Page 132 of Love Me

I grin. “I’m sure your cousin had something to do with that,” I tell her. I don’t know how, but I’m sure Diego went and name dropped my gallery to someone to get the array of bloggers and social commentators that have already RSVP’d for opening night.

“What? Is that a bad thing?” Ken asks.

With a shake of my head, I answer, “Not at all.” I shrug. “A few months ago, I might have said that it was too much and that I didn’t want to ask anyone for help, but …” I trail off.

“Times have changed,” Kennedy finishes for me with a lifted eyebrow.

“Something like that.”

“Good.” She claps her hands together. “Because it’s taken you two long enough to get your shit together.”

“Excuse—”

My question is interrupted by a knock on the door. Assuming it’s one of the renovation workers coming to finish up a few minor details, I yell for them to come in.

Yet, my eyebrows lift in surprise when I see who it is.

“Ms. McClure,” I say, recognizing the woman immediately. Even though it’s been months since we last spoke, I still think about Ms. McClure and her grandson, Mikey, often. And, of course, Sharia.

I make my way over to hold the door open for her to pass through.

“Hi!” a little voice says, catching my attention.

Standing next to Ms. McClure is two-year-old Mikey, Sharia’s son.

“Mikey,” I say with a smile.

He lights up in that way toddlers do when you know their name without having to ask them.

“I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Ms. McClure says.

“No, I was just waiting on some workers to stop by to finish up on some minor details. You caught me at a great time.”

I turn to look over my shoulder. Stretching out my arm, I say, “This is Kennedy Townsend. A good family friend.”

“Hello,” Kennedy waves.

“If you’re busy, we can come back,” Ms. McClure says.

“No, please. I actually have a meeting that I need to get to,” Kennedy tells her. “Mo, I’ll stop by a little later on for dinner,” she tells me, reminding me of our plans to get dinner.

When she leaves, I place my full attention on Ms. McClure and Mikey. “Are you visiting Williamsport for vacation?”

The older woman shakes her head. “Not exactly.” She does a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree inspection of my gallery. I watch her as she takes in every detail, her eyes stopping on the name tags of the artists posted along the walls.

“You have quite a few artists lined up,” she says as she moves farther into the gallery.

Mikey follows her, looking up at the walls, too.

“Yes,” I reply. “So far, I have nine artists lined up for our grand opening. There are a few others that I am lining up to feature in the coming months.”

It feels good to say that out loud. I’m reminded of how despondent I felt the last time I spoke with her, months ago. So much has changed since then, in such a short amount of time.

I open my mouth to ask her how things are going with the gallery she chose in New York for Sharia’s paintings, but I’m cut off.

“Would you like one more?” Ms. McClure asks.

“Excuse me?”