Page 95 of Came the Closest
That’s when the nerves hit.
We’re not even past the lit up, marble-floored entryway to the actual gallery yet, and inadequacy is already shrinking me back. Surrounded by these people—the wealthy buyers, the artist types who ditched Converse for Armani, the curators from places more prestigious than the Institute—it’s hard not to feel intimidated. Before my downfall in Chicago, I’d have never given it a second thought as to if I deserved to be here.
All I can hear now is Stephen’s voice telling me my focus was wrongly divided. That the baby I lost wasn’t as important as me nearly sabotaging his career because mine (wrongly) went up in smoke.
“Cheyenne.” Colton steps in front of me, effectively blocking my view. His warm, calloused palms come to rest on my bare shoulders. I look down at our feet; mine in uncomfortable heels and his in shiny brown dress shoes. “Cheyenne, look at me.”
I don’t want to. I want to turn around and pretend I never came back to this world. I want Colton to drive us back to the lake house; to spend our rainy Saturday night curled up on the couch with Milo and Indi where we can eat buttery popcorn and sticky Hot Tamales. I want to change out of this strapless, silky light blue dress into those flannel shorts and an oversized t-shirt and giggle with Indi long after the boys are in bed.
Colton won’t have it. Stepping closer, he hooks a finger under my quivering chin and tilts my face up, his blue eyes calm.
“Listen to me, Fini,” he says quietly. He ignores everyone around us, even when a stout man with a tall forehead bumps into him. “You are not here tonight on account of anyone else, you are here tonight on account of yourself. I am on your arm, and you are the reason we’re here. If you think your art isn’t good enough because it wasn’t created in some big-city penthouse with the pressure of curators breathing down your neck, you’re dead wrong. Your art came directly from here—” he brushes his knuckles against my chest “—and that can’t be replicated. You are one of a kind, Fini. I’m just lucky enough to have been placed within the same lifetime as you.”
Tears fill my eyes. I let out something between a laugh and a sob. “Colt, you can’t say things like that.”
“Yes,” he says, “I can.”
“No, you can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I literally just shaved my legs, and when you say stuff like that, it gives me goosebumps. They make my leg hair grow by like six inches every time.”
Relief softens his expression, and he rubs his hands briskly up and down my chilly arms. “Respectfully, Cheyenne, I couldn’t care less about your leg hair.”
“Because you aren’t the one wearing this dress,” I say, but I’m teasing. “Believe me, it’s not comfortable when this material plasters to your prickles.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to suck it up for tonight. You’re about to get a whole lot more goosebumps.” Hands shifting back to my shoulders, he turns me to face the doors, his warm breath feathering across my cheek. “Surprise, my love.”
A small gasp tumbles from my lips. I look up at Colton, who gives a small nod. I face forward again just in time for my grandparents, my mom, my brothers, and Sam to step from the rainy evening into the gallery’s revolving doors.
Fingertips pressed into the small of my back, Colton places his mouth beside my ear. “Your art must mean something if all these people are here just to support you. Lift your sails, Fini. It’s time to be out at sea. You’ve spent enough time harbored at the docks.”
“Well, well, well. Apparently the rumors I heard were true.”
I freeze in the middle of a conversation with a curator from Denver. Chills of an entirely different kind rumble across my skin. An unwelcome kind.
I know that voice.
It’s the voice I’ve tried to forget. The voice I naively fell for second year working at the Institute. It once vowed to love me eternally, and it broke me down until my self-worth became nonexistent.
As if sensing impending awkwardness, the curator slips away before I can give her my contact information. It leaves me no choice but to turn from the lit-up display of my painting and face the man who tried to ruin me, both personally and professionally.
“Stephen.” I wish my voice hadn’t wobbled when I said his name, but it did.
My ex-husband shifts a champagne flute to his other hand. Arrogance radiates off him in waves, and he looks exactly like I remember—a sharp silver suit, gleaming Rolex, and dress shoes shined to perfection. Stephen Collins came from a wealthy family, and he isn’t afraid to flaunt that when opportunity arises.
“Cheyenne.” He tips his head to the painting behind me. “I see that you didn’t give up painting after all.”
I don’t respond. My knuckles whiten from clasping my clutch purse so tightly. I inhale sharply when he steps forward, and his shoulder brushes mine. I flinch. Stephen lifts a dark blond brow and focuses on my painting, the muscles in his clean-shaven jaw working.
My heart rate spikes, and my hands are clammy, but I don’t step away. Stephen pretends he holds all the power, but he doesn’t. I know this.
“Fitting,” he says suavely, “that you would paint a scene like this. It’s truly very touching.”
“You can’t rattle me anymore, Stephen,” I say quietly, fighting to keep my voice level.
He smiles. It would look charming to outsiders, but to me, there’s poison behind that smile. Unfortunately, I’ve already taken a bite of the metaphorical apple by engaging in this conversation.
Stephen pitches his voice low. “I’m surprised that you’re willing to show your face at an event like this. You know, after everything that happened in Chicago.” He pauses and narrows his eyes, just barely. “Unless, of course, you don’t remember.”
I open my mouth but I don’t have to say anything. A broad, familiar back in a baby blue suit jacket shifts into my focus. Intangible relief softens my shoulders.