“It is, but…” Myla shook her head. “Look, forget I said anything. You don’t have to answer to me, but I do think you have to figure out what it is about being committed to Holden that scares you so much.”
“I’m not scared of anything.”
“Avery—”
“You know what we need? Ice cream. Let’s have some, and then I’m going to get to that gallery for my opening tonight. Sound good?”
Myla surveyed her for a long moment, then gave her a shaky nod.
FROM THE DIARY OF AVERY FORRESTER
Okay, fine, so I like to journal. No need to make a big deal out of it. It’s still not like I’m spilling any profound thoughts onto the paper. Instead, it’s just slightly more productive than catching up on the latest cell-phone game sweeping the country’s beleaguered mothers.
So, trust me, this isn’t for mindfulness or meditation or any of that crap. It’s just for me. Just because.
After all, who else am I going to talk to about the fact that Holden is a big fat liar?
Okay, maybe not liar, but an omitter of the truth.
Sure, okay, I knew deploying again was in his stupid plan or whatever, but when he asked me to be his girlfriend, I thought that meant we made decisions together. Or, at the very least, that he would mention his plans to me before he told Myla.
Like, seriously, what the hell? I’m putting my whole self out there, I’m letting him try to prove to me that he’s not going to leave like every one of my stepfathers did, and now…
You know what? It’s fine. It’s fine.
I don’t need to talk about it—especially not with a stupid piece of paper.
Chapter Seventeen
“How are you feeling?” The gallery director had asked her this about twelve times since she’d walked through the door an hour ago, and she still wasn’t exactly sure how to answer.
The obvious response was, of course, to say she was excited, and anxious—both of which were true, technically. In a few short minutes, the champagne would start flowing and everyone would pour through those doors to see her art on display.
On the other hand, she hadn’t seen Holden since her talk with Myla that afternoon. He’d left a note saying that he’d left for La Jolla to go pick up his parents.
Which, of course, led to the fact that his parents were going to be here on her big night, standing in judgment of her every move and counting the number of glasses she downed so they could prove to Holden once and for all that there were better, more dignified fish in the sea. And, given her friend’s recent breakup, even Myla wouldn’t be here to soften the blow.
So how was Avery feeling?
“Uh…” Avery said, and the director nodded knowingly.
She was an older woman, though her silvery hair seemed premature for her age. Her red glasses set off her heart-shaped face, and she wrinkled her nose slightly before tapping Avery lightly on the shoulder. “I completely understand. I paint, so it’s not quite the same, but”—she nodded knowingly—“it’s certainly close enough. Why not take one last look, hmm? Before the doors open?”
Avery nodded then moved to the front of the gallery, staring at the first wall.
These were photos she’d taken in the maternity ward—tiny little sets of hands of all different colors. On the next wall, she’d arranged pictures of children’s hands from the local middle school. There was paint on some of them. Others were already calloused or bruised from learning to play instruments. Still others had smudges from pencil marks.
The next wall were images of adult hands—the hands of a farmer and a banker, a school teacher, and even her own hands. Then, finally, a few shots of the hands from the old folks’ center—almost as fragile as, though larger than, the photos on the first wall.
Whatever happened tonight—whatever happened with Holden or his parents—she knew she could be proud of this. She had done good work. She had talent.
The doors opened, and people flooded inside, quickly creating a din loud enough to cover the soft piano music floating through the speakers. Holden was nowhere to be found yet, but in a way, that was a blessing. It gave her more time to answer questions, first from reporters, and then from people who’d overheard her speaking with the journalists.
She’d photographed a lot of weddings, but tonight, she felt like she finally understood what it was to be a bride—everyone clamoring for her favor, for her attention, and the second she picked up a drink, she lost it again between being shuffled from one person to the next.
The reviews for the art were good, she thought, and she listened wistfully as the art director bartered with a young couple for a set of four photographs.
She strolled toward the front of the room again, finally allowing the knot of tension in her stomach to loosen slightly. Then she spotted Holden and his parents across the room. His mother’s voice rang crisp and clear through the noise of the crowd. “I just don’t see how anyone would consider it art, that’s all. It’s not like painting. She just points and snaps. Where is the art in that?”