Page 52 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

TWENTY-THREE

Jules stood just inside the gallery entrance, hands shoved deep in the pockets of their best pants, which Keaton had insisted on pressing so they were perfectly creased.

Their stomach churned with a combination of nerves and too much caffeine without food.

The space was clean, all cool white walls and hushed anticipation, making every step echo a little too loud.

Paintings hung in tidy rows, each one a splinter of their insides pinned up for strangers to examine and judge.

Under the spotlights, the saturated colors looked even bolder than they remembered.

Every brushstroke felt perilously exposed.

Keaton drifted in behind them, his presence a steady, grounding weight.

He lingered close, thumb brushing over Jules’s shoulder as if he could press reassurance through the fabric.

The faint click of the gallery manager’s heels as she inspected everything before opening, the whisper of someone rearranging a table of refreshments, only made it harder for Jules to breathe.

Keaton’s hand lingered at the nape of their neck, his touch warm and undeniably real. “You okay?” he murmured, voice pitched for their ears alone.

Jules’s pulse tripped over itself. “Why did I let you talk me into this?” they whispered, eyes darting from the cluster of canvases to the enormous window at the front of the gallery.

“What if nobody shows up? What if someone asks me what the painting in the corner even means? What if—” They cut themself off, jaw tensing.

Keaton’s mouth twitched with the barest hint of a smile. “What if everyone loves it and you sell every piece and everyone’s so captivated they don’t even realize there are refreshments?”

Jules rolled their eyes, but the worst of the panic ebbed. “Is my artist statement pretentious? I feel like it is. I should have asked Ollie to help me write it so it didn’t sound like I was trying too hard.”

He leaned in, his voice holding a hint of amusement and even more empathy. “I think you’re overthinking things. Your art speaks for itself.” He reached for their hand, rubbing his thumb over Jules’s knuckles. “Besides, if anyone gives you crap, I’ll redirect them to the hors d’oeuvres.”

Footsteps clicked toward them—Mr. Belmont, the gallery owner, in his signature navy blazer and round glasses, his face bright with expectation.

“Jules! You made it. Everything’s ready.

We’ll open the doors in ten minutes. If you need a moment, take it now.

Once people arrive, it’s always a bit of a whirlwind. ”

Jules nodded, only half-hearing the rest of Belmont’s instructions.

Their gaze snagged on a painting hanging slightly crooked, and for a moment, all they could see were the imperfections: brush strokes that wouldn’t blend, the patch where the canvas warped just enough to catch the light wrong. Their breath caught.

Keaton stepped in front of them, blocking the view, hands sliding to rest on Jules’s shoulders.

His grip was gentle: steadying, not restraining.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, “I know you’re freaking out.

But you are enough, Jules. This show is going to be amazing.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Something in his tone, calm and certain, settled Jules more than any pep talk ever could. They let themselves look into Keaton’s eyes, found nothing but earnest pride reflected back.

“Breathe,” Keaton murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched, the world shrinking to a single thread of love between them.

Jules breathed—one, two, three slow inhales—and the tension in their chest eased. “You really think so?” they whispered, searching his face for any sign of doubt.

Keaton’s thumb swept another arc across the fabric at Jules’s shoulder. “I know so. You did the work. You showed up. That’s everything.”

A rush of gratitude threatened to tip Jules off-balance, but Keaton’s hands anchored them. For the first time since waking up, Jules believed—maybe, just maybe—they weren’t just here by accident.

Jules’s nerves fluttered, but Keaton tipped their chin up, a soft smile curving his mouth. “You’ve got this,” he promised, the words a vow whispered between them.

Jules nodded, letting the certainty in Keaton’s gaze nestle into the place where doubt had been. They straightened, shoulders squared, pulse still wild but steadier.

Together, they turned to face the entrance—the calm before the storm, one last breath before everything brightened and the world, at last, came rushing in.

The gallery doors opened with a creak and a push, the hush of anticipation dissolving into a rush of voices and footsteps on polished floors.

It wasn’t like anyone was busting down the door to get in, but the stream of people was steady.

There were a few faces Jules recognized, but even more they’d never seen in their life.

It was a heady feeling if Jules ignored the scurry of squirrels running riot in their stomach.

Jules barely had time to brace themself before Paige burst inside, arms flung wide and voice ringing out, “That’s my sibling!

” She cut through the crowd with the force of a fangirl meeting her favorite celebrity, wrapping Jules in a hug that nearly unseated the knot of nerves in their gut.

They were overcome with emotion hearing Paige claim them as family.

They knew they’d be lonely once their parents moved away, but hadn’t realized just how isolated they’d feel.

Having the Andersons so easily accept them was everything.

Jules blinked, laughing as Paige squeezed them and pulled back to survey the room.

“See? Told you you’re bigger than art workshops at the community center.

” Her grin was pure mischief. “Before you know it, you’re going to be flying all over the country for shows like this.

You’ll be so busy you won’t know what to do with yourself. ”

They weren’t willing to go quite that big with their dreams. Didn’t even know if that was something they’d ever want.

This morning, when the anxiety had hit, they’d made a promise to themself that they’d only think about the next show if tonight went well and they didn’t feel like they had to sell out to make others happy.

Finn arrived next, quiet as always, a rare tie knotted carelessly at his throat. He moved in close enough for only Jules to hear, his approval steady and understated. “You did it. Proud of you.” He squeezed Jules’s forearm.

When Finn sucked in a sharp breath, Jules glanced in the direction he was looking, smiling when he only saw Ollie. Was it possible the stuffy office manager needed a bit of chaos in his life as well? Before he could say anything, Finn made himself scarce as Ollie approached.

Ollie hugged Jules tightly, whispering, “If you sell the one with the weird clouds, I get half the royalties.” Jules elbowed him, but the joke landed, loosening their chest. Ollie grinned and slipped away, the kind of friend who always knew what to say.

Luke and Noah entered next, Eli in tow. Eli made a beeline for the mini-cupcakes with the focus of a six-year-old on a mission.

Luke ruffled Jules’s hair, murmuring, “Told you, kid. Next stop, New York.” Noah just smiled, warm and proud, and Eli flashed a mouthful of blue icing before bounding off again.

Sam arrived with a bouquet of wildflowers, eyes shining with pride and just enough teasing to keep things light.

“Don’t get so famous you quit slinging beer and burgers and forget all about us.

” She tucked the flowers into Jules’s arms and pressed a quick kiss to their cheek.

“And don’t think I won’t hold this over you every time I need a shift covered. I wore a fucking dress for you.”

Keaton’s parents approached next, Diana hugging Jules gently, Michael’s handshake firm and proud. “We’re so glad to be here,” she said, voice low and sincere, and Michael just nodded, his pride radiating in quiet waves.

Paige sidled up again, nudging Jules with her shoulder.

“See? This is what happens when you let people see who you really are. You get a fan club.” Jules rolled their eyes, but couldn’t help the flush of pride crawling up their neck.

“I’m pretty sure half of Maple Hill followed us up here just so they could say they knew the big-shot local artist when. ”

The room filled steadily, voices rising, the gallery humming with energy.

Jules scanned the crowd, their heart lifting at the sight of each familiar face.

But even as warmth bloomed inside, a thread of longing tightened in their chest—there was one absence they couldn’t shake.

Their parents weren’t here. Jules hadn’t told them about the show because they didn’t want to burden them with the cost of airfare when they were still getting settled down south, and now they regretted not making the call.

Keaton caught the shift in their expression. He slipped his hand into Jules’s, squeezing gently—no words, just the silent promise of seeing and holding whatever Jules couldn’t say aloud.

The swirl of celebration carried Jules through introductions and congratulations, a tide of validation they’d never quite believed they’d experience. Still, with every smile and every hug, their gaze flicked to the gallery door, wishing and wanting.

It came in a rush: the gallery at full stride, laughter, the clink of glasses, camera flashes sparking across the floor.

Jules stood just outside the center of things, shoulders tense, brow furrowed with worry, when movement at the entrance caught their eye.

Their parents appeared in the doorway— Mom in a flowing bohemian dress, Dad in a pressed shirt that somehow still looked rumpled and right.

Their faces were sun-bright, proud, both beaming.