Charlie
It’s finally happened.
I am a headliner at the Yates Art Gallery on Broadway.
It’s been a couple of months in the making, but tonight, it’s real. My name is on the main banner outside. My paintings and drawings take up nearly half the gallery space. People are actually here to see my work.
I’m dressed in my version of fancy: a cropped black silk button-up that shows a strip of skin at my waist, tight dark pants with strategic rips and fishnets peeking through, silver stud earrings, and fresh winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass.
My curls are tamed just enough to look intentional. I feel powerful. Exposed. Alive.
Lucy hasn’t left my side since we got here. She’s in a sparkly silver dress that makes her look like a disco ball, and every time someone compliments my art, she squeezes my arm like she might burst with pride.
“Charlie, this is insane,” she whispers as another couple stops in front of the large painting of Hunter sleeping with Sofia on his chest. “People are buying them. That woman in the red dress just asked about the fountain piece. She called it ‘hauntingly intimate.’”
I laugh, a little breathless, champagne flute cold in my hand.
The gallery is warm and buzzing—soft lighting, jazz playing low, people milling between my work and the other featured artists.
My stomach keeps flipping every time someone lingers in front of one of the Hunter pieces.
Some of them feel so personal I almost want to hide, but seeing strangers connect with them…
it’s healing something I didn’t know was still broken.
“You did this,” Lucy says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You took all that pain and made it into something beautiful. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I lean into her, letting myself feel it for a second. The excitement. The pride. The nervous thrill of putting my heart on these walls for everyone to see.
Then the air changes.
The chatter doesn’t stop, but it fades into the background as the door opens and he walks in.
Hunter.
He’s wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, showing the scars on his forearms, and dark form fitting jeans. His hair is a little longer but neatly styled, stubble thicker but also trimmed, but those eyes…those eyes find me instantly across the room.
The whole world stops spinning.
My breath catches. My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. The champagne flute trembles in my hand. Lucy follows my gaze and goes still beside me.
His gaze moves from piece to piece, lingering on each one. When his eyes finally land back on me, the look in them nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.
He looks… good. Sober. Like he’s been through hell and is still standing. And he’s looking at me like I’m still the brightest thing in the room.
Lucy squeezes my arm. “Oh shit,” she whispers. “You want me to run interference?”
I shake my head, eyes still locked on his.
“No,” I murmur. “I think… I need to talk to him.”
Hunter takes one slow step forward, then another, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he moves too fast.
And just like that, everything fades into the background.
It’s just him.
And me.
And months of everything we never got to say. We both start speaking at the exact same time.
“How did you know about the show?” I ask, voice soft.
“You look good,” he says at the same moment, rough and honest.
We both stop. A tiny, nervous laugh slips out of me. Hunter’s mouth twitches like he almost smiles, but it doesn’t quite make it.
He clears his throat first. “I saw it earlier this week. Walked by and… there I was. All over the walls.” His eyes flick around the room for a second before coming back to mine. “I couldn’t stay away tonight. Not when I knew you’d be here.”
I swallow hard, my heart doing that stupid fluttering thing it always does around him. He looks…different. And my fingers itch to paint him. Guess some things don’t change. He might always be my muse.
“You look good, too,” I say quietly. “Sober.”
He clears his throat, as though he’s nervous. “I am. Have been since passing out at the therapy circle, actually. I’ve been doing the work. Therapy. AA. All of it.” His gaze drops for a second, then lifts again, vulnerable in a way I am not sure I’ve ever seen him. “I’ve missed you, though.”
The noise of the gallery feels very far away. All I can focus on is the way he’s looking at me, as though I’m still the most important person in the room.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
The words feel like stepping off a ledge, but they’re true. I’ve missed the way he looks at me. The way he makes the world feel quieter.
His voice is low, just for me.
“I know I apologized before, but I really am sorry for that night. I’ve been working on my shit, Charlie. I’m not fixed, not even close, but I’m trying. Every day.”
The honesty in his voice cracks something open inside my chest. He’s not trying to charm me or promise the world. He’s just standing here, raw and vulnerable in the middle of a crowded gallery, telling me the truth.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my champagne flute as emotions rush in.
“I can see that,” I say quietly. “You look… steadier. Clearer.”
Hunter lets out a small, self-deprecating breath. “Took passing out in front of the whole therapy circle for me to finally get it together. Not my finest moment.”
“You scared me that night,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He presses his lips together and gives me a sad smile. “Wasn’t my intention. I was pretty fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
We stand there for a moment, the weight of that night hanging between us. The memory of him stumbling into group, slurring and angry, still makes my stomach twist. But seeing him now—sober, clearer-eyed, standing here like he’s actually trying—softens something in me.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, voice quieter. “I was worried about you.”
Hunter’s gaze drops for a second, then lifts again, vulnerable.
“I’m trying to stay okay,” he says.
I nod, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips for the first time since he walked in.
“Good. I’m proud of you for that.”
His eyes soften, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the gallery disappears again. Just him and me, standing among all these pieces of our complicated history.
“I’m proud of you, too,” he murmurs, gesturing lightly at the walls around us. “All of this… it’s incredible, Charlie. You’re incredible.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache in the best way.
We don’t say anything more for a long moment. We don’t need to. There’s still so much unsaid, so much healing left to do, but right now, in this crowded room filled with paintings of his face, it feels like we’re both taking one careful step forward.
Lucy hovers nearby, giving us space but staying close enough to intervene if needed. I catch her eye and give her a small nod. I’m okay.
Hunter seems to sense the moment is ending. He takes a small step back, respecting the distance.
“I’ll let you enjoy your night,” he says softly. “You deserve this. All of it.”
He hesitates, then adds, almost shyly, “If you ever want to talk… really talk… I’d like that. No pressure.”
I nod, throat tight. “I’d like that, too. Eventually.”
He gives me one last long look, like he’s memorizing me, then turns and heads toward the door.
I watch him go, heart full and aching at the same time.
The night continues around me, but just seeing him has made something inside of me feel lighter, and I know I’ll be reaching out to him soon.