Chapter 35
Emery
The gallery doesn’t open for another hour, but I’m already there, triple-checking every wall and surface for errors only I can see.
The building is a converted textile factory downtown full of exposed brick and concrete floors.
It’s a far cry from the baroque dens I’m used to from college and finishing school days.
I like the honesty of the place. Even the ceiling is raw, crisscrossed with steel beams and half-strangled with string lights, as if the owner gave up on the concept of “atmosphere” and let the space do what it wanted.
The first time I saw it, the space was empty except for a sad, feral cat skulking under the risers.
Now it’s filled with my work, canvases stacked three rows high on some walls, with smaller pieces clustered together like gossiping birds.
There’s a literal blue ribbon on the front door—a joke from Eloise, who’s currently in the bathroom gluing fake gemstones to her eyelids and probably also to the fixtures.
I check the catalogue as my heart does irregular gymnastics. The pages are crisp, my name printed in a font that would make my high school art teacher pass out. It’s a real art show.
My art show.
The thought makes me want to puke or maybe dance. Maybe both at the same time. I opt for the latter, spinning a slow, stupid circle on the gallery floor while the echoes of my own footsteps chase me in circles.
Eloise emerges, trailed by a comet of coconut-scented body spray. Her hair is slicked into a high ponytail with a streak of metallic gold running through it. Her lips are the same neon blue as the paint stains on my hands. She looks at me like she’s about to stage an intervention.
“You’re going to hyperventilate before anyone even gets here.” She picks an invisible piece of lint from my dress.
“I’m fine,” I lie, which is a tradition at this point.
She smirks, then surveys the room with a critical eye. “Is it weird seeing your art up on every wall? It’s intimidating for me and it’s not even mine.”
Eloise hasn’t taken this leap yet. Depending on how today goes, maybe she never will.
“It’s something, yeah.” I glance at a few again.
“I’m excited. And proud of course. But somehow this is scarier than Omega Selection Day.
” I was so sure of myself that day, and am sure of myself now.
Both involve putting myself on display in one way or another.
But this… art is soul-deep. This is different.
Eloise hugs me. “You’re going to do amazing, and I’ll make sure no one ruins it.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze her tightly. Eloise has seen me through everything, and I’ve always done the same for her.
Eloise pulls back and swipes a tear from her eye. “All right. Enough sentiment. We’ve got to stop that before I happy cry all my makeup off.”
“Right.” It’s no use, though, because now I’m wiping a tear away, too.
Eloise’s phone goes off. She checks it and grins up at me. “You’re not going to believe this.”
She doesn’t look concerned, so I choose to believe this is good news. “What?”
Eloise flips her phone around to show me a photo. “Your parents just sent me this. There’s a huge line outside.”
My jaw drops as I taken in the sight of at least a hundred people just outside the building. “How? I mean… What?”
Eloise lets out an excited noise. “Let’s get this party started!” She claps once and runs for the front doors.
When the doors open, the crowd surges in like a tidal wave. The noise is immediate and overwhelming—a million voices, a forest of hands pointing at the walls, the music turned up to “party” even though it’s just ambient synth and a singer who sounds like she’s dying of heartbreak.
My alphas are some of the first in line.
They immediately make way for me and embrace me one by one.
Bastion is dressed in a fitted gray suit and his hair is styled wildly.
Wyatt is wearing a simple black suit. He’s got a fidget toy of some sort in the hand he used it always carry his cell phone in.
Ranier keeps an arm around my side. He his tailored black suit has blue lines running in designs along every length in the same color as the blue in my hair.
Ranier grins from ear to ear. “You look stunning.”
“So does your work,” Wyatt adds before kissing my cheek.
“You and Eloise did an amazing job setting this up.” Bastion, for the first time ever, looks bashful.
I giggle and hug Bastion tight. “Thank you. This is everything I’ve dreamed of for my debut art exhibition.”
“I hope it won’t be the last,” Wyatt says earnestly. “I know… I know what I’ve said in the past, but that was Idiot Wyatt talking. Your work is truly incredible.”
“Well, I loved Idiot Wyatt, too,” I admit.
But we don’t get much longer before attendees approach to talk about my art and, to my surprise, future in the art industry. Everyone is polite, even the journalists who show up, but it doesn’t take me long to find out that more than a few of these guests were invited by Bastion himself.
I catch his eye over the crowd at one point and smile, my head tilted slightly. You invited them all one by one?
He must somehow understand because he just shrugs lightly with a grin on his face and walks away. As if he’d never admit to it, but he’s proud nonetheless.
Everhart Pack is more than I ever could have dreamed of. Even with the rocky start. But honestly, with every passing minute since the holiday shelter event, I’m starting to replace every rocky memory with a shiny, wholesome new one that I never want to let go of.
My parents arrive at some point, but it’s not until an hour in that I’m able to find and talk to them.
My father is in a checked shirt with a tie that might be older than I am, and my mother is wearing a nice purple dress and a cardigan, her hair down for once.
They both look stunned, standing near the entrance like the world has shifted under their feet.
I watch them walk the room, pausing at every piece, my mom reading the wall tags out loud and my dad taking slow, methodical phone pictures of every painting like it’s the only way he’ll remember I was here.
They don’t see me at first, which gives me time to get my own nerves in order. Then I circle around and approach from the side.
“Hey.”
My mom sees me, and the dam breaks. She hugs me so hard it hurts, whispering “we’re so proud” and “your dad cried in the car, don’t let him deny it.” My dad does not deny it. He just hugs me, too, and then steps back to wipe his face with the palm of his hand.
For a minute, I am five years old again and showing them some crayon drawing.
I show them my favorite painting—a nest made out of blue and gold thread, with three wolves curled together at the center. My mom traces the lines of the wolves, eyes bright.
They make the circuit of the gallery with me, meeting Eloise and even talking to Wyatt, who turns the charm to max and gets my mom to laugh out loud within sixty seconds.
Ranier hovers nearby, occasionally making eye contact with my dad and then looking away like he’s worried what’s transpired has forever made an impact.
Bastion introduces himself with a firm handshake and roguish smile.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur. At some point, a curator from another gallery asks if I’m “taking commissions,” and when I say yes, he gives me his card and asks for two pieces for a show in the spring.
People buy nearly everything on the wall before four p.m. Bastion works the floor like a pro, somehow turning every passing compliment into a sale.
Wyatt manages to swipe my phone and take photos of the event to be posted to my art account later on.
There are Council people here, too, some with clipboards, some just there to gawk.
One woman in a red blazer corners me by the snack table and says, “You know, if you ever want to use your platform for policy, you could have a future in the advocacy sector.” I try not to laugh, but she’s serious, and so I just say “I’ll think about it” and flee before she can ask for more.
At this stage, I want nothing to do with the Council who tried to push me out of my own fairytale.
The hours pass fast. I lose track of time and just float, arms linked with Eloise or hands occupied with tiny plastic cups of champagne.
Eventually, the crowd thins. The staff starts stacking chairs, and Eloise rounds up the stragglers for afterparty plans.
I slip outside with the pack, the four of us forming a tight little unit on the icy steps.
The city is quiet, the air soft and electric. Streetlights flicker, and I can see my breath in the cold.
I huddle in amongst my alphas. “Best day ever.”
Bastion drapes an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in closer to his body heat. “Told you. You’re a fucking star.”
Wyatt grins, then leans against the railing, spinning my phone in his hand. “We trended. Top ten in the city. You’re officially famous, Emery.”
Ranier gives me a sidelong glance, then reaches for my hand. His grip is steady, warm. “Are you okay?”
“Perfect.” I couldn’t be more perfect if we all tried.
We stand like that for a long time, not talking, just being. Then Eloise bursts out of the gallery, arms full of coats and leftover wine, and yells, “Photo time! Get over here before you’re all too drunk to stand up straight.”
We crowd together on the steps. Eloise sets her phone on a timer and joins us, grinning wide. The flash goes off, and for a split second, I see the future. Not just for me, but for all of us. It’s bright and, most importantly, real.
After the picture, Bastion pulls me into a kiss, hard and hot, tasting like sugar and possibility. Then Wyatt and Ranier follow with a careful, devastating brush of lips that makes my toes curl even in two layers of tights.
“Right, I’m out of here,” Eloise declares with a giggle. “Give you all some space.” She heads back inside and we pile into the back of Ranier’s car, limbs tangled and love blooming.
The perfect end to the most perfect day.
“Thank you,” I tell them. “Thank you.”