There’s another announcement. “Please take your seats now,” someone says over the intercom.
Nick drapes his arm around my shoulder and we quickly scan the rows of seats facing the stage, before locating, and claiming back row seats. Not more than a minute later, one of the event founders that I’d met earlier steps to center stage and begins to speak without wasting time on fluff. She gets right to the point of the event: The artists. A big screen is lowered and it starts rotating with images of this year’s artistic participants, as well as the top three picks for each that were on display tonight. The name “Winter” places me at the end of that line up, and when they read out An Eye for an Eye, I cringe with the certainty that it will garner Macom’s attention. Nick knows, too. His fingers flex on my leg where his hand rests. But soon, the moment is muted as the speaker launches into an anecdote about the first event held by the organization fifteen years ago.
Finally, it’s time for the award to be announced, which means Nick and I can escape, and the real experience, the show, will be only hours away. Macom steps to the podium to announce the winner, thankfully a really long way from myself and Nick. “Each year one blossoming talent is picked from the show’s participants,” he says. “Tonight is no exception. Tonight I will announce one shining star that will be featured at tomorrow’s show at the entryway as all visitors enter the showroom. In the past, we’ve named such artists as Mallery Michaels, Kat Martin, and Newman Wright. Famous names I know you all recognize. If you’re lucky, you own one of their creations. And so tonight, in the tradition of greats, I will announce a new great. I have to tell you, this one is special. I’m close to this person. She has always been a shining star in my eyes.”
I suck in air at the “she.” Nick leans in even before my name is even called and says, “Poetic justice, sweetheart.”
“This year’s winner,” Macom says dramatically, “is Faith Winter. Faith, come to the front, please.”
Shock rolls through me. “This can’t be happening,” I whisper, applause clamoring around me.
“It is happening, sweetheart,” Nick says. “Go accept your award.”
“I’m trembling,” I say. “Nick, I’m trembling hard.”
“I got you, sweetheart,” he says, standing up and taking me with him, guiding me to the center row, which from the back, now looks incredibly long for someone as unsteady as I am right now. Nick seems to know this, hitching my hand to his elbow before taking a step, walking that one, and every one that follows with me. “Deep breath,” he murmurs softly.
I nod, and draw in air, holding it before I let it out, while my mind focuses on one coherent thought: My dream of a career as an artist is becoming real. I repeat this thought about ten times before we reach the stage. “Congrats, sweetheart,” Nick says, as a man in a suit offers me his arm and helps me up the stairs.
In five steps, I am on the stage and completely unprepared for a speech. I’m most certainly unprepared for Macom’s greeting, which includes pulling me into a hug. “It was fate that I presented this award,” he murmurs in my ear. “We’re going to celebrate tonight.” He releases me and I’m too overwhelmed right now to do anything but dismiss him immediately and step to the microphone.
Suddenly, lights are shining on me and unknown faces are looking up at me. Seconds tick by before I realize this is where I need to speak. “Hi everyone.” Audience voices reply, and smiles abound, which eases my nerves. “To say that I am stunned and appreciative would be a gross understatement,” I continue. “It seems I almost forgot how to walk while trying to get to the stage. Which brings me to the person who helped me make that walk and who not only encourages me daily, but inspired one of the paintings on display tonight.” I search for Nick and find him at the edge of the stage. “Thank you, Nick. I know that I would not be here without you. And I know you would tell me that I would have found my way no matter what. But it’s a better journey with you.” He presses two fingers to his lips and then does a little motion toward me before I refocus on the audience. “Thank you specifically as well, to those who saw my entries, and then my work, and offered me this amazing recognition and opportunity. I hope everyone enjoys the show tomorrow.”
I step away from the microphone to the clamor of more applause and I fully intend to join Nick at the bottom of the stage, but the man who’d helped me up the stairs stops me. “We need you for a photo op backstage.”
I’m then ushered away, and I try to turn to find Nick, but the lights are in my eyes. The next thing I know, Macom is at my elbow and cameras are flashing around us. “Congrats, baby,” Macom says, as we shove through a curtain.
I’d tell him not to call me baby, but I have no idea who the other man at my opposite elbow is, and I’m swarmed by people before I can reply anyway. Cameras flash at close range and I’m hurried to stand in front of a photo backdrop. I’m also holding a statue that is a paintbrush and palette that I’m pretty sure I was given on stage, and the fact that I don’t remember getting it is a testament to just how consumed by nerves I am.
Suddenly, Macom is sent back to my side for additional photos, along with a show sponsor, both instructed to stand beside me. Both place their hands at my back, but Macom’s is low, too low for comfort. I don’t want to seem as if I can’t support the organization when my ex is involved and I try to be savvy in my avoidance. The minute the shot is done, I step to the opposite side of the sponsor, placing him in the center. And this kind of push and pull with Macom continues until I can take no more.
“Excuse me, please,” I say to a man who seems to be in charge. “I need to attend a meeting. Thank you for everything.” I hold up my statue. “Really. Thank you.” I dash toward an exit sign, and I don’t stop. I close the space between me and it, and push the bar on the door beneath it. On the other side, I find myself in some sort of narrow hallway that renders me trapped if Macom tried to follow. Wanting out of this maze, I head down the path, and I’m close to an archway leading to another room when a door opens in front of me and Macom steps in my path.
I start to back up, but he’s fast and already he’s in front of me, his fists on the wall on either side of me, caging me. And with the statue in my hand, I’m at a disadvantage that reaches beyond his size versus mine. “Please move,” I say, not because I want to be civil, but because I know him. If I set him off, this gets worse.
“Baby, please talk to me. Don’t put me through seeing you with that man for another minute. I saw the painting. I know what it means. I hurt you. I get it. But you’ve punished me.”
“That painting wasn’t about you, but me. Step aside, Macom.”
“It killed me to hear you thank him tonight. It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me.”