31
It is the night of the full moon, and I’m running late for the opening.
My phone buzzes, and I quickly check it as I slick on more lipstick.
Good luck tonight, beautiful. I’ll see you soon.
I smile at the text, then at the mirror that hangs on the back of my office door in the gallery. I assess my vintage green
dress, studded black heels, blood-red lipstick, and hair pinned up like a 1920s film star. Is this the last night I will ever have with Liam?
I shoot back a quick reply, put down my phone, and take a deep breath. The opening starts in thirty minutes, and there’s already
a line around the block. Excitement fills every square inch of this place. After tonight I know I will most likely leave this
gallery and this alternate reality. And I’m excited to get back. I am. But the part of me that has truly let my walls down
is a little torn. Even if it’s not real, even if it’s all been a dream, I want to get this final step just right.
Despite my best efforts, I still haven’t been able to find Ben online, and I’ve been too paralyzed to analyze what that means. I can’t face him not existing in this world, even if it isn’t real. But I remind myself that after tonight, hopefully it won’t matter.
I place my phone in my small clutch, square my shoulders, and give myself a pep talk. “You can do this,” I tell myself. “After
this, you get to go home.”
I exit my office and walk through the halls, admiring all the half-finished canvases. The artists are already here, incredibly
fashionable, perched at their stations with paintbrushes and graffiti pens so that patrons can dabble and add whatever they
want to each piece. I’m nervous and hopeful that this will be a success. I scan the sparse crowd for Rita and see her talking
to Kendall.
I approach them. “Everyone ready?” I clasp my hands and address mainly Rita, who looks sensational in a geometric black-and-white
pantsuit.
She nods and excuses herself for a moment. I can tell she’s nervous. She has everything riding on this. This is a true make-or-break
evening, and if it fails, it will be because of me, not her.
“You ready for this?” Kendall asks.
I smile and give her arm a squeeze. “I am.”
“Good luck. You got this, babe.”
I decide to introduce myself to all of the artists before the doors officially open. When I get to the third artist, I’m hit
with a jolt of satisfaction.
“Hi, Keisha.”
Keisha turns and smiles at me. “Hey, Harper.” She gestures to her half-filled canvas, marked with outstanding graffiti. It
reminds me of some of Alejandro’s work.
“This is exceptional.” I still remember the day when Liam brought me to that underground gallery and she’d been so vocal about what she wanted. “I hope you have a great night tonight.”
Before I move on, she stops me. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
I pause. “For?”
Her darkly lined eyes stare deeply into mine. “I can’t think of a single other person in this industry who would do what you
did for me. Hunt down some kid she’d met one time. Give her the opportunity of a lifetime. Support her every step of the way.
You changed my life.”
I am so moved, I can only hug her. “You deserve it,” I whisper. In my mind, every artist deserves it, and tonight is a culmination
of those beliefs. Standing here with Keisha reminds me of similar things my kids have said to me over the years. What if this is part of the lesson I’m here to learn? That I am always going to be the most fulfilled if I serve others in some meaningful
way?
I move on to say hello to the other artists and approach the front doors just as they are thrust open. An electric buzz hums
through my body as I greet people, hand them a pamphlet, and give them instructions on what to do. There are QR codes and
hashtags to use, and within minutes, this “living art” idea has caught on like wildfire. There are influencers, photographers,
artists, and TikTokers posing with all the various pieces.
It’s a crush of bodies and creativity, artists from all walks of life, all over the world. It is an amalgamation of the type
of art I love, celebrating big names and small, known and unknown, up-and-comers and veterans.
Even though I know he’s not here yet, I search for Liam in the crowd. Last night shudders through my body. I tell myself it was nothing more than kissing, but I also know those tender moments are going to be forever seared into my body.
As I make the rounds, I check the time, realizing my grand finale will be unveiled soon. Just as I slip away to take a breath
and grab a flute of champagne, I feel a tap on my shoulder. My heart lifts. Liam.
When I turn, however, I’m disappointed to find it’s just our art curator, Greg. “The guy from the Pancreatic Cancer Foundation
is about to make a speech. We’ve already raised $100,000,” he whispers confidentially. “And the night is still young.”
One hundred thousand dollars? I almost choke on the bubbles. “Great start,” I respond. I make sure everything is running smoothly,
and then the lights dim and the event host, Deandra, comes on the microphone to introduce tonight’s sponsors and guests. My
mind wanders as she makes the introductions, and everyone claps politely in the appropriate places. Before I can confirm everything
is set for my own piece, I hear the crowd welcoming the representative from the Pancreatic Cancer Foundation and almost faint
on the spot.
It’s not some random guy; it’s Ben. My Ben.
He waves to the crowd as he approaches the microphone, and I feel like I literally might keel over. He looks sensational:
healthy, browned, a full head of hair, and all his weight back on. How is he here?
“Hi, everyone. I’m Ben Foster, and I’m a cancer survivor.”
My world tilts, and I reach out to grab a table before I crash to the earth. Survivor?
“My story is like so many others you’ve heard. No serious symptoms, just a few little nagging issues. I went in for some tests and came out with cancer. Stage four. You know, because stages one through three clearly weren’t enough.” He waits as the crowd chuckles. “But then I discovered a workshop that literally saved my life. It wasn’t a doctor. It wasn’t a healer. In the end, it was me saving my own life.”
Everyone is riveted by his story, but I am now hyperventilating. Is he talking about the same workshop he’s at now in our
other life? I want to scream, to run on stage and tackle him. He’s here! He’s cancer-free! My wish came true!
“Oh my God,” I say. “This is exactly what I asked for.”
Someone casts me a look, and I remember to keep my thoughts in my head as I work this all out. During the ritual, I asked
for Ben to be cancer-free and me to be known for my art. I didn’t specify how I would be known for my art, or that Ben and I would be together. My eyes find Ben’s again. I swallow a potential painful
truth. What if Ben’s life is better off without me?
I turn my attention back to him as he continues to talk, so at ease behind the microphone. “When I entered this seven-day
intensive workshop, I was terminal, given only months to live. When I walked out of it, I was completely cancer-free. And
I’m still cancer-free.”
I want to ask all the questions: When did he go? How long has he been in remission? Where has he been living this whole time?
And why couldn’t I find him online?
The crowd erupts into applause, and he smiles and waits until they’ve calmed to continue. “Now, I know what you’re thinking.
This sounds like a fluke, but it’s not. After that workshop, I changed my whole life. I sold everything I own. I quit my job.
I got rid of all the stuff that made me sick in the first place: the environmental stressors, the toxins, the tech, the bills,
the lifestyle, the hustle. And now I devote my time to raising awareness for this disease but also showing people there’s
more than one way to fight it. Because there’s always a way, even when the doctors tell you there isn’t.”
I try to hang on to every word Ben says, but my brain is spinning at an unsafe speed. Ben is here. Ben is cancer-free. Ben sold all his belongings and is a spokesperson for living a healthy life.
I press a hand over my heart to calm it. Am I too young to have a heart attack?
“Harper, you’re up!” Greg hisses at me from his booth, and I give him a nod as if my husband from my other life isn’t standing
on stage right now, at my fictitious event. What are the chances?
I’m desperate to talk to Ben, to hold him, to study him, to stare into his eyes to see if there’s even a modicum of recognition.
But right now, this is my moment to wow Rita, to wrap this night up in the silver bow I promised her. As Ben walks off stage,
I pass him, and he hands me the microphone. Our eyes lock, and I swear I stop breathing. He looks at me and something passes
between us: the tiniest spark of recognition. He hesitates, but before he speaks, I butt in.
“Great speech,” I say.
“Thanks.” He turns to go but stops. “I know this sounds like a line, but have we met?”
Yes! “That’s a bit complicated,” I say instead. “Requiring a longer conversation and at least two drinks.”
He tosses his head back and laughs, and I want to drink him in. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him like this, light, able,
healthy, filled out. The lines around his eyes crinkle just in the precise way I love. “Okay, deal. I’ll wait for you?”
I’ll wait for you. Those words send a ripple of pleasure through my entire body. I can only nod.
He offers a small wave and I take my place behind the podium, thank everyone for coming, and then stare right at Rita, wanting
to get this over with so I can talk to Ben.
Here we go. I steady my voice while I assess the crowd. “Ten years ago, I received the opportunity of a lifetime.” This part is true,
at least. I did receive the opportunity of a lifetime, and in this warped sense of reality, I stayed. My piece was good enough.
I was good enough.
I explain my very first assignment from Rita and how she must have seen something in my work. “Somewhere along the way, the
gallery fell into my hands, but I’ve realized something very important: this gallery has always belonged to Rita Clementine,
and so it shall remain in her name... and her hands. As my farewell gift, I’ve created a piece that I want Rita to finish.
My career started because she saw something special. Tonight I want my work to sing because she adds something special to
it.”
Rita’s eyes are full of emotion, and I nod at her before stepping over to the massive canvas that has been shrouded. The curtain
drops, and the crowd whoops. I have created the shell of the gallery, but all the walls are empty. There is an outline of
a woman in the center, but that is all. I make room for Rita, and everyone pushes in as she takes a step toward the paintbrushes,
rolls up her sleeves, and gets to work.
A hush falls over the crowd while her hands expertly create something from nothing. Shapes become scenes; a simple sketch
springs to life with oils. She loses herself as the DJ plays and people take videos I know will go viral. It’s a moving tribute,
a moment I will never forget. I know she said artists should be artists, not gallery owners, but she is the exception. She
has always been the exception. I step back into the shadows and find Ben waiting there.
“I’d say this was a mild success,” he jokes, clinking his champagne flute to mine.
“It is.” I gaze into the crowd to soak it all in. Haven’t I dreamed of scenarios just like this my whole life? But right now I don’t care. I just want to absorb this version of Ben.
“So, tell me about this complicated way we know each other, Ms.Swanson.” Ben grins.
So much of me wants to tell him the truth: what we are to each other, the life that we’ve lived, how desperate I am to get
back to it, and him. But I can’t.
“First, tell me where you live,” I say. “Or are you still nomadic?”
He grins. “Still nomadic. I stop in a place for about three months, then move on. Do what I can with the cancer community
there, then find the next group.”
“And this workshop. What was it?” I’m trying to act light and interested, but inside, I’m desperate to know.
“Ever heard of a guy named Dr.Joe Dispenza?”
Holy shit. “I have,” I say.
He breaks into a long-winded explanation about how it all works, but I don’t care how it all works. I just want to know how
long he’s been cancer-free.
“So tell me, have we met before?” he asks. “I have the strangest sense, like I know you from somewhere.”
I bob my head like an idiot. “I do too.” It’s partly the truth.
“Then what’s so complicated about that?” His eyes roam my face, and I burst into a grin. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed our
relationship, our conversations, and our easy understanding of each other.
“Can I hug you?” I realize this is an odd request, but I can think of nothing else except being in his arms again.
He smiles. “Sure.” He opens his arms playfully. I take a shaky breath, then step into them and shiver as his hands encircle my waist and hold me tenderly. It’s like stepping back in time and also straight to the future, all while in an alternate reality. I am not nearly drunk enough for this moment.
“You smell so good,” he mumbles into my hair.
I’m wearing the perfume he loves. “So do you,” I say. I hold on to him a beat too long and reluctantly release him.
“That was easily the best hug of my life,” he says.
“I come from a long line of good huggers,” I explain.
Ben reaches out a hand and swipes a tear that’s on my cheek. “Hey, what’s going on, Harper? Are you okay?”
I want to tell him the truth. That I’m not okay. That I haven’t been okay in a really long time. Standing here, it’s like
time travel in reverse. Here is healthy Ben. Here is happy Ben. Here is cured Ben, with his whole life ahead of him. Would
I be willing to stay in this life if only to let him live? Even if it’s not with me?
Before I can explain what I’m feeling or why I’m crying, he motions toward the door. “I think someone’s here for you.” I drag
my eyes away from him and back to the door. There, looking slightly confused, stands Liam. He looks from Ben to me and back
again before walking over.
“Amazing speech,” he says, kissing my cheek and looping an arm around my waist.
“Wasn’t it?” Ben looks between us, and if I’m not mistaken, a flare of jealousy sparks in his eyes.
“And yours too. Incredible story, man. Liam Hale.” He extends his hand.
“Ben Foster.”
It’s strange to watch, especially considering this introduction happened not too long ago in my real life.
“How do you two know each other?” Liam asks.
“We don’t,” Ben says.
I know Liam is probably wondering why in the world we were hugging so long if we don’t even know each other. Is there a way
to explain? I turn to Ben. “Will you excuse us for just a moment?”
“Oh, sure. Yeah, yeah. You guys do your thing. I’ll be here.” He lifts his champagne flute in a toast and wanders off.
“Nice guy,” Liam says. “I used to cover stories like his. I miss it sometimes.” He scratches his jaw. “Harp, are you okay?”
I feel like I’ve just seen a ghost. My eyes are glued to Ben’s back as he weaves through the crowd. Part of me is afraid he’s
going to leave and I’ll never see him like this again. I wish I could explain it to Liam, but I know I can’t. How could I?
Before I can answer, Liam’s phone buzzes and he sighs. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Everything okay?” My focus snaps back to him, even though it takes everything in me to tear my eyes away from Ben.
“A shipment of books didn’t come in for my pre-launch event tomorrow. They need my author copies, and they need them now.
I think I can still get them to the bookstore before they close.” He glances at my watch. “Harper, I’m so sorry to do this
on your big night.”
I wave him away. “It’s completely fine.” I walk him outside and give him a hug. “I’ll see you at home, okay?” I almost cry
as I say it, because what if I don’t see him tonight? What if I don’t get to tell him goodbye? What if this moment is all
we have left?
“Wait.” I stop him before he goes with my hand on his arm. “I...” I what? I have so many things I want to convey, but I’m
not sure how to verbalize what this fictitious month has meant to me without making him confused.
“Everything okay?” His genuine concern brings tears to my eyes.
“I just want you to know that I won’t forget any of this.” I gesture around me. “This. Us. All of it.”
He moves to cradle my face in his hands and holds my gaze for a beat. “Are you going somewhere I don’t know about?” Before
I can answer, his lips curve into a slight smile as he kisses me softly, tenderly, and I hold steady, because I know, to the
depths of my being, that this is it for us. For now. Maybe forever.
“See you at home,” he says.
I watch him go, and part of my heart goes with him. Home. A thousand scenes, both imagined and real, appear like snapshots in my head. Our whole secret history unravels in reverse,
like it’s ten years ago, except now he’s the one walking away, not me.
I want to go after him, but I don’t.
Instead, I stand there until he is completely out of sight.