26. Ash
ASH
Planning an art gallery is a surprising amount of work and money.
Jamal helped me smuggle some of Kael’s artwork out of the studio, his eyes glued to my biceps the entire time I explained the plan.
It was reassuring that Kael’s best friend found the whole thing romantic, especially since mine compared it to gambling.
The food will be light appetizers, the bar open, and, in a moment of either vision or budgetary self-destruction, I’ve even splurged on a giant balloon arch for the photos I’m hoping people will post.
Now, with two days left, the whole thing is starting to feel real. Every detail I lock in makes my excitement climb and the secret harder to keep. It’s Wednesday, the gallery is Friday, and Kael still has no idea.
He’s been distracted, still reeling from leaving Alistair. He told me the breakup went badly but didn’t offer many details, and I haven’t pushed because the important thing is that he’s free. I keep telling him how proud I am, how happy I am for him, and he keeps giving me muted reactions.
The gallery will help. At least, I need to believe it will.
“Let’s celebrate,” I say, looking up from my laptop. Kael’s sprawled across the ottoman, a comfortable barrier between me on the couch and the TV. “Friday’s one month since you broke things off with Alistair.”
In my mind, when he walks into that gallery, his face will light up with a mixture of surprise and relief. He’ll see his art on the walls being admired by people who think he’s incredible. He’ll feel proud, independent, and seen in a way Alistair never let him be.
And yes, somewhere in there is the selfish part that wants him to look at me across the room and understand I’m the kind of man who shows up, who makes things happen, and who can build a future worth stepping into.
“I don’t want to celebrate,” he says quietly.
Well, shit.
“Being free from Alistair and still doing what you love is worth marking,” I say.
I hear myself pushing, but when the payoff becomes real, it will all be worth it.
“I shut off my only source of income,” he mutters into the cushion. “Can we celebrate when I’m actually independent?”
“It’s not all about money.”
Kael props himself up on one elbow, raises an eyebrow at me, and then lets it drop, turning back to the TV.
“Remember Sharon and Walt’s place?” he asks.
I close the laptop and move to sit beside him on the ottoman, our legs forming a bridge to the couch behind us. “It was like something out of a storybook. They’re sitting on a goldmine, and they’re just letting that storefront sit empty.”
“I keep dreaming of that light in the back,” he says.
“I keep dreaming of that shower.” I bump his hip with mine.
He sighs and buries his face in the ottoman cushion, muffling his voice. “My life is… fucked.”
“You’re okay,” I say, rubbing his back. “I’m here, and we’re okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”
His T-shirt rides up a little under my hand, and his warm skin sends a quiet shock through me. We’ve gotten used to touching each other so fast that sometimes I forget how new it is, until a moment like this reminds me all at once.
He doesn’t answer right away. His shoulders stay tight under my hand.
“I know you’re here.” His voice wavers. “That’s part of what’s fucked. I finally find someone who makes me happy, and everything else falls apart.”
“Nothing’s falling apart. And you make me happy too.”
He stands and begins pacing the room. I still need to call that cleaner, but it can wait.
“Why can’t things… work out?” he asks. “Like ever? I mean, we’re in San Francisco, dreaming about Sharon and Walt’s simple life, and they’re wishing they could leave. They saved our lives. What have we done for them?”
Ah. So that’s what’s wrong.
New plan: invite Sharon and Walt to the gallery. It’s the perfect touch, and my mental picture adjusts to include Kael’s delight at seeing these two new friends, one an artist herself. It’s the cherry on top.
I stand, place my hands on Kael’s shoulders, and gently interrupt his pacing. “Sometimes they do.”
“You said it’s not about money. But come on. It’s a little about money.”
“Sure,” I admit. “Studies show money increases happiness, but only to a point. It doesn’t change who you are, just makes you more of who you already were.”
“So Alistair was always a lonely asshole?” Kael sighs. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not, and you don’t have to worry about Alistair anymore. I don’t care if you have any money. I’ve got that covered.”
Kael scoffs, and sinks back onto the ottoman.
“I'm just saying, it’s fine.” I know this topic makes him uncomfortable.
“I want to be real with you,” he says. “In the back of my mind… I keep thinking you want me to stop needing Alistair so that I’ll need you.”
Air catches in my throat. That’s… well, it explains a lot. Like why he still hasn’t moved out of his old apartment. I’d thought it was about logistics. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s about control. Fear. Pride.
“Okay,” I begin, choosing words as if one wrong one might have him running away. “I get it. Given everything that’s happened—”
Kael’s eyes flash a warning that I’ve brushed too close to something raw.
I stop myself, swallow, and the silence stretches. It’s hard to know how to help with something as heavy as abandonment.
I reach out to him just as he slowly exhales and moves to sit beside me on the couch.
“You’re right,” he concedes.
I put my arm around his shoulder. “You don’t just get over something like that.”
“I’m not mad she left,” he says, eyes red, because I know he still blames himself. “I’m mad it fucked me up. It’s fucking this up.” He gestures between us.
“It’s not fucking this up. You’re scared, and that makes sense.”
He jokes about my obsession with finances, but I’m starting to see he’s just as ruled by fear, only his is messier, older, and deeper than mine.
“Then why do I think you’re pulling some power move, even when I know you’re not?”
“You’ve been hurt. And yeah, that’s shaped you. But it also made you into the person I—” I stop myself, but the words hang there anyway. “Made you someone I—You’re wonderful.”
He gives me a shaky smile and squeezes my hand.
“I’m not your father,” I say. “Or your mom. Or Alistair fucking Blackwood.”
He looks at me like he’s searching for cracks in my words, somewhere to poke through and prove I’m bluffing. But I’m not.
The moment stretches while my skin prickles with heat.
And then he kisses me. It reminds me of last night and the night before and the night before. Of tripping over him at the retreat. Of his skin on mine. I almost forget there was ever a version of my life that didn’t include him.
It feels good to make Kael feel better, which should probably worry me more than it does. Because even though everything I said was true, this? Us? It’s a risk.
Kael doesn’t come with guarantees. He’s a wildfire that’s gorgeous, all-consuming, and unpredictable, and I’ve spent my whole life building firebreaks.
“Friday night,” I say, fresh worry planted in my bulletproof plan, but determined to salvage part of it. “Date night.”
“Fine. But no celebrating.”
“No celebrating,” I say, trying for a lighter end to the conversation. “Absolutely no fun whatsoever.”
When he doesn’t respond, my joke sounds more like a warning as I think about the gallery, the plans, and the tiny seed of worry taking root. The thing about worry is that once it’s planted, it grows. It finds the cracks, then spreads until it’s wrapped around everything.
Maybe we are moving too fast. Maybe I’m taking too many risks. Maybe I should have stuck to my spreadsheets and sworn off relationships altogether. Maybe Kael is the kind of beautiful risk that could burn through everything.