Chapter 51
Chapter fifty-one
Tom
Sam's heels click behind me as we cross the gallery. I don't look back. I just keep walking, heart hammering against my ribs. My hands drop back into my pockets to hide the shaking.
We turn into the other exhibition space.
I stop at the threshold and step aside.
Sam takes three more steps before she sees them.
She stops.
The photographs line the wall under gallery lights—twelve black frames, white mats, clean spacing. The fire escape cutting across weathered brick. The kid's hand pressed flat against chain-link. Light falling through the bodega window onto cracked linoleum.
Work I've never shown anyone.
Sam moves closer to the first frame. Her head tilts slightly, the way it does when she's reading a site plan. She's quiet. Completely still.
I stay where I am, hands in my pockets, trying to breathe normally.
She moves to the next photograph. The old man on the stoop, shadow from the fire escape falling across his shoulders in diagonal lines. Her hand comes up, fingers hovering near the mat but not touching.
My chest tightens.
She steps to the title card.
I watch her eyes move across the text.
The Bronx.
Then the line beneath it.
Tom Bennett.
Her shoulders go still.
She reads it again.
Then she turns.
Her face changes—wide eyes, parted lips—but I can't tell if she's angry or surprised or—
"Tom," she says. Her voice sounds thin. "This is—"
She doesn't finish. She turns back to the wall, staring at the images like she's trying to make sense of them.
I don't move.
She takes another step, stops at the woman leaning out the third-floor window. Arms braced on the sill, suspended between the building and the air.
"Tom." She turns back to me. "I mean, your photography is beautiful." She pauses, searching for words. "But this is… I don't know. Something else. This is on a whole other plane."
My shoulders loosen a little.
I take a breath. "I watched you submit the Harbor project even when you weren't sure. So I finally did this."
Her eyes widen.
"I shot this series three years ago and never showed it to anyone. I watched you chase your dream with the Harbor Project. Then I watched you submit a design you weren't sure would win—and you did it anyway." I gesture toward the wall with a small tilt of my head. "It's here because of you."
Sam's face changes—her mouth opening slightly before closing again. Her hands rise to her mouth, fingertips pressed together.
She brushes at her cheek quickly, surprised. Another tear follows.
I step forward without thinking, thumb catching it before it reaches her jaw. "Hey, what's wrong?" I shift closer and tilt my head, waiting for her to look at me.
She laughs and shakes her head. "I don't know." She looks back at the wall. "It's just—these are so beautiful."
My thumb is still against her cheek. I drop my hand.
Before I can figure it out, a voice cuts in from behind us.
"You must be Mr. Bennett's talented girlfriend."
I turn.
Martha's approaching with that calm, assured smile she wears like armor. Navy blazer, tablet under her arm, white hair perfectly cut.
Sam blinks, looking a little confused.
Martha extends her hand. "I'm Martha."
Sam shakes it automatically. "Sam."
Martha gestures toward my work. "Mr. Bennett told me you were exhibiting in the other hall."
Sam glances at me. I'm watching her, not Martha.
"I am," Sam says.
Martha nods, her expression calm. "I've been curating for over thirty years. This exhibit is one of the best I've seen. Probably in the top five."
My face goes hot. I duck my head slightly. "Thank you, Martha."
She raises one eyebrow and smiles. "Don't thank me. You're the artist."
A quick wink. Then she turns back to Sam.
"He also told me," Martha says, voice clear and even, "that your work is better."
All the air leaves my lungs.
I didn't expect her to say that out loud.
Sam goes completely still. She looks at me.
Martha touches Sam's arm gently. "That, my dear, puts you in an elite group of talent."
Then she walks away.
Sam opens her mouth. I wait for her to say something—anything—but before she can, I hear footsteps and voices behind us.
Wren.
The Boss Babes.
Then Liv's voice, low and stunned: "Tom. When were you going to tell us about this?"
There's a beat of silence.
Then they erupt.
Priya steps closer to the fire escape photograph. "Holy—wait, can I curse in a gallery?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Forget it. Holy you-know-what, Tom. When were you going to tell us?"
I laugh, embarrassed—and rub the back of my neck.
Nadia's already at the bodega window shot, leaning in. "This is incredible."
They move through the exhibit, voices layering over each other. Composition. Light. Emotion.
I'm not looking at them.
I'm looking at Sam.
She's moving through their reactions like she's floating—half-present, half somewhere else. She nods when Nadia says something, smiles faintly when Priya gestures at the stoop photograph.
But her eyes keep drifting back to the wall.
Wren waves a hand in front of my face, laughing. "Hello? Anyone there?"
I blink. Turn to her. "Sorry."
The Boss Babes are talking to Sam now.
"You didn't know?" Nadia asks, incredulous.
"Of course not," Priya says before Sam can answer. "He wouldn't want to take away from her moment."
I step closer. To Sam. And say to the group, "Let's get back to the other wing. Back to the real reason we're all here."
I offer Sam my arm.
She takes it.
I squeeze her arm gently and nod toward the other wing. "Come on. Let's get you back."
We start walking. The gallery noise swells around us—voices, laughter, glasses clinking.
I glance down at her.
She's looking up at me.
My jaw flexes. There's something I should say, something I've been holding back all night, but the words are stuck behind my teeth. I press my mouth closed and keep walking.
Her eyes don't leave mine.
"You guys go ahead," Sam says, glancing at the Boss Babes and Wren.
They exchange looks but nod, drifting toward her exhibit.
Sam slows.
"Tom?"
I blink. Smile—small, not quite easy. "Yeah?"
She doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like she's waiting for something.
My jaw tightens. My hands go back into my pockets. My shoulders lock.
I don't know if she's mad. I don't know if I messed this up.
"Sam!" A voice calls from across the hall.
She turns. Someone's waving—a curator, maybe, or another guest.
I exhale slowly. I nod toward the sound. "Come on. They're looking for you."
She doesn't move right away.
She's still looking at me.
I wait.
She nods and turns toward the voice.