Chapter 15
Fifteen
I wasn’t sure what I thought “normalcy” would look like when I settled full-time in Dahlia Point.
Back at Sky Valley, I had a strict routine.
I ran in the morning, went to class, went to the library, volunteered as a student editing tutor, went home, wrote things, read things, watched things. Rise, rinse, repeat.
Here, there were too many uncertainties—my post-grad career (or lack thereof), Nikki’s health, and everything slightly more inconsequential in between.
But getting ready together to go to an art gallery show in Nikki’s room while blasting some bubblegum pop music made it feel normal in a new way.
“God, I wish I had your boobs,” Nikki said as she glanced over at me, capping her pink lip gloss.
“It’s not too much, is it?” I looked back in the mirror to assess the silky baby-blue cocktail dress I’d picked out at a boutique downtown, pulling the sweetheart neckline up slightly to cover more of my very exposed cleavage.
“No way,” she insisted, reaching over and yanking it back down to where it was. “If you got it, flaunt it. Body positivity and all that jazz.”
“So that’s what you’re learning in group therapy.”
“Something like that.” She waved me off, and for a moment the low tone of her voice triggered an alarm in me, but then she glanced at me with a faint smirk, and everything settled. “You might give Brooklyn a heart attack, but surely someone knows CPR.”
“Oh, stop it.” I rolled my eyes, holding out my hand for her lip gloss. “I’m sure he’s seen a pair of boobs once in his life.”
“Maybe, but not yours.”
Before I had a chance to snap back, Mom called up the stairs for us.
“Girls! Uber’s here!”
When I’d offered to drive, I had been brutally rebuffed. Apparently we were all going to have a good time tonight; whatever that meant.
Downtown Dahlia Point seemed picturesque on a quiet Saturday night.
It was still a small beach town, with one main road lined with aesthetic but old gas lamps and few pedestrians dotting the sidewalks, but passing through it finally felt comfortable—a place in which I felt at home.
The sun was sinking behind the tops of the palm trees, bathing them in a warm, dusky glow.
Our Uber slowed to a stop in front of a tiny white brick building: the Furman Gallery.
Mom had talked about wanting to be featured at the gallery when she was in art school here. It hadn’t happened, and when she met my dad, she’d moved out to Sky Valley, where he lived and worked. I always wondered if she’d felt a little resentful about it, but I never wanted to ask her.
Despite being in the center of a small beach town, the Furman Gallery seemed so official and professional.
Apparently people from all over the state would be trickling in throughout the night to catch glimpses of pieces of art they could buy for their swanky city offices or sprawling modern ranches.
We’d headed over a little early so Mom had some time to take in her pieces being displayed so proudly, and when she turned to assess the two of us, tears glistened in her eyes.
“I’m so happy I get to share this with you girls.” She put a hand on each of our shoulders.
“Come on.” Nikki groaned, dabbing the corners of her eyes. “We just did our makeup, and I didn’t put waterproof mascara on.”
We laughed through the emotion, and Mom gave us each a hug. When she squeezed me, she held on a little longer.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispered in my ear.
“Me? For what?”
She let go, holding me at arm’s length with a smile. “Allowing yourself to be a girl this summer. I haven’t seen you have so much fun in a long time.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m trying.” I smiled at her, thankful that I had chosen waterproof mascara (even if it was by happy accident) as tears stung the corners of my eyes. Good tears, though. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” She pulled me into another quick hug before collecting herself and smoothing the front of her navy dress down.
A few of the other artists had arrived, and eventually so did some patrons.
The event wasn’t terribly crowded, which wasn’t all that surprising, being a smaller gallery in a small town, but it wasn’t empty, either, and quite a few people took an interest in some of Mom’s paintings.
Couples meandered by, champagne in hand, making offhand remarks about the flow of this painting or the coloring on that painting.
Dainty piano music floated through the air, though there was no sign of an actual piano.
Thirty minutes had gone by and there was no sign of Brooklyn either. I’d sequestered myself in an empty corner and checked my phone for what felt like the tenth time, and it was still radio silent.
“Not even a text?” Nikki appeared beside me, tapping her pink fingernails on her champagne glass.
I slipped my phone back into my purse. “Punctuality isn’t exactly his strong suit. I’m sure it’s fine.”
I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince more—me or her.
“If you say so.” Nikki shrugged, not bothering to hide her unease.
As if I’d manifested him, I looked up to see Brooklyn stroll through the entrance to the gallery.
One of the hostesses who carried around a tray of champagne, a petite blond girl, scanned him with curious eyes as he walked by.
I had never paid attention to how other women looked at him, mostly because I didn’t care, although I realized I’d be foolish to think that I was the only person who thought he was attractive.
He was a different kind of attractive—not striking and goonish, but rather refined and rough around the edges—but that was what really made him so appealing to look at.
“See, being late’s not a crime,” I told her. “You’re usually late.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes as she walked away. Instinctively I took a step to go after her, feeling a pang of guilt shoot through my chest. I didn’t want Nikki to be upset, especially because of me, but suddenly he was in front of me, and all the air left my lungs.
I couldn’t have created someone better in any made-up schoolgirl daydreams. He wore all black, with his suit jacket open and the first two buttons of his shirt undone.
He was clean-shaven, giving a view to how angular and strong his jawline was, but his hair was as intentionally messy as it always was, making him look just a little more human.
“Wow,” he said breathlessly, his eyes trailing up and down my body. “You look . . . wow.”
Prickly heat spread across my chest. “You look pretty wow too.”
Brooklyn scooted closer to me as another hostess walked behind him, having to weave through the small crowd of people with a full tray of champagne, and placed his hands at my waist to keep us both upright.
He smelled so good it genuinely made me weak at the knees.
When he realized how close we were, he took a step back.
“I’m really sorry I’m late,” he blurted. “I originally had a white shirt on, then I spilled coffee on it, and I couldn’t find another shirt so I had to look through my dad’s closet. It was a mess.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re here now.”
“I am.” He brought his hand back to my waist with a little more intention this time, snaking it around to rest on the small of my back. He dipped his head down so he could whisper in my ear. “You really do look beautiful.”
My body reacted to his touch, and I put my hands to his chest. “You really do too. Handsome, I mean. You clean up nicely.”
Having an intimate moment with someone really changed the way you looked at them—no matter how small and seemingly inconsequential that moment was.
Sure we’d kissed, and sure we said it was a one-time thing, but it didn’t change how you hyperfocused on their lips and tried to relive the moment in your head, from the way they tasted to the places their hands rested on your body.
I searched his deep ocean-blue eyes, wondering if he was reliving it too.
He poked his tongue out to swipe it along his bottom lip, and I had to swallow down my heart.
But my sister, as always, had impeccable timing. Brooklyn and I separated like we’d shocked each other.
“Thank god you’re here.” She feigned distress, as if she hadn’t been standing by me in the same exact spot not five minutes ago.
“Hey, Nikki,” Brooklyn greeted her.
“Hi,” she replied, but she kept her focus on me. “You need to talk Mom out of locking herself in the bathroom for the rest of the night.”
“What?” I said. “Is she all right?”
Nikki shook her head. “She’s been doing that awkward HI, I’m Melanie, have we met before? to people passing by, like Dory from Finding Nemo.”
“Oh boy.”
“It’s fine,” Brooklyn chimed in. “I actually should go find the bathroom.”
Nikki didn’t waste another second and pulled me away. Mom stood on the far side of the gallery, between two large oil paintings of the ocean. I remembered seeing her work on one of them, and it had taken her days to get the colors right for the water.
The closer we got to her, the more out of place I realized she looked.
Even though I had watched her pull her hair tight into a sleek ponytail when we were all getting ready, frizzy strands had begun to poke out at her hairline.
As a man and a woman walked by to admire one of her paintings, she gave them an awkward grimace.
“Oh god, Nat.” She groaned as I walked up to her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what to do with my hands or my mouth, and this dress is so goddamn itchy.”
I put my hands down on her shoulders. “Everything’s all right, you need to loosen up a bit. These rich artsy people can smell fear.”
That got her to chuckle and her shoulders to ease up under my hands.
“Take a few deep breaths,” I told her. “I’ll stay right here with you and entice people over with the cleavage Nikki insisted I have out.”
She laughed again and heaved out a relieved sigh. “I’m fine. You should go enjoy yourself. Both of you.”