Page 88 of Deliverance

By the time we return to the main floor, I have three missed calls from Tina, two voicemails from Lucia, and a text from Santiago featuring a dozen fireworks emojis. The crowd has grown, dense and buzzed, and the cocktail station is under attack. The waiters are running around with trays that get empty so quickly, one would think these people haven’t eaten for a week. It’s impossible to tell from their reactions whether my collection is a success or a total flop.

A security guard at the entrance to the Basalt Room is collecting everyone’s cell phones.

Stomach heaving, I continue studying the guests and spot a few familiar faces from my support group, including Reagan. She meets my gaze and raises her drink by way of a greeting from across the room.

“I should probably go find my husband and let you socialize a little,” Hazel says before she disappears into the crowd.

As I start to navigate my way around the chatting clusters of people who are completely oblivious to who I am since there aren’t any photos of me on the internet, a voice catches me off guard.

Warm and familiar, it comes from behind and sends my poor heart racing, “Hello, Drew.”

I turn around, my breath hitching at the sight of Zander’s face. His ocean scent surrounds me with muddy memories.Memories of our bodies entwined on the floor of my studio, coats of paint covering his chest and my neck.

“Hi.” My whisper is barely detectable in the buzz of the room.

I didn’t expect him to show up after what happened between us, and now that he’s here, I realize I’ve been so preoccupied, I didn’t even bother to ask Lucia to take him off the guest list.

Zander takes a tentative step forward and leans in to speak into my ear, “I honestly thought you were hiding from me when I didn’t see you at the unveiling.”

My hands lock into a tight ball in front me because it gives my fingers something to do. Something other than sift through Zander’s hair or torture the lapels of his fitted leather jacket.

“Please don’t…” I hesitate as words fail me. “Not here.”

“I’m sorry if I said or did something the other night that gave you the wrong impression—”

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you all over,” Tina cuts in before he gets to finish whatever it is he came here to apologize for, and boy am I happy to see her. She’s an unlikely savior. But a savior nonetheless.

Taking a sharp breath, I snap my attention back to the gallery and flash Tina a smile.

“Zander. It’s so nice to see you here tonight,” she adds. “I didn’t get a chance to say hi earlier. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am. Thank you.” He nods, but his eyes sneak over to my face, silently pleading.

“I’ll have to steal this lovely young lady from you for a bit.” Tina delivers the final blow and he’s left alone as we head over to schmooze with the rich and the famous.

The next thirty minutes fly by in a blur. The only piece of information I gather among all the introductions is that the collection did resonate with the guests, or at least the ones Tina is making me talk to, and the thought offers me some small relief.

Sometime later, after Santiago excuses himself for the night and I’ve lost my voice, Tina snatches two flutes of champagne from the tray the waiter is carrying past us and leads me to the patio. And there, under the dark L.A. sky, she finally drops the act.

“You seriously did not do that to me, Drew.”

“It was for the best,” I supply the lamest excuse out of all the lame excuses in my arsenal. There’s no point in explaining the real reason I couldn’t be present when the Basalt Room opened its doors to revealScars. This collection is too personal. Not just for me, but for everyone involved and some of these people—people who donated their fears, their hurt, and their bodies— are here tonight and I wouldn’t have been able to look them in the eye during the slideshow—the devious publicist’s idea that I hated from the get-go.

“I don’t know why I can’t be mad at you.” Tina scoffs and takes a small sip of her champagne.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you about the possibility of me having cold feet.”

“You should have,” she agrees, pinning me with her stare for a long moment. “You also need to give me an answer soon.”

“How much longer do I have?”

“A few days. But please, before you refuse, consider what it is you’re refusing.”

“I didn’t say I was going to shut down the idea. I’m open…” I glance at the fizzy liquid in my glass. “I just…I just wish the timing was better.”

“The timing is perfect.”

For you. Not for me.

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