I paused, trying to figure out how to sum it all up.
“He taught me what love is,” I realized after a while. “Not just for another person, but for myself.”
“Well, that makes me want to throttle him a little less.”
I chuckled. “I’ve got to get going. Thank you for using your hard-earned architect salary to make a long-distance call. I know from the one I made to my parents, it costs a very pretty penny.”
“Worth every one. Soak it all in tonight, Harley. You deserve it.”
When we ended the call, I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time, smoothing my hands over the little black dress I’d bought at a boutique on the bridge. It was spaghetti-strapped and medium-length, with a modest slit in the thigh and lacy detail at the sweetheart-shaped neckline. I paired it with my only heels I had with me, black, sling-back kitten heels, and styled my hair in natural waves falling just over my shoulders. My lips were painted a deep matte burgundy, my eyeshadow a natural golden hue, and my lashes slicked with mascara. The only jewelry I wore were the pearl earrings my mother gave me when I turned thirteen.
I ran my fingers over them with a soft smile on my face, imagining passing them down to my little sister one day, too.
When I felt as ready as I could be, I took my time walking through the city streets to the museum. It was already bustling when I made my way inside, saying hello to classmates as I passed them, and accepting their congratulations on the award. I posed for a few photos, wondering if I’d end up in a forgotten scrapbook.
Professor Beneventi found me before I’d made it past the award-winning student sculptures from the semester, and he introduced me to a few colleagues before guiding me through the museum to where my piece was displayed.
My nose stung when I finally saw it, custom-framed and hanging at eye-level next to a small picture of me, and a plaque with my bio and intent. I smiled as I read it, since Professor Beneventi had been the one to write it, marveling at how he’d remembered every word I’d told him so clearly.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I’m honored,” I said sincerely. “And maybe a little speechless.”
He smirked at that, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your night with your classmates. And before you leave for home, I want you to know it was a pleasure teaching you, and that I look forward to seeing all the places your art will take you.”
“Thank you for pushing me,” I said, turning so I could look him in the eye. “I… I think I’ve always had a level of pity from my previous instructors that kept them from doing the same. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you seeing past my disability and knowing I had more to offer.”
“What disability?”
I gave him a leveled look, but he only smiled, squeezing my shoulder once again before releasing me and rejoining his colleagues.
I turned back to my work, which strangely felt foreign now that I’d been away from it for so long. In a way, I couldn’t believe it was me who had painted it. I was certain I could never replicate it. But I was also certain I could never forget it, that it was a part of me always, like a fragment of my heart carefully dissected and framed for the world to keep as her own.
“The Art of Hope, huh?” a low, familiar voice sounded behind me.
My heart jolted to a stop, the next beat sticking in my throat and unable to free itself as I turned and found Liam standing with his hands in the pockets of navy-blue dress slacks. The need to breathe was suffocating as my eyes took in the sight of him — the white button-up with the top two buttons unfastened, his messy hair, jaw freshly shaved and smile steady and sure.
I gasped on the breath when it finally found me, and in the next instant, my eyes flooded with tears, lips trembling, nose flaring as emotion gripped me by the throat.
I couldn’t have fought it if I tried.
“It’s beautiful,” he remarked. “Though, I think I liked your badass, pierced Venus better.”
I choked on a laugh that came out more as a sob, covering my mouth with both hands as I shook my head. I didn’t know whether I wanted to leap into his arms or slap him and storm away. And in my indecisiveness, all I could do was stand there and stare.
“Don’t cry,” he begged.
That only made the tears come harder, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain echoing in my chest. His hands gently brushed my elbows, pulling me closer, and I sucked in a breath at the touch, eyes blinking open as I reached for him, too.