Page 31 of If You Never Come Back
My phone beeps with a text from my mom.
Mom:Anak. You okay? You need more food?
Ever since I came clean to mom about the breakup with Wes, she’s been fussing over me. Multiple phone calls and texts every day to check in, in addition to a handful of surprise food deliveries. Even my dad, who showered me with loads of concerned calls the week after I told them about my breakup, tells her to ease up on me daily.
I let out a sigh, reminding myself that she’s fussing because she loves me.
Me:I’m doing fine, mom. I still have that container of fried rice and the pansit you dropped off the other day.
Mom:Okay, that’s good! I love you! Don’t forget to eat! And call or text me anytime you need anything!
I text “I love you” to her, then stop to eat leftovers. When I sit back at my desk, my phone beeps again. An alert from Instagram.
I squint at the heavily filtered photo of a woman clad in a white one-piece bathing suit facing a window in a chicly decorated living room. Only her back is visible. When I tap the photo, my Instagram handle pops up. And that’s when I see it.
One of my watercolor cityscapes is framed on the white wall of her living room. I smile to myself, giddy that someone likes my art enough to post about it on social media.
I skim the caption below the photo.
Finally finished decorating my new flat. Absolutely LOVE this piece by artist @ShayAlexander. My #cali home feels complete now #californiadreamin #lifeloveart #artfanatic #shayfanatic
When I focus on the name of the account, I almost choke on a swallow. Mari Dash, the famous DJ, is the woman in the photo. She has a million followers and just tagged me in her post.
I choke for real when I see that her photo boasts a few thousand likes and comments.
That painting is almost as gorgeous as you are, Mari!
OMG who is this @ShayAlexander person?? I need her artwork ASAP!
I heave a breath. Tickets to her concerts sell out in minutes. How in the world did she stumble upon my tiny, insignificant website? She could probably afford a Picasso for crying out loud.
I shove the thought to the back of my brain. How she found me doesn’t matter. What matters is that a celebrity is a fan of my artwork and that means a level of exposure I’ve never had before.
I indulge in a few seconds of jumping up and down and squealing. And then I check my email inbox.
Holy fucking shit.
Fifty-seven new orders for various pieces of my artwork have just filtered through my site. With unblinking, disbelieving eyes, I quickly scan the orders for digital prints I’ve designed, my canvas paintings, sketches, pretty much everything I sell on my site.
I grip the back of my desk chair to steady myself. I try and fail to stand up straight.
“Oh my god.”
I think I just got my big break.
I check the clock. An hour until I’m due at Dandy Lime for my shift.
Shock turns to laser focus. I call Remy. Holding the phone between my chin and my shoulder, I plop down at my desk and start working on the orders. My smile is so wide that my cheeks ache, but I don’t care.
Remy answers on the third ring.
I pause for a beat to inhale. “Guess what just happened?”
“What? Is everything okay?”
“More than okay. Try freaking fantastic.”
“What is it?” Remy’s voice goes pitchy and breathy, a sign I’ve sold this well.
