Page 71 of His Elder

I took a sip of wine. It tasted bitter. I still couldn't drink without feeling a phantom twinge of guilt, a reflex from a life that didn't belong to me anymore.

Jordan appeared at my elbow, grinning. "See? Not terrible, right?"

"It's fine."

"You're lying. You hate it." He gestured around the gallery. "But you're here, which means you're trying, which makes me an excellent influence."

"You're exhausting."

"That's part of my charm." He squeezed my shoulder. "I'm going to go talk to that guy by the sculptures. The one with the nose ring. Do not leave without telling me."

I nodded. Watched him disappear into the crowd.

Jordan didn't know about Barcelona. About Eli. About any of it. He knew I was ex-Mormon and that my family had cut me off. That was enough. He filled in the blanks with assumptions—that I'd lost my faith, come out, gotten kicked out. He wasn't wrong. He just didn't know that the faith crisis had a name, a face, and a sketchbook I hadn't seen in two years.

I drained the wine. Dropped the cup in a recycling bin. I needed air.

I started toward the exit, weaving through the clusters of students. My gaze dragged over the walls—abstract splashesof colour, angry charcoals, political statements I was too tired to parse.

And then I froze.

The sketches hung on the far wall, partially obscured by a couple holding hands. Black ink on cream paper, matted in simple black frames. I couldn't see them clearly from here, but the breath caught in my throat.

I knew those lines.

I knew the way the artist captured light with negative space. I knew the confident, quick stroke of the pen, the slight roughness where the nib caught the paper.

My feet moved without permission.

The couple shifted. The sketches came into focus.

Sagrada Família at dawn, cranes silhouetted against a rising sun.

Parc de la Ciutadella, the fountain frozen in ink.

A narrow street in Gràcia, laundry strung between balconies like prayer flags.

The Mediterranean from the beach at Barceloneta, waves rendered in quick, violent strokes.

Barcelona.

I stopped breathing.

A small placard beside the collection read:Urban Landscapes: Barcelona Seriesby Elias Vance.

The world tilted on its axis. The noise of the gallery rushed away, leaving a roaring silence in my ears. I gripped the edge of a nearby pedestal to stay upright.

Eli was here.

In Seattle. At this gallery. At this university.

After two years of searching. Two years of dead ends and blocked numbers and his mother's voice on the phone, cold and final:"Elias has moved on. I suggest you dothe same."

After two years of convincing myself I'd never see him again.

He was here.

"You good, man?"