failed to mention the extreme level ofhotyour ex was.”

“Oh my god, shut your mouth. That is not what’s important here. What do I do?” I try not to whine, but I fail miserably by the end of that sentence.

“You stand tall, is what you do,” she says, all bossy and business and the Sita that I know and love. “This is your art showing. Go out there and enjoy it. Mingle; have fun! This is your night. And you deserve it, because these pieces arewow,Jess. They’re amazing. So go out there and own it. Let the rest fall into place, okay?”

Her words instantly help me reach a level of calm I can be comfortable enough in. Because she’s right. She’s absolutely right. “Okay, yeah,” I say, feeling more myself than I did before her speech. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Thank you.” I give her a tight hug and slip off into the crowd.

Twenty-seven After

THE REST OFthe night passes the same. In a blur.

Almost all of my paintings have been sold, and the food and champagne has dwindled along with the crowd. But while I should be wholly ecstatic and ready to celebrate the success of tonight, I can’t help the disappointment I feel curling in my stomach and tightening in my chest. Because Greyson is gone.

I lost track of him hours ago. He said he wanted to catch up, but somewhere in the midst of everything he must’ve decided it was exactly what he didn’t want to do.

Did I scare him off?

I try not to dwell on that thought as I thank and bid goodnight to each guest as the night continues to wind down.

It’s only when the lingering crowd has thinned out to a straggling few that I spot him at the back of the gallery, eyes hooked on my favorite painting, rapt. He sits on the white bench across from it, closed-off to the world. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His shirt is taut across his broad shoulders, his jacket lying over the bench beside him.

I’m ashamed at the level of relief I feel at the sight of him. But it’s there whether I like it or not, so I swallow it down and accept it for what it is.

I slowly make my way over to him, taking in his expression of deep concentration, watching as at least a dozen thoughts and emotions flit across his eyes.

To be a fly on that wall, is exactly how I feel right now. To be inside his mind and know exactly what he’s thinking. To know why he’s drawn to that painting in particular.

Does it remind him of being overseas?

Does it remind him of his own wars? Both literal and figurative?

He tears his gaze away from the piece as I step closer, his eyes raking up and down my body before meeting my own. His Adam’s apple slides up and down his throat with a slow swallow as he shifts his body towards me, just barely.

It didn’t escape my attention that the last time I saw him, I was in ripped jeans and a loose, paint-streaked shirt, so his obvious appraisal and appreciation of my strappy heels and curve-hugging black dress makes my stomach flip.

I sit down next to him, running my hands down the short skirt of my dress, and look up at the painting. “You seem drawn to this one,” I say.

He shifts his posture slightly, straightening a bit. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m not sure what it is about it, exactly…but I feel a definite favoritism towards it…

“…Reminds me of a lot of things.”

What things, Greyson?I want to ask, but I don’t.

“You, mostly, if I’m being honest,” he answers anyway.

I swallow thickly, taking in an unsteady breath.