Page 20 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter fifteen

I ’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how this moment would feel. Victorious, maybe. Triumphant. Well-deserved. Gratifying. Invincible.

All the late nights at Pratt, all the lying, all the underhanded scheming—it was for this.

This moment.

My moment.

But standing in the gallery space of the Ars Astrum, my art lit by angled skylights, I don’t feel any of those things.

Maybe the reality of it all just hasn’t kicked in yet, I think. It still feels too surreal.

Technically, the show hasn’t started yet, but some of Ocean’s more prominent guests have already begun milling around the atrium, pointing at pieces and speaking in low tones too muted for me to hear.

I’d like to hear, but Ocean’s advice from today’s program run-through lingers.

You’ll want to speak to all the guests. You’ll want to walk around and introduce yourself.

You’ll want to stand by your art and show it off and answer questions because that’s what all artists want to do, she’d told me.

But don’t. Tonight is not about you—it’s about your work.

People need to experience it organically, and the less they see you, the better.

I’d, of course, had a few follow-up questions, but Ocean was firm on the topic: Just make yourself scarce. If people want to meet you or ask questions, I’ll facilitate those introductions.

So, here I am, making myself scarce by the wine bar and hoping my expensive glass of Pinot will kick-start some of those victorious, triumphant, invincible feelings.

No such luck yet, though.

I check my phone for updates, unsurprised to find a sea of notifications waiting for me.

A bunch of Congratulations! texts from old classmates at Pratt (and a couple already hoping I’ll help them make connections).

A couple heartfelt messages from the few professors I keep loosely in touch with.

Several updates from LuAnne regarding her and Joe’s whereabouts amid Manhattan traffic.

Another text from Tom just “checking in” and asking if there was something he'd done wrong.

I'll get to that later.

And absolutely nothing from Adrian. Not since the night I called him, faking that emergency.

I’ve reached out a couple of times, and in a particularly weak moment, even invited him to tonight’s show—but still nothing. Just radio silence.

Is he angry that I called him on a date? Is that what this is? Him punishing me via the silent treatment for…what? Moving on? Exploring my options in a city of eight million people?

Or he just doesn’t care enough to respond. Maybe he’s busy with work or exploring his options, and I was just a fleeting thought to pass the time.

Both possibilities sting, and I’ve been spiraling all week about it—but nope. Not going there. Not tonight.

Fuck Adrian, I decide. He doesn’t get to text me every minute of every day, pay me to spend time with him, and then just fall off the radar on the most important night of my life.

I down the rest of my wine.

It does nothing to fill the strange emptiness inside me, but it’s easy enough to pretend—especially when I spot LuAnne and Joe making their way across the room.

“Poppy!” LuAnne is grinning ear to ear as she embraces me. “I knew it was going to look amazing, but I didn’t think it’d be this amazing.”

Her high spirits marginally lift mine, and I find it easier to return her smile when I pull back. “Thanks for coming, guys.”

“You really weren’t kidding about the dress code,” Joe comments, adjusting the collar of his dark suit jacket.

I nod. “Yep. All black. No exceptions—not even for me.”

Nothing about my plain black dress or its conservative crew neck screams artist, but Ocean, for all her easygoing, free-spirited energy, has strict rules regarding exhibitions at the Ars Astrum.

Both LuAnne and Joe spend another five minutes gushing over my artwork and inquiring about some of the unknown faces in the crowd before LuAnne sweetly asks, “Joe, could you grab me a glass of wine?”

“Of course, baby,” he kisses her temple. “You want anything, Poppy?”

I nod. “Thanks.”

LuAnne’s eyes trail Joe all the way to the bar before she turns back to me, eyebrows pinched together.

“I need to tell you something,” she whispers, and the panic in her voice puts me immediately on edge.

LuAnne rarely panics. “And I recognize that it’s terrible timing, and I promise I’m not trying to take away from your big night, but I don’t know what to do and it’s just—”

“What’s going on?” I cut through her rambling. “Does it have to do with Joe?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s, uh…” She takes a deep breath, bites her lip, and looks up at me, honey-brown eyes shining with fear. “It’s my prescription pad. I can’t find it.”

My forehead creases. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t find it,” she explains. “It’s not in the locked drawer in my office where it should be—or anywhere else in my office.”

“Well, maybe you brought it home by accident,” I say, recalling the multitude of times she’s done just that. “It’s probably in one of your coat pockets or a pair of scrub pants sitting in the laundry pile.”

She shakes her head again. “Trust me, that’s the first place I checked. I went through the entire apartment—even checked under the couch cushions.”

“What about Joe’s place?” I suggest.

Another shake of the head. “I’m telling you,” she insists. “It is nowhere. I’ve torn apart my office, our place, and Joe’s—as of a couple of hours ago. It’s gone .”

She’s practically vibrating with anxiety, so I try to stay grounded. “Okay,” I say. “So, we retrace your steps. When’s the last time you had it?”

“That’s the thing,” she breathes. “I’ve been off clinics for the past two weeks, so I haven’t used it.

It could’ve been missing this whole time, and I’d have no idea.

” She bites her lip. “I mean, what if it fell out of my pocket on the street and someone snagged it? What if they’ve been writing and filling prescriptions with my DEA number this whole time?

” She lets out a shaky breath. “This could end really badly. As in, having-my-license-suspended-pending-investigation badly.”

“And you haven’t told Joe? Not even after turning his apartment upside down?”

“He thinks I’m looking for my passport,” she sighs. “I will if I have to, but I guess I’m sort of hoping for a miracle.” Her eyes turn pleading. “Or one of your miracles.”

I huff. “I can’t do miracles.”

“No. Not miracles,” she says quietly. “But you make things happen. Like this art show. Or the two grand for rent you suddenly just had .” Our eyes lock, and I shift uncomfortably. “And I don’t ask questions—I never have—but I’m asking now. For help. I cannot lose my license.”

I have zero clue how to help LuAnne, but her confidence in me seems to stir my own, and I nod. “We’ll talk later,” I say. “Tomorrow. We’ll figure this out.”

I hope we can figure this out.

One tiny nod before her gaze flits behind me, and her smile returns full-force. “Oh, thank you, babe.” She receives her glass of Prosecco with a kiss.

“Thank you.” I take the second glass from Joe’s hands, but I don’t even have the opportunity to enjoy it before a slender, pale hand encircles my arm.

“Poppy?” Ocean smiles down at me, draped in a loose, black wrap dress that hangs off her slender frame and shoes . Actual shoes. “There’s a few people I’d like you to meet.”

“Oh—” It’s a little jarring, switching into artist mode after I’ve spent the past thirty minutes being about as useful as one of the potted plants in the corner. “Sure. Of course.”

She sweeps me away before I can say anything else, and thus begin the introductions to art collectors and curators from every corner of the world.

There is no shortage of questions about the individual pieces, about the whole collection, about me even—but I learn very quickly that none of the questions are actually for me.

“You have such an eye for potential, Ocean. How did you discover this one?” The question comes from Anne Yannick, whose name vaguely rings a bell in the back of my head—and I later learn is the founder of one of my favorite digital art magazines.

Her arm hooked in mine, Ocean recounts the tale of our first meeting, dramatized with language like: “My third-eye guided me to Poppy. I could just sense her energy across the room.”

I nod along, mildly peeved that Ocean’s third-eye is taking all the credit for tonight.

If only these people knew.

“This work…it’s so dark,” comments a stout, graying collector with a heavy French accent and a name I can’t remember. “Is there meant to be an overarching theme of morality with this collection?”

I open my mouth to reply, but it’s Ocean who answers first. “Isn’t there always?” She says. “You know artists—they love any reason to discuss the good and evil of the human condition.”

There are some chuckles from the group gathered around, and I clear my throat. “It’s more like moral ambiguity,” I say. “And I’m happy to answer any more questions about that.”

I might as well be speaking to one of the marble busts in the back room for all the acknowledgment I receive in return.

The curator barely nods before he turns back to Ocean. “You know, I could see this collection in…” The rest of his sentence comes out in French and a hundred times too fast for me to put the one year of foreign language I took at Lionswood to any use.

Ocean, however, doesn’t seem to have any problem keeping up. She nods once and then responds—in French.

Well, that’s helpful.

My smile doesn’t wane, but my mood certainly does, the emptiness from earlier returning tenfold as Ocean fields more questions.

The most important night of my life, and I feel like a prop, I think. Just another part of the collection to be spoken about, but not to.

I unhook my arm from Ocean’s while she’s in the middle of discussing my watercolor technique with a curator from Japan. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab another glass.”

Ocean pauses just long enough to nod enthusiastically at me, and I take that as permission to disappear.