Page 87 of Deliverance

“It never gets easier, does it?” I sigh heavily.

“It does,” Hazel counters. “As soon as you realize there’s nothing you can do about others talking smack about your life. All that matters is whatyoudo with your life.”

I turn her words over in my head as we pass a service cart loaded with silverware. “Thank you for stealing me from there.”

“Don’t mention it.” She pulls us in the direction of the restrooms. “I need a minute alone too. Remember, I’ve got two hyperactive kids at home.” There’s a hint of a smirk wedged into her left cheek but it never fully forms. Maybe because she doesn’t really mean what she’s saying.

She’s an amazing mom. And getting a glimpse at what motherhood is truly like through her eyes makes all the feelings I buried some years ago come to the surface. Bliss. Hope. Ache. Anger. It’s a terrifyingly explosive mix.

Hazel has never spoken about her first son in my presence, but I know firsthand that just because you don’t talk about something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. The pain is always there, lodged deep in every pore in your body. It’s a burden you carry for the rest of your life.

It’s the burden I often see in her art.

In short, Hazel Cross isn’t the kind of a woman who smirks in public. Stitched up by invisible threads of will, she’s too gentle and too well-put-together, and sometimes, I wonder how two people who are so different can be so in sync.

She and Justice are total opposites. He’s loud, flashy, opinionated—the type of man who’d ordinarily never settle for a woman as uncomplicated as Hazel.

Yet, somehow, they make it work.

“Is Santiago here?” Hazel fishes a lipstick out of her purse. “I thought I saw him when I walked in.”

“Of course he is.” They met briefly only once, but she loved him right away. “I need as many real people on my side as I can get tonight.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Looking for trouble.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from him.” She laughs and leans forward to check her makeup in the mirror.

I take advantage of the situation and adjust my bra and secure the pins in my hair. Then my gaze slides over to Hazel. She’s wearing a black drape number and a pair of golden stilettos that match her accessories and hair. Most women would kill to have her body after two pregnancies.

“What time are the doors open?”

I look at my phone sitting on the marble counter and wish the time could just freeze. “In a few minutes.” My stomach twists into knots. “Honestly, I don’t want to be there during the slideshow.”

The thought of sharing the room with strangers as they watch years of hurt they’ve probably never experienced unsettles me.

“We can hide out here until things blow over,” Hazel offers and spins on her heels to face me.

“What about your hubby?”

She waves at nothing in particular. “Oh, he’ll be fine. I’m sure Tina and a dozen more people can keep him occupied.”

I imagine having a bottle of champagne all to ourselves and almost text Santiago to find us one, but then I remember Hazel that doesn’t drink.

She props her hip against the edge of the counter and studies me. “You know what Justice once told me right after we met? He said that the world is shit and there’ll always be people who will hate what you do or what you are. And it took me a long time to understand that we don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations except our own. Just because someone in that crowd tonight won’t understand what those thirty pieces really represent doesn’t diminish their importance, just like it doesn’t diminish the pain and the ugliness people who came forward to be part of this project went through. Be proud of what you created. Be proud that you had the guts.”

My throat tightens and I can already feel a storm of emotions brewing in my belly.

“Damn you.” I bring my hands to my face and fan my cheeks, hoping the tears that threaten to make an appearance spare me tonight.

“Everyone’s truth is different, and you’re just brave enough to let others see yours.”

“I hate you right now.” My voice, like a distant sound on the wind, is small and defeated. Tears spill past my eyeliner and down my face.

Hazel hands me a tissue and just stands there, quiet and motionless. There’s understanding in her amber-colored eyes and I’m glad she gets that I prefer not to be fussed over. It helps the tears pass faster. Truthfully, I have no idea why I’m crying. It’s definitely not the possibility that critics may not like what they see in the Basalt Room this evening.

It’s all those darn emotions that have been warring through me, fighting for dominance.

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