I kneel, smiling while looking into those hazel eyes of his. “What do you think, buddy?”
“I’m proud of you, too, Mommy.” Releasing Lila, his arms come around my neck in a tight squeeze. Wobbling on my heels, I balance by hugging him right back, forgetting that he’s already too tall to do this anymore. Kneeling definitely gives him the advantage in this situation to his average height mom.
“Thank you, sweetie. That means even more to me.”
When he smiles, getting that look in his eyes like I’m his whole world, I see so much of his dad in him. My heart beats a little faster as if he’s near me again. Maybe because he never really left, still taking up time in my head and space in my heart.
Lila takes his hand again, and says, “We should get going and let the artiste do her thing. I also promised Jake we’d get Shake Shack on the way home. Bribery is about the only thing I can do to get him to leave his room and those computer games behind.”
“Whatever works, right?”
“We do what we can.” Understanding is exchanged in a look and a nod. We’re both survivors in different ways, but single motherhood was an unexpected turn that continued to bond us together. Lila moved her son to the city five years ago after I had been in my new job for six months. Now she runs a donut shop in Brooklyn that she’s turned into a word-of-mouth sensation. “I’m keeping Reed for the night since I’m off in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I do. It’s the only way I can force you to have some fun. Drink some wine, mingle,” she says, laughing and bobbing her head. Raising an eyebrow, she mouths, “Get laid.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s what got me into this.” I won’t ever call my son a mess in this context because for him, I would go through everything all over again. But dating and sex, together or individually, are really the last thing I have time for between being a mommy to a five-year-old, my day as a financial analyst, and my photography that I’m trying my best to turn from a hobby into my profession.
Who has room for anything else? Not me.
After she retrieves Jake from the hors d’oeuvre buffet, I walk them out after another warm embrace. Kissing my boy on top of his head, I can’t help but notice how much darker his hair is getting as he grows older.
I wave goodbye through the window before getting dragged away to “talk up” my pieces to sell.
After a few hours, my heels start to kill my feet. I get a glass of wine, my first all evening, and head for a barstool hidden near the main desk to sit for a minute. Kathy, the gallery director, says, “You’ve sold five pieces with three options to sell the Haywood collection.”
“At these price points?”
“I told you we weren’t charging enough.”
High four figures seemed like a lot for an unknown artist, but I’m not going to argue. She adds, “We’re going to test the market on Tuesday with the remaining pieces. Fifteen to twenty-five thousand with a small discount for the collections.”
“I want to act like that isn’t blowing my mind, but it’s impossible.” I start to calculate my percentage, and it looks like Reed and I can take that Disney vacation, after all. I’ll drink to that.
Kathy and the other gallery employees love to guess who will buy what, and tonight’s no different. They even have a betting pool. Louise is in the lead, judging the clientele. She says, “Reed.” My eyes dart around the gallery, looking for my son, but then I realize she’s referring to the photograph. She laughs, which makes me uncomfortable. “He’s been there for ten minutes, but he’s not in the market for real art. Just stopping by after a spaghetti dinner next door.”
I get up and start to browse around the expansive room. The lights are bright on the photographs but dimmed in the rest of the gallery. While talking with patrons and doing an interview for Art Times New York, I have found that the pace has been fast, but I’ve had pockets of moments to myself. I couldn’t have designed a better evening.
A large group leaves, and it feels like the place is clearing out. I check my watch. It’s almost nine o’clock, so there’s only a short time left. I shake hands with a man who fell in love with one I named Rat. I thought I was being so ironic since it’s a cat I caught on film climbing out of the gutter. He got the concept and bought it.
Standing there, ten feet behind a man who makes my breathing deepen, I stare at the back of his head.
The shoulders.
The height.
The build.
The hair.
If it were another time and place, another life altogether, I’d swear I was staring at the man I once thought I’d be with forever . . . as he stares at the face of our son.
I take another sip of wine, but the taste never really did much for me. It’s a nice crutch at the moment. I walk closer, close enough that when the wind sneaks through the front door, I find myself closing my eyes and remembering him.
“If you don’t talk to him,” Kathy whispers in my ear, startling me out of my memories, “I will. Sweet baby Jesus, I will.”
I laugh softly, covering my mouth with my hand. Hip bumping her to send her back to the desk, I mouth, “He’s all mine.”
“You go get him, girl.”
“Shh.” I laugh again, a little louder.
He shifts but doesn’t turn back. I take a deep breath, another sip for courage, and then walk toward him. It’s a name I don’t say anymore, but it lies on the tip of my tongue, so desperate to taste it again.
I’m not sure if I even want it to be him. I’m not dressed for the occasion of running into my ex-boyfriend, so I don’t know if I’ll be relieved if it’s not. What nonsense am I talking about? It’s not him. Don’t be ridiculous. How would he be at my gallery opening in the middle of the city? What are the odds of that?
The film.
The party.
The coffee shop.
Considering our history, I’m not sure it would be that far-fetched to run into him. But this isn’t Atterton. It’s New York City.
Just in case, I stand close behind and put him to the test. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
His head drops forward as if he needs a moment. Because of me? Or? Turning his head to the side, he doesn’t look back, but replies, “Sometimes life does that.”
I find myself soaking this in—the hope, the coincidence, and the good memories we once made. “When you least expect it.” I stand next to him, not daring to look into the green eyes I still have memorized. Despite trying to remember his face during the downfall like I promised, I never could get over seeing him lying next to me, looking at me like I was his whole world. Maybe I was for a short time.
He was mine.
Now my world is vastly different.
We both slowly turn, and when I lay my eyes on him again, I feel my heart beating for the first time in years. “Hi,” I say, feeling it’s only right since I’m the host tonight.
“Hi.” His voice is still so familiar but with an older tone running through it. He must be twenty-eight based on the month, so maybe life has deepened it.
“What brings you into the gallery?”
He looks behind him, and says, “The restaurant next door.”
“Woot!” I hear Louise and the slap of a high-five as she scores another off him.
Chuckling, he says, “They’re happy.”
“Yeah.” All the rehearsed scripts I had written, practiced, and stored just in case this day ever came are forgotten, some of the anger as well. Is that what time does? Dulls the edges? We can only be so lucky.
I’m not disappointed in his answer, but would I feel better if he had looked me up?
Glancing at the photo, he turns back to me. “These are incredible.”
That’s when I’m reminded which piece he’s been standing in front of for the past ten minutes. My heart starts pounding for different reasons. “Thank you.” The words come rushed as panic sets in. “Did you see the Atterton collection?”