20. Delia
Delia
The gallery was packed.
I stood in the corner trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person while strangers examined my soul pinned to white walls.
My six pieces from “Seventeen Years” filled the entire room Axel had built. The room he’d been calling mine for five years.
Now people were staring at my work. Discussing them. Judging them.
“Stop looking like you’re about to run,” Sarah said, appearing at my elbow with Lily. “You’re supposed to look confident. Artistic. Mysterious.”
“I look like I’m having a panic attack because I am having a panic attack.”
“Well, stop it. You’re making the critics nervous.”
Lily squeezed my hand, she was so tall now. “I like the one with all the red. It looks angry but pretty.”
And apparently she was smart too.
“That’s the best review I’ve gotten all night. That’s my girl.” I raised my hand for a high five.
“The night just started,” Sarah pointed out. “And you’ve already had three people ask about purchasing. That’s good, right?”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Same thing in the art world apparently.”
Hector appeared with champagne. “Congratulations. Your work is making people feel things. That’s the goal.”
“The goal is to not humiliate myself in front of New York’s entire art community.”
“Too late for that. You’re already trending on art Twitter. Something about raw emotional honesty.” Sarah handed me a glass. “Drink. It’ll help with the panic.”
I drank. It did nothing for the panic.
Across the room, Axel was talking to Caroline, the curator. He’d been giving me space all evening. Letting me have this moment without hovering. But I could feel him watching. Making sure I was okay. Ready to intervene if I needed him.
“Delia Santoro?”
I turned to find a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and an expensive suit. “Yes?”
“I’m Savannah Reyes. I own a gallery in Chelsea. Your work is extraordinary.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to discuss representation. Are you currently working with anyone?”
My brain short-circuited for a full five seconds. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Representation. I think your work deserves a wider audience. I’d like to help with that.”
Sarah’s elbow dug into my ribs. “Absolutely! She’d love to discuss that. Here’s her card.”
Sarah handed over a business card I didn’t remember having. When had I gotten business cards?
Savannah took it with a smile. “Excellent. I’ll call next week.”
She walked away. I stared at Sarah. “Did that just happen?”
“That just happened. You’re welcome for the save, by the way. You looked like a deer in headlights.”
“I feel like a deer in headlights.”
“Well, you look like a successful emerging artist. So keep that face.”
Gianna appeared with Archer, both dressed like they’d stepped out of a magazine. “This is incredible,” Gianna said, pulling me into a hug. “You’re totally killing it!”
“Thanks, girl.”
“Your work is so stunning.” She studied the largest piece—the one titled “Seventeen Years.” “This one especially. It feels like waiting. Like patience that costs something.”
“That’s exactly what it is.”
Archer was studying another piece with the kind of focus that suggested he understood art. “The technique is remarkable. The emotion is visceral. You’ve created something important here.”
“He’s not just saying that because you’re my friend,” Gianna added. “He’s impossible to impress.”
“I’m appropriately impressed by quality work,” Archer said. “This is quality work.”
A man approached with a red dot sticker. Started placing it beside “Seventeen Years.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Sold,” Sarah said. “That’s the sold sticker.”
“Someone bought it?”
“Someone bought it for a substantial amount according to Caroline.” Sarah grinned. “You’re officially a professional artist.”
I watched the man place two more red dots. Three pieces sold before the night was half over.
This was happening. This was actually happening.
“I need air,” I said.
“You need to stay here and talk to the critic from ARTnews,” Sarah countered. “She’s been waiting to interview you.”
“I can’t do an interview. I can barely form sentences.”
“You’ll be fine. Just talk about your work. Be honest. That’s what people respond to.”
The critic appeared before I could escape. Asked questions about my process, my inspiration, what the collection meant to me. I answered as honestly as I could without crying. Talked about grief and recognition and building something new from broken pieces.
She wrote everything down with an expression that was impossible to read. When she finished, she said, “This is a remarkable debut. Thank you for your time.”
Then she was gone and I was left wondering if I’d said the right things or completely humiliated myself.
“You did great,” Axel said, appearing at my side finally.
“You were listening?”
“I was absolutely eavesdropping. You were articulate and genuine—exactly what that interview needed.”
“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“That’s normal.”
“Is it though?”
“According to every artist I’ve ever talked to, yes.”
Daniel appeared with Maria, both dressed up and looking proud. “Mom would have loved this,” Daniel said, his voice doing that thing where it tightened.
Maria squeezed my hand. “This is beautiful, Delia. All of it.”
Gianna pulled me aside later when the crowd had thinned slightly. Her expression was strange. Careful.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not ominous. Just… interesting timing.” She glanced at Archer, who nodded. “Your ex. The one who left you at the altar. That was Jake Foxx, right?”
My stomach felt like it dropped. “Yes? Is there a problem?”
“I mean, I knew about your ex, but I’d never seen him. So, I didn’t make the connection.” She lowered her voice. “I know him now.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” She looked uncomfortable. “Listen, you dodged a bullet there. I have some gossip. But I’m not sharing it here with all these people around. Girls only. Later.”
“That’s cryptic.”
“It’s juicy. Trust me.”
I glanced toward where Axel was talking to Caroline. “Let’s save the juice for later. I don’t want Axel getting jealous or weird.”
Gianna laughed, “Absolutely, this is your night. Let’s keep it about your success.”
“But I’m still dying to know.”
“Later. I promise. Full tea. No detail spared.” She grinned. “But seriously, you upgraded dramatically. Axel is gorgeous and clearly worships you.”
I laughed despite myself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It absolutely is.”
By the time the gallery closed for the night, I was exhausted. Exhilarated. Overwhelmed. All of it at once.
Axel drove us back to his penthouse in comfortable silence. I leaned my head against the window and watched Manhattan slide past.
“You did it,” he said finally.
“I did it.”
“How does it feel?”
“I feel like I’m floating on cloud nine. I sold three pieces.”
“Four actually. Someone bought another one right before closing.”
I turned to look at him. “Four pieces?”
“Four pieces. And you have a meeting with Savannah Reyes next week. And an interview in ARTnews coming out next month.” He glanced at me. “You’re officially a professional artist. I’m so proud of you.”
His words made my heart melt, my eyes filling with tears. I nodded, my throat too closed for words.
Back at his apartment, I collapsed on his couch. He sat beside me and I immediately curled into his side.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“For building that room. For waiting five years for me to be ready. For believing in my work before anyone else did.”
“I’ll always be your first fan.”
“I know.” I tilted my head to look at him. “Six months ago I couldn’t have imagined this. My art showing. My life has been rebuilt.”
He kissed me then. Soft and sweet and certain. Like we had all the time in the world.
And for the first time in my life, I believed we did.
Axel
Three months after the showcase, I found myself in Elena’s memorial garden with a shovel and a flat of roses.
Daniel was already there, working on clearing space for new plantings. Delia was consulting with the landscaper about placement.
This had become our routine—once a month, we came here together. Maintained the garden. Added new plants. Kept Elena’s memory alive through growth.
“These need to go along the back wall,” Delia was saying, gesturing with her hands covered in dirt. “Mom always wanted a wall of roses but Dad said it was too much maintenance.”
“So naturally we’re planting a wall of roses,” Daniel said.
“Exactly.”
We worked in comfortable silence. The kind of quiet that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill every moment with words.
An hour later, the roses were planted. We stood back to admire the work.
“Mom would love this,” Delia said.
“She’d probably have opinions about our technique,” Daniel added.
“She’d definitely have opinions.”
We stayed until the sun started setting. Then Daniel left for his shift at the hospital and Delia and I drove back to my penthouse.
She’d been staying here most nights now. Her apartment had become more studio than home. A place she went to create but not to live.
I liked having her in my space. Her paint-stained clothes mixed with my suits. I loved her art supplies taking over my dining table, the chaos she brought to my too organized life. We balanced each other. And I’d been thinking for some time now when the right moment would be to seal this—us.
It happened three months later—I woke to find her side of the bed empty.
I found her in the drawing room. Canvas set up by the windows, already painting despite the early hour.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
“Woke up with an idea. Had to get it out before I lost it.”
I made coffee while she worked. Brought her a cup. Sat on the couch and watched her create.
The painting was taking shape. A garden. A space made beautiful through remembering.
“I’m thinking of calling it ‘Built Together,’” she said without stopping her brushstrokes. “Honoring Mom building family, you building museums, and us building something new from old materials.”
“I like it.”
“Yeah?”
“I love it.”
She worked for another hour. I sat there with my coffee and my laptop and felt completely content. This was my life now. Delia creating while I existed nearby. Perfect domesticity.
The ring had been in my pocket for three weeks.
I’d been waiting for the right moment. A special dinner. A planned event. Something worthy of the question.
But watching her paint in my living room at seven a.m., hair in a messy bun and paint on her cheek, I realized the right moment was any moment with her.
“Let’s go to your mom’s garden,” I said suddenly.
She looked up. “Now?”
“Now.”
“I’m covered in paint.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re still in your pajamas.”
“Still don’t care.”
She studied my face. “What’s going on?”
“Just come with me.”
We drove to the garden. Still early enough to catch the roses blooming. Birds singing. Morning sun making everything look gold.
I led her to the bench we’d installed. The one overlooking Elena’s favorite flowers.
Then I pulled the ring from my pocket.
Delia’s eyes went wide. “Axel.”
“I’ve been carrying this for weeks,” I said. “Waiting for the perfect moment. Then I realized the perfect moment is any moment with you.”
“You’re proposing.”
“I’m proposing.” I dropped to one knee. The grass was wet with morning dew.
I didn’t care. “Delia Santoro. I’ve loved you since I was fourteen years old.
I’ve built my entire life with you in mind.
And now that I finally have you, I want everything.
Your chaos in my space. Your paint on my shirts.
Your presence every morning. Legal and permanent and certain. ”
She was crying. Silently. Tears running down her face while she stared at the ring.
“Will you marry me?” I asked.
“Yes.” The word came out choked. “Yes, obviously yes.”
I slid the ring on her finger. It fit perfectly. I’d checked her size weeks ago when she wasn’t paying attention.
She pulled me up and kissed me. Hard. Desperate. Like she’d been waiting for this moment as long as I had.
When we broke apart, we were both crying.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask since I found Mom’s journal,” she admitted. “I kept checking your pockets for a ring.”
“You checked my pockets?”
“Multiple times. You’re very sneaky.”
“I’m appropriately romantic.”
“You proposed in my mom’s garden at seven in the morning while we’re both in pajamas.”
“Exactly. Romantic.”
She laughed through her tears. Looked at the ring. Looked at me. And at the garden around us.
“I love you so much, Axel Irving. So, so much.”
She leaned to kiss me again. Softer this time, her lips moving against mine with passion and certainty.
We sat on the bench. Engaged and certain. The morning sun warming our faces. Birds singing Elena’s favorite songs.
My phone buzzed. Daniel.
Daniel
Did you ask her yet?
I showed Delia the text.
“How does he know?” she asked.
“I told him I was planning to propose. I asked his permission first.”
“You asked my brother’s permission?”
“Seemed appropriate.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
“You’re marrying this nerd.”
“I know. It’s tragic.”
I texted Daniel back.
Axel
She said yes.
His response was immediate.
Daniel
Finally. Bringing champagne. Be there in 20.
Twenty minutes later, Daniel arrived with champagne. Sarah appeared five minutes after that—apparently Delia had texted her too.
“Let me see the ring,” Sarah demanded, grabbing Delia’s hand. “Oh, that’s beautiful. He has good taste.”
“I helped him pick it,” Daniel admitted.
“You helped?” Delia looked between us.
“I wanted a second opinion. Daniel knows your style.”
“This is the least surprising engagement in history,” Sarah declared. “We’ve all been waiting for this for months.”
“Years,” Daniel corrected. “I’ve been waiting years.”
We spent the afternoon in Elena’s garden. Drinking champagne. Celebrating new memories in a space dedicated to old ones. Telling stories about Elena. About Miguel. About our own childhood.
Lily asked if she could be the flower girl. Delia said absolutely. Gianna texted asking if this meant she needed to plan a bachelorette party. Delia said absolutely. Again.
As the sun started setting, I looked around at the people gathered here.
This was home, with Delia leaning against me. I wrapped my arm around her. We watched the sunset paint the garden gold.
We’d built something beautiful together. Us. Just like Elena had known we would.
Just like we’d been doing all along.