Chapter 4
Four
Addie
The last three weeks have been grueling, but the world has kept on turning, and now, all the things I was preparing for are here. Tonight is my first solo art opening, and I am tremendously excited. And nervous. But excited.
The gallery smells like fresh paint and citrus cleaner.
Monica Nelson, the gallery owner, and I have worked all week on hanging the show, getting everything positioned for maximum impact.
I look around, and I like the effect we’ve achieved.
My work is spaced with intention. Nothing is leaning against a wall waiting to be noticed.
Monica rests her hands on her hips as the caterer sets up. “I think this is your best work yet, and that is saying something.”
“You’re too kind,” I tell her. “Let’s just hope people are in a buying mood tonight.”
“They will be.”
I smile, but she has more confidence than I do. I’m just happy to have my work in a gallery. This is her busy season, though, and thankfully, my work is getting a lot of attention. The silly magazine they put together for tourists even did a highlight on me and mentioned the gallery opening.
My hands find my belly. I pray tonight is a success.
Just as the caterers finish up, people begin drifting in, glasses in hand, voices low and curious. They pause. Tilt their heads. Step closer. Step back. I retreat to watch them from the corner of the room, hands folded around a cup I haven’t lifted to my mouth yet.
This part never gets easier, and it doesn’t help that all the work is mine this time.
I can’t convince myself they’re gossiping about someone else.
They’re for sure talking about my work—what they like, which I don’t mind hearing, and what they don’t, which I want to push back on.
But I don’t. I stand with a plastic smile and hope fervently that a few pieces sell.
At some point, Emma slips in beside me and gives me a big hug. She’s wearing black linen and the calm, capable expression she uses when she’s decided something will be fine whether it wants to be or not. She nudges my elbow and holds up the bottle she’s been hiding behind her back.
Sparkling apple juice. Chilled. Condensation slick on the glass.
“I thought you could have this tonight rather than turning down sparkling wine and having everyone guess you’re pregnant,” she says quietly.
I smile before I can stop myself. “You’re amazing.”
“I’m thoughtful.” She twists the cap off with a soft pop and pours into two champagne flutes she’s liberated from the bartender. I ditch my other untouched glass, and she hands one to me with ceremony. “To your show.”
We clink our glasses, and I take a careful sip. Sweet. Crisp. Enough fizz to feel celebratory without pretending it’s something it isn’t.
The bubbles tickle my nose. For a second, the room fades and it’s just this. The work in front of me is proof that I belong here. Suddenly, I’m clear-headed and ready for what the evening will bring.
Emma watches me over the rim of her glass. She always does this, like she’s checking for cracks. “Have you told your family yet?”
The question lands gently, but I feel the impact as I shake my head. “Not yet.”
Her brows lift. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I set my glass on the nearest pedestal and rest my hand there. “I’m only nine weeks. I’m not announcing anything until I hit twelve. I don’t need a committee weighing in on my uterus.”
She snorts. “Fair.”
“And,” I add because honesty feels easier tonight, “I need this to be mine for a minute longer.”
“Have you tried to find Anderson?”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. We didn’t share a lot of details about ourselves.”
“If you find him, he should pay child support.”
“I’m okay if I don’t find him. I’m prepared to do this on my own.”
Emma puts an arm around my shoulders. “You’ve always got me.”
We raise our glasses and toast again.
“And I know my sisters and brother will be great once they know.”
Emma’s expression softens. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I say. “Hungry. Emotional in ways that make no sense.” I exhale slowly. “And the—” I catch myself and grin. “She’s kicking my ass.”
Emma’s eyes light up. “She?”
“She,” I repeat. “I know it’s early. I know it’s not scientific. I don’t care. I feel like she’s a girl.”
Emma lifts her glass. “To your little girl,” she toasts. “Stubborn already, just like her momma.”
“She has excellent timing,” I say dryly. “She waited until the week of my show to make everything harder.”
Emma glances around the room, and when I follow her gaze, I notice red dots already in place beneath a few pieces. “Morning sickness kicking your butt?”
I nod. “It’s morning, afternoon, and evening sickness, if you ask me.”
“You’ve got this.”
I look around the gallery again, my chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with nerves this time. A couple stands in front of my largest piece, arguing softly about where they’d hang it. Someone else is talking to the gallery owner, gesturing toward another piece.
“This matters,” I say, more to myself than to her. “I need it to.”
Emma nudges my shoulder. “Look at this place! If the fire chief arrives, he’ll shut down the gallery because there are so many people here. I have a good feeling.”
“I can only hope,” I say. “I need the money. I want to support us without scrambling every month. I don’t want to be scared about groceries or rent or whether I can afford childcare before I’ve even wrapped my head around being a mom.”
And because the more stable I am, the fewer excuses anyone has to step in and take over.
Emma doesn’t interrupt. She just nods.
“I love her already,” I continue, quieter now. “And that makes everything feel heavier. I can’t float anymore. I can’t just trust that it’ll work out because it always somehow has.”
Emma reaches for my glass and refills it without asking. “You’re not floating,” she says. “You’re standing in a gallery full of people who showed up to see things you created.”
I look at her, finding her eyes. “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“But I’m ready,” I add, surprising myself with how true it feels. “I don’t want to run from this. I want to build something stable. For her. For me.”
Emma nods. “Then let this be the first brick.”
A woman approaches, catalog in hand, eyes bright. “Are you the artist?” she asks.
I straighten automatically. “I am.”
“I love this series,” she says, gesturing toward the far wall. “There’s a softness to it that still feels strong.”
That brings a smile to my face. I thank her. Answer her questions. Talk about process and intention like I know what I’m doing, because I do.
The volume shifts as the night settles in. It feels warmer, looser. The gallery fills up in waves, laughter rising, bodies moving closer together, music threading through conversations instead of sitting politely in the background. This isn’t a viewing anymore. It’s a party.
I’m mid-conversation with a man who has a paper plate covered in cheese cubes in one hand and a glass of wine in the other when arms wrap around me from the side.
“Look at you,” my sister Sera says into my hair. “Do you realize where you are? Your work’s on real gallery walls, under professional lighting, and people are buying it because they want it. Because it’s beautiful.”
Excusing myself, I turn to hug her. “You’re my sister. You and Emma compete for president of my fan club.”
“Me too.” My sister Josie’s hug is softer but no less solid, and it presses reassurance straight into my bones.
“Look at all these people we don’t know,” my last sister, Ginny, says, all energy and warmth. Her husband Ryker’s hand rests at the small of her back like that’s where it’s always belonged.
Ric, my older brother, comes in last, taller than everyone, calm as ever, one arm draped around his wife, Liz, as he leans in to kiss my cheek. “You did this,” he says simply, shaking his head, eyes warm.
I feel a little teary in a way I don’t expect.
“I think this is the greatest fuck-you to Evie there was,” Ginny spouts. “You don’t need her support. It may drive her crazy, but I know she’s proud.”
“I can only hope,” I reply. I’m grateful that my sisters and brother are here. Because if my grandmother ever decides I can’t do things my way, she won’t ask permission before stepping in. I look around at all of them. My family. Here. In my space. Surrounded by proof that I’m not pretending.
“Mom’s not coming,” Sera volunteers, like she’s been waiting for me to ask.
“I didn’t invite her,” I reply. “So that makes sense.”
Ginny snorts softly. “Wouldn’t want to risk seeming disloyal to Evie.”
Liz slips in beside us, catalog tucked under her arm. “We bought Valley,” she says, smiling. “The print. The original sold earlier.”
I blink. “It did?”
She nods. “It went fast.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, meaning it in a way that goes way beyond manners. “Really.”
Sera looks around the room again, eyes sharp. “Addie,” she says quietly, “almost everything’s sold.”
My breath stalls. “You’re kidding.”
“She’s not,” Josie says. “You should see your face.”
Ginny laughs. “She’s going to cry.”
“I’m not,” I protest, even as my throat proves me wrong.
Someone passes around glasses. Someone else fills them. Thankfully Emma topped mine off before they walked in, so I’m all set. We end up in a loose circle without deciding to be there, arms brushing, shoulders touching.
Sera lifts her glass. “To Addie,” she says. “And to doing things the hard way and making them work.”
We all raise our drinks. I follow suit, and that’s when Josie squints at mine.
“Why is yours darker?” she asks.
I look down. The bubbles are there, but the color’s wrong. Amber instead of pale gold.
“I already had two glasses,” I tell her. “I switched to sparkling apple juice so I can keep my wits about me.”
Josie laughs. “Responsible Addie. Who are you?”
“Someone who doesn’t want to say something stupid to a potential buyer.”