28. Ash
ASH
The air feels electric, and my heart won’t shut up. After weeks of planning, falling down a surprisingly deep vein of balloon-arch videos, and putting a dent in my savings I might never recover from, it’s finally here.
The setup is perfect—every “t” crossed, every “i” dotted.
But the more polished it gets, the harder it is not to notice I’ve left Kael out of every meaningful decision. Then there’s the problem of his mood.
I misjudged how deeply ending Alistair’s patronage would hit him. He’s quiet, withdrawn, a shadow of his usual bright self. I try being supportive by giving him space, but that makes me acutely aware that all I’m doing is pretending my “nagging worry” is just a nag.
He’s been painting at the studio all day. That’s what he does. It’s what he loves, and I love that about him. But today his absence feels different… ominous.
The event doesn’t start until eight. Our six-thirty dinner reservation is across the street, at a carefully chosen spot that makes the surprise part easy.
Jenny and Jamal will wrangle early arrivals.
After dinner, I’ll suggest we check out the cool gallery across the way.
He’ll see his own work in the window, his own name on the sign.
He’ll walk into a room full of people who love and admire him.
What could go wrong?
The question is a discordant note in the symphony of my meticulously crafted plans. Kael’s mood isn’t a dip in the stock market; it’s a free fall.
Work offers a temporary distraction. Since my demotion, I’ve clung to the novelty of a new role, and for a few days it cushioned the blow. The manager is nice. The team is nice. I’m still a cog, just turning a different part of the Query machine.
Then my first paycheck arrived, and it was smaller than my most pessimistic projections. It reminds me that escaping my family’s financial past is like escaping gravity: possible, but unlikely. I tell myself a smaller Query paycheck is better than most.
I fight the urge to text Kael and bury myself in email instead.
My schedule is lighter now, which has only traded back-to-back meetings for time to overthink.
Writing “important” emails eats thirty, sometimes sixty minutes.
I let myself open my FIRE spreadsheet once at lunch.
Nothing’s changed. The dashboard still shows a freedom date I can’t wrap my head around.
I deleted the party cat GIF, leaving an empty white space where it used to celebrate and turning each time I check the spreadsheet into a microdose of dread.
By five, the distraction wears off. As soon as I shut my laptop, everything rushes back.
I call Kael.
He doesn’t answer. He never answers at the studio, but today, the silence tips over into confirmation of every worst-case scenario my brain can invent.
I call Jenny. Call Jamal. Call Tom. Call the caterer. Everyone is ready. Everything is perfect.
Except the one person who matters.
Pacing my apartment—now our apartment, even if his stuff hasn’t fully migrated—the nerves build like a forgotten pressure cooker. Takeout containers litter the coffee table. A mountain of my gym clothes looms in the corner, their faint odor now undeniable thanks to Kael’s commentary.
One of his mugs is still in the sink with paint-smudged near the handle. I pick it up to rinse it, then set it back down when I picture his mouth there and realize I don’t want to wipe away the proof that he lives here.
The thought of opening my laptop again to research cleaners is unbearable.
So I do the unthinkable and start cleaning myself. It’s the only kind of control I’ve got while everything else feels like it’s slipping.
My phone rings, and Kael’s name flashes across the screen. In the depths of my darkening worry, a spark of hope flickers.
“Hey!” I force a casual tone, trying to mask the panic clenching my throat. “How’s it going?”
“I am so sorry,” he says, his voice strained, and my breath catches.
“I know tonight is important to you, but something’s come up.
I can’t make dinner at six-thirty.” The image of standing alone at his gallery, surrounded by his friends, swallows me whole.
Before I can unleash a torrent of questions, Kael adds, “I can be there at seven fifty-five.”
Oddly specific. Oddly perfect.
The spark dwindles, but it doesn’t go out.
“Great,” I say, ignoring the drumbeat in my chest. “It’s important, Kael. I know you said no celebrating, but…” I let a little guilt trip slip into my voice. “It’s important to me that we have tonight.”
“I know. I’m doing my best.”
The line clicks off. I hold the phone long after the call ends, staring at the blank screen like it might fill in the parts Kael didn’t say. I want to text I love you, just to see if it would steady anything. But the words stay lodged, heavy and unspoken, burning in my chest.
His best isn’t an explanation. It isn’t reassuring. It’s… suspicious.
Cleaning will have to wait. I’m going to the gallery early to see it for myself.
I shower, shave, pull on my best sport coat and slacks, add a touch of cologne.
The little ritual of preparation feels as hollow as the work I shut inside my laptop.
As the car pulls up to 65 Bluxome Street before seven, the painted tentacles framing the red brick building seem to writhe in the evening light.
The studio’s two large front windows stare back like darkening eyes. They hold Kael’s work, but even that looks ominous. A chill pricks the back of my neck despite the cashmere.
Inside, Jenny’s setting up with brisk efficiency. She’s in a sleek, ivory blazer with a flowered blouse and matching scarf, an outfit that screams badass litigator, not “secret accomplice to my surprise party.”
“Kael canceled our dinner plans,” I say, trying to keep my voice light as I grab a beer from the makeshift bar.
“I know,” she says. “Hi to you too.”
“Hi. You look incredible,” I manage. “But seriously, what the heck is going on?”
“Don’t forget that theoretically, and because you didn’t tell him, he doesn’t know how important this is to you.”
“He literally said on the phone that he does know,” I say, anxiety bubbling into irritation.
She gives me an I-told-you-so look that I deserve.
“I think… maybe I should’ve told him about all this. I spent a fortune, put in so much work… what if he doesn’t show?”
“He’ll show.” Jenny’s voice lacks conviction, but she she reaches to rub my arm. “Oh my God, is this cashmere?”
“Thanks,” I mumble, pulling away. “I’m serious, though. This might sound dumb, but… thank you for being here.”
Jenny’s expression tightens. Her eyes flick around the room like she’s looking for an exit.
“Kael is going to kill me,” she mutters. “But I think I need to—”
The door opens, and Sharon and Walt stroll into the gallery, eyes wide, beaming.
Walt whistles.
I force a smile and stride across the gray tile floor, past a vase of sunflowers.
“This place is incredible,” Sharon exclaims. “Kael did all these?”
“We’ll get some of yours in here next time,” I say, hugging her, then Walt. “It’s so good to see you. Jenny, remember the people who literally saved our lives?”
Walt offers his hand, and when Jenny takes it, she pulls him into a hug.
“Thanks again,” she says. “Is that what you say to someone after they save your best friend’s life?” She laughs a little too sharply.
“Can I get you a glass of wine? Or beer?” I ask.
They say yes, of course, because they don’t know this whole show is collapsing around us.
I pour drinks, ask about Paradise and try focusing on nodding in the right places.
Forced pleasantries stretch for fifteen agonizing minutes.
I laugh, refill glasses, and straighten a frame that doesn’t need straightening.
Jamal arrives with several artists from Kael’s studio, adding to the growing crowd. Another ten minutes tick by, and my perspective narrows until there’s nothing left but the door and the clock.
By seven forty-nine, I’m sweating in my olive-green cashmere sport coat.
The carefully chosen cologne is now a sickly-sweet reminder of how hard I’ve tried to make tonight perfect.
Jenny hovers nearby until her presence is unsettling instead of comforting.
She keeps glancing at the entrance, fingers twisting the scarf at her neck.
“He said seven fifty-five,” I whisper to her, my voice tight and raspy. “It’s… it’s actually going well. People are mingling. They’re looking at his art.”
“Ash,” she whispers.
“It’s going to be fine,” I repeat, the words more mantra than belief.
“Ash.” Jenny’s face has gone pale, and her eyes refuse to meet mine. “I need to tell you something.”
“Can it wait?” A knot tightens in my stomach.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Kael.” She takes a breath. In that breath I notice the way she stares at the floor, toe tapping a nervous rhythm against the tile. “He didn’t break it off with Alistair.”
The room tilts. “What?”
I missed something, an explanation she’d provided but I hadn’t heard. But I heard everything, maybe even expected it somewhere deep inside. When you take a risk, there’s always some part of you that knows what could happen, and here it is now—betrayal.
“He’s still… involved,” Jenny says carefully. “He told me it got complicated.”
The weeks of planning, the spreadsheets, the dent in my savings, the balloon arch, the calls, the favors… it’s all tainted by the idea that underneath it all, Kael has been lying the whole time.
“But he said—” My brain scrambles for the version of the story I’ve been holding onto.
Jenny’s gaze darts around the room again. She bites her lip, knuckles white around her purse strap. “He made me promise not to tell you,” she whispers, “but… Alistair knows everything, Ash. He knows you’re dating Kael. He knows you work at Query.”
I sway, only realizing I’ve stepped back when my shoulder hits the wall. My hands won’t stop shaking. It all snaps into sickening clarity: his mood, his reluctance to celebrate, the oddly specific arrival time.
“He’s with him now, isn’t he?” I ask, the words grinding out.
Jenny nods slowly, her eyes full of regret. One hand rises to cover her mouth. “Alistair asked him to come over. Tonight.”
A chill that has nothing to do with the gallery’s air-conditioning runs through me. I don’t know what Alistair wants from him. I only know Alistair doesn’t give anything away for free.
And Kael went anyway.
Without telling me.
Without me.
I can’t escape the irony any longer. Kael went behind my back, and I’d done my own version of the same thing. I told myself this night was for him, but I planned every detail around the moment I wanted him to have without trusting him enough to share it first.
The party hums on around us, clinking glasses and low laughter, but it all drops behind the clock crawling toward seven fifty-five and the blood thudding in my ears.
What the hell has he walked into, and why am I the last to know?