Chapter 11 #2
I let myself believe her for a second. “I want to. I want to do something…big.” I looked out through the unfinished windows at Main Street, where the only movement was a dog sleeping in a patch of shade. “I don’t want to just sell art. I want to bring something real here. Get people talking.”
Harper’s gaze softened. “You’re already doing that. You’re the only person I know who could turn a boarded-up furniture store into a dream in just weeks.”
I shrugged, embarrassed. “You did tons of the heavy lifting, harassing contractors and consulting with the architect. I just made mood boards and picked colors.”
“That’s called being a visionary, babe. Plus, let's face it, our trust fund did most of the heavy lifting.”
She wasn’t wrong about that. Money talked.
The forewoman’s walkie crackled, and she excused herself. Harper and I wandered up to the mezzanine, where the UV-coated glass windows had just been installed. The sunlight came through in cool sheets, turning the floors blue and gold.
“This is your office,” Harper said, pulling me up to the unfinished room. It was barely framed in, just a suggestion of walls, but the view was incredible. You could see the entire gallery below, every inch of future space.
I looked down at the unfinished gallery below, imagining opening-night crowds, wine glasses, the hum of people who actually cared about beauty. “It’s insane,” I said. “How did we even get here?”
She leaned against the frame, arms folded. “We survived. We did what we had to do. And now we get to do what we want.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but the emotion was there, coiled tight.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. We just stood looking out over our half-built empire, letting ourselves believe it might actually work.
Eventually, Harper broke the silence. “You think Gunner will show up to opening night?”
I laughed. “Only if I promise him there’ll be whiskey and chicken wings.”
She grinned. “He’s good for you, you know.”
“Is he?”
“You’re smiling more. Even if you don’t know it.”
I glanced down at my hands, not sure what to do with the praise. “It’s weird. I feel…lighter. Not less sad, just…like I can breathe.”
“That’s called healing, babe.”
“Yeah, I think it is.” I said behind a smile.
We circled back to the main floor, stopping to check out the progress on the windows.
The new glass was thick and flawless, the kind you saw in high-end boutiques in Dallas.
My name was already stenciled on the door, “Wildbrush Gallery,” in matte silver.
Seeing it there made my chest ache, but in a good way.
“I want to get local artists on the roster,” I said, thinking out loud. “Young ones, especially. There’s so much talent out there, and most of them don’t have a place to show.”
Harper nodded. “You’ll make it happen.”
“I hope so.”
She cocked her head. “Have you told Mom?”
“About the gallery? Yeah. About last night? Hell no.”
She snorted. “One crisis at a time.”
I wanted to ask her about how things were with Arsenal, if she’d finally told him about the nightmares, the panic attacks, all the stuff we never admitted in daylight. But I let it go, for now. Today was about hope, not history.
As we made our way out, the foreman flagged us down and handed over a binder of paperwork—permits, paint samples, the works. I tucked it under my arm, feeling official and, for the first time, maybe even a little grown up.
Harper slung her arm around my shoulders. “Ready to take on the world, Wildbrush?”
I nodded, savoring the feel of her weight, the warmth of her confidence. “Past ready.”
My office was temporarily set up on our kitchen table.
I’d rather be working at the gallery, but the construction noise wasn’t conducive to conducting any real business yet.
I had my new over the top plush office chair delivered here so I could at least work in comfort and style.
My mother had thankfully, promised to stay clear during work hours.
My laptop sat in front of me along with a wide-screen monitor that was filled with several examples of Wildbrush Gallery logos I’d mocked up.
I had finally settled on one that would work for a signature on my email.
The paintbrush bristles were made to look like a bunch of wildflowers, and the stylized lettering was layered over it.
It was simple and refined. I’d used that signature on the emails that I’d sent to several artist agencies earlier this week, hoping I could snag a young up-and-coming artist hungry enough to want to have an exhibition in the middle of nowhere Texas.
I had a legal pad on my desk on which I’d scrawled in Sharpie: “Wildbrush Gallery: Opening Show.” The rest of the pad was a fever-dream of sticky notes, color schemes, and wild guesses about how I was supposed to launch a business.
I had thirty unread emails and the kind of nervous energy that made it impossible to focus on any one thing for more than three minutes. I bounced between spam, overdue invoices, and promo blasts until a subject line caught my eye:
WBG: Exhibition Proposal — Lysander Hale, Hale I had a gallery, and in a week, a man who I hoped would become a good friend was flying out to validate my existence.
I felt a swell of pride. I’d done this. I was doing it.
I checked my phone. There was a text from Gunner:
Home tonight after 7. Let me know if you want dinner. Or dessert.
I grinned, typing back:
How about both? I’ve got a lot to celebrate.
I set the phone down and stared out the window at the backyard with the pretty lemon tree and thought about the gallery. I pictured it filled with light and color, laughter and art.
This was my world now, and I was ready for it.