“Me neither. Is there a way to leave out my homeless outreach and leave out how he died?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I think part of the hook for her is the fact that John bounced back and forth with his sobriety, some sort of struggling artist wanting to bring beauty into the world type of thing. But I figure if I can give her enough of a story on us, that might be a bargaining chip to leave that part out.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
The two of us dug into the food on our plates. Hailey’s vegetables were astounding, and I couldn’t help but moan while I chewed my first bite. She smiled at the steak, complimenting me on how it melted in her mouth, and we didn’t resume the conversation until both of us had cleared at least half of our plates.
“I guess we were hungrier than we realized,” she said.
“No, I knew you were hungry. I didn’t know I was this hungry,” I said.
“If you signed off on telling her about your homeless outreach, the fact that the gallery was built with a team of them instead of just one would really be something she could use,” she said. “That would be more fuel to the fire that steers her story away from how John died.”
“I just don’t want a bunch of glory,” he said.
“Which is why this is a wonderful opportunity,” she said. “The article isn’t about you. We’re wrapped up in the story because of how John bound us together, but the focus isn’t us. The focus is him and his showcase. The more I can give her on John as a thread that binds us pulls us away from John, the addict who saved my life that we can’t prove because I’m bullshit.”
“Hailey,” I said sternly.
“What? It’s true.”
I saw her sink back in her chair as her fork dropped to the plate. She was still kicking herself, I could see. She grabbed her glass of wine and took a long pull, gulping it down as I reached out for her hand. I took her trembling hand in mine, watching tears rise to her eyes, and in that moment, I knew what was more important to me.
“Hailey, look at me.”
She shook her head before she set her wine glass down.
“Hailey. Look. At. Me.”
She finally turned her beautiful gaze toward me, darkened by the memories of her past while my thumb traced small circles onto the top of her skin.
“What’s more important to me is knowing the truth,” I said. “I know how John died. I saw the truth in your eyes the moment we talked about it in your gallery. I believe you, and I need you to understand that. If this reporter woman is dead set on making his supposed overdose a passing remark to something greater, like his showcase, then I think I can stomach it.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“What I set out to do was find closure and to find the truth about my brother. I didn’t set out to convince the world of it. I simply set out to convince myself of it,” I said. “I’m serious.”
“If we told them about our community outreach and the homeless crew that built the gallery, it might inspire others to do the same,” she said.
“Which is something you’ve always wanted to do, inspire others to be better. This would be a way for you to do that.”
“This would be a way for us both to do that,” she said. “If she likes the article pitch, it would get good attention for community outreach as a whole, attention for the gallery, and attention we can parlay into John’s art debut. But we’ll need to come up with a date for the gallery evening. If she approves it, I’m assuming she’ll want that information on the spot.”
“That’s fine,” I said as I released her hand. “When were you thinking?”
“It’s really more up to you. The gallery’s yours any night you wish. Just let me know what night to block off, and I’ll start calling around to caterers and such.”
“Isn’t that my job?” I grinned at her.
“Well, I want to help you. I know you’re doing it because you want closure, but I guess ...”
“You want closure too?” I asked.
“I think the gallery might help us both,” she said.
“When are the best evenings?” he asked.
“I do have people who randomly come by as I’m closing on Thursday evenings. I’m still not sure why that is, but I think it has something to do with a special the diner runs across the street.”