Page 26

DON’T BE DENSE

LUKE

If tonight’s anything to go by, I get the feeling Ruth Ann James doesn’t really ask for things—she arranges them.

One second, she’s handing me a flyer for this networking event like it’s no big deal, and the next, I’m finding myself double-checking the address and wondering when exactly I agreed to this.

The ArtHouse Gallery stands like a warm beacon against the cold, late fall night.

I park a few blocks away, stuffing my hands in my jacket pockets as the wind slices through the city streets. Maddie definitely faked being sick. No way was it a coincidence she bailed last-minute, citing a "sudden stomach bug" right after Ruth swung by the gym.

Inside, the event is already buzzing—low acoustic music weaving through laughter, business cards exchanging hands like candy, the scent of catered food heavy in the air.

It's stylish, but not stuffy. Comfortable enough that you can tell Ruth had her fingerprints all over it.

I spot her right away—almost six feet, a riot of white curls, and a sharp crimson dress that somehow makes her look both regal and dangerous at the same time.

She’s weaving through clusters of people like she owns the place, wearing pearl earrings that catch the light every time she tips her head to listen to someone.

I can’t help but grin a little. She’s a force, that one. The kind of woman you probably don’t say no to twice. The kind of woman who, if she decides you need a little fate on your side, will personally wrestle it into submission. Which is probably why I'm here tonight.

Not for networking. Not even for Squeaky Bum. No, if I’m being honest? It’s for something... or someone else.

I don’t even make it to the hors d'oeuvres before Ruth materializes at my elbow like a matchmaking ninja.

“Well, if it isn’t one of my favorite reluctant attendees,” Ruth says, slipping in beside me like she’s been planning her move all night.

I chuckle under my breath. “You sure know how to throw a casual event.”

She waves that off with a flick of her fingers, already nudging me toward a quieter corner near a massive modern art piece that looks suspiciously like a bird exploded midair.

“Casual is in the eye of the beholder, darling. Besides, you’re not here to hide in the shadows.”

“I thought I was here to network,” I say, deadpan.

“You’re here to find something,” she counters with a knowing smile, one that makes me uneasy for reasons I can’t explain.

Before I can ask what exactly she expects me to find, Ruth presses something into my hand.

A small, square bingo card.

I blink down at it. It's handwritten—of course it is—and the first few squares are oddly specific:

Someone who loves thunderstorms.

Someone who sees adventure through a lens.

Someone who secretly loves romcoms.

Someone who’s scared of roots but still dreams anyway.

My stomach tightens without permission. Each one feels weirdly... familiar. Like whoever Ruth wants me to find, I already have. And I already lost her. There are a few random squares too, sprinkled in like bait:

Someone who can name all the Taylor Swift albums.

Someone banned from karaoke for "crimes against music."

Someone who rescues half-dead plants and insists they’re “just resting.”

I snort under my breath. Nothing like being volun-told to play matchmaker bingo at an event I didn’t even want to come to.

Still... I don't toss the card. I don't crumple it or pocket it like an obligation. I accept it, because hell, maybe fate’s a better planner than I am. And maybe, just maybe, I’m not ready to give up yet.

“I made it special for you,” Ruth says, sipping her wine like she didn’t just hand me a loaded weapon.

I glance at her. “This isn’t networking.”

“No,” she says, eyes sparkling. “It’s matchmaking.”

Then she pats my arm like a proud grandmother and adds, “Don’t be dense. The universe already did most of the heavy lifting.”

Before I can say anything else—before I can even think—she smiles sweetly and drifts off, leaving me holding a bingo card full of Stella Young-shaped hints and a gnawing feeling deep in my chest.

I scan the room automatically, half hoping, half dreading what I’ll find.

But Stella?

She’s a ghost.

Here one second, gone the next. I catch flashes of someone who might be her, a dark ponytail, a soft laugh, but every time I turn my head, she’s disappeared into the crowd.

Maybe she’s avoiding me. Maybe she’s just working. Either way, Ruth’s voice echoes in my head:

Don’t be dense.

The problem with trying not to make a scene is that it makes you feel like you’re in one.

I circle the gallery space twice—once with a drink in hand, trying to look casual, and once pretending to admire the paintings on the walls—but it’s no use.

Every time I think I see her, she’s gone. The sweep of a familiar figure disappearing behind a cluster of attendees. The echo of laughter that’s almost, but not quite, hers.

It’s like chasing a ghost. And maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing.

At one point, I end up by the courtyard doors, heart kicking up at the sight of someone with her quick, determined stride. But when she turns, it’s not her.

Not even close.

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. I’m being an idiot. Acting like some lovesick teenager at a high school dance. Stella made her choice. She’s the one who ran.

Still... I can’t help it. I scan the room one more time, willing her to appear.

Nothing.

Just the low murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, and the faint scent of fresh paint and champagne hanging in the air.

Maybe Ruth was wrong. Maybe fate had its shot—and missed.

I turn toward the exit, ready to call it a night, when a firm hand closes around my elbow.

“Leaving already?” a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the room.

I turn to find Ruth, standing there with a glass of wine in one hand and a look that could pin a man to a wall without ever raising her voice.

“Thought you said you were good at climbing,” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “Since when does one obstacle send you packing?”

I huff a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Sometimes it’s smarter to walk away than keep chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.”

Ruth’s smile doesn’t budge. If anything, it sharpens. “Or maybe you’re looking in the wrong place.”

Before I can ask what the hell that means, she gestures with her wine glass toward the far side of the building, where a few velvet ropes section off part of the gallery.

A sign reads Private Setup – Upcoming Exhibit.

“They started prepping early for next month’s featured artist," she says casually. "Figured you might appreciate a little... sneak peek."

I glance at the sign, then back at her.

“You’re sending me into a restricted area?”

She shrugs, all innocence. “Sometimes rules are just suggestions.”

I should say no. I should walk out that door like I planned. Instead, something pulls at me—a string I’m not ready to cut.

Ruth pats my arm lightly. “Go on, Luke. You won’t regret it.”

She says it with such certainty that for a second, I wonder if she already knows what I’ll find.

Maybe she does.

Maybe she always did.

I don’t bother arguing.

I move through the crowd, the buzz of voices and the clinking of glasses fading into white noise. The curtained section of the gallery is quieter. Less polished. Half the lighting isn’t even switched on yet. A sign leans against an easel at the entrance:

Upcoming Exhibit: Stillness in Motion

Photography by Stella Young.

My chest tightens. There’s movement in every frame. Not the pretty, posed kind.

The kind that makes your ribs ache because you know what it costs to keep moving when standing still would be easier.

A skater mid-wipeout, sneakers scraping the sky before the crash.

City lights bleeding into one another, a smear of neon against concrete loneliness.

A woman frozen on a subway bench while the world shatters past her, a blur of steel and strangers.

Waves breaking themselves bloody against a pier that’s too stubborn to fall apart.

A hawk claws at the air, wings slicing hard against the wind, fighting for altitude.

And the people. Always the people.

Lilly mid-swing, face split with a laugh so wild it dares gravity to try her.

A soaked couple spinning in the rain, rings on their fingers, hope fresh on their faces.

A kid bombing downhill on a rusted bike, reckless and immortal for one sweet second.

None of it’s perfect. That’s what makes it real. Every frame feels like it’s fighting to exist.

Stillness in Motion.

The title’s too damn fitting. Because maybe it’s not about freezing time at all. Maybe it’s about defying it. About marking the moments you’re brave enough to move, even when every bone in your body says stay.

I stare at it all, fists curling without meaning to.

Because I get it.

God, I get it.

You can pretend you're not scared. You can act like you don't care. But when you move, really move, you leave pieces of yourself everywhere you land.

And sometimes? Sometimes you pray someone’s brave enough to catch them.

I drift deeper into the exhibit without thinking. That’s when I see it.

I stop cold. It’s a photo of me.

Mid-climb on one of the training walls at Squeaky Bum.

Muscles taut, fingers straining, every ounce of me reaching for the next hold like it’s life or death.

Not polished. Not staged. Just raw movement and stubborn, reckless hope.

Pinned beneath the frame is a small placard, handwritten in neat, careful letters:

Love Is a Climb.

My breath punches out of me.

Because this…

This isn’t just a snapshot of someone scaling a wall. It’s everything most people never see. The fight to keep going when quitting would be easier. The quiet, desperate hope that the top is worth the fall. The belief, tiny, breakable, but burning, that some things are meant to be fought for.

She saw that.

In me.

Maybe she’s always seen it.

Maybe that's the real danger.

Not the fall. Not the height. But being seen when you didn’t even know you were visible.

My jaw locks, but my hands—tight just moments ago—go slack. Like the fight drained out of me and left something else behind. Wonder. Regret. Hope.

Thunderstorms. Adventure through a lens. Fear of roots... but still dreaming anyway.

Ruth didn’t send me looking for something new tonight. She sent me back to someone I already lost. Unless I’m willing to fight like hell to get her back.

I square my shoulders, because this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

And this time...

I'm climbing until I reach her.