Page 55 of The Player (Close Quarters 5)

“This gallery waseverythingto her.” I jam my hands into my pockets. “She would spend hours here, fussing with every little detail. This was her happy place.”

And he wants to sell it? Her happy place?

“Yes, because she loved being surrounded by art. She loved showcasing the things her family created—my artwork and yours.” He sighed. “She always wished that she was more creative, but her talents were in other areas. Her mind was analytical and faster than any machine.”

A memory springs to mind, of happier times. We used to “race” her—Dom would shout out numbers and I would punch them into a calculator while she added them up in her head. She always won.

“I’m not sure you’ll ever leave the gallery on your own,” he says, raking a hand over his silver hair, smoothing it back into place. He’s dressed in loose linen pants, leather sandals and a billowy red shirt, looking every bit the artist he is. “She didn’t want this for you, Rowan.”

I turn away for a moment, struck by how much it hurts to hear him talk about her. Outside, the city is alive and bustling. It’s sunny and beautiful. A breeze ruffles the trees dotting the street and the clang of tram bells pierces the quiet.

“Do you know what she said to me the day we opened the gallery?” His voice draws me back to the present.

“What?”

“She said,I can’t wait until we have Rowan’s paintings hanging on these walls. Becausethat’swhat she wanted for you—to be the artist you were meant to be. Not the person to fill her shoes and act like it’s your duty to replace her.”

“If I don’t do this for her, then who will?” Dom is great at his job, but he’s not a salesperson. And without sales, we have nothing.

“You’re not doing this for her, Rowan. You’re doing it for yourself.”

“Explain that to me,” I say, tossing my hands in the air. “Explain how I’m being selfish when all I ever think about is what she wanted.”

“But you’renotthinking about what she wanted.” My father stays in the chair, his eyes tracking my every movement. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t speed up to match my agitation. Instead, he speaks calmly and slowly, putting out my flames with his deliberate, considered tone. “Because she never wanted you to take over the business. Knowing you were here, feeling trapped, not painting and not creating, would have her turning in her grave. You think doing her job is keeping her memory alive, but if she were here, she would be furious with you for giving up on your gift. You do it to make yourself feel better, not to please her.”

I take a step back, almost as if he’s slapped me. It feels that way—stinging and sharp. But in my heart of hearts, I know it’s true. Not once did she try to teach me about the behind-the-scenes part of the gallery. In fact, when I’d asked, she told me to go paint. To go and refill my creative well. To spend my time on something worthier than business.

“She would be so sad knowing her business was a shackle around your wrists, Rowan. She loved you and Dom more than life itself.” My father’s eyes become misty and he blinks. For the first time, I see a pain that echoes my own. “So please don’t sully her memory by saying you’re upholding her dream. This wasneverher dream.”

For a moment, I find myself unable to speak. My world feels as though it’s been ripped open again—it’s painful and raw and I feel the truth of it deep in my soul. I’ve been hiding in the gallery for five long years. Hiding away from the things that scared me, burying myself in something that came easy but was unrewarding.

“What if people forget about her?” I ask. This is my darkest fear—that if I let go of the gallery, that she’ll fade. That new owners will come into this space and wipe away the pieces of her.

“I will never forget about her,” my father says fiercely. “And I would bet every cent in my bank account that neither will you or Dom.”

He’s right. I won’t ever forget about her.

I have the sudden urge to rip the butcher’s paper off the canvases. I pick at the tape sealing the paper shut and start unwrapping them one by one. There are twelve and my father doesn’t say a word as I reveal them all. Paintings of my mother, of the tree that used to grow out the back of our family home, of the mugs she always used to leave around the house, tea half consumed and cold.

I remember the look of awe on Emery’s face as I showed them to her, the pride I’d felt. This is what I’m meant to do with my life. I knew it as soon as I picked up a brush for the first time. And I’ve known it these past five years, even though I’ve done my best to ignore it.

“They’re spectacular, Rowan.” My father gets slowly to his feet and ambles over to me, laying a hand on my back. “Art is our language, you know. Some people can’t always communicate with words the way they would like to, but artistic mediums are where our voice truly shines.”

I look at him with fresh eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring your calls.”

“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you were young.” He pulls me into a hug and I’m startled by the uncharacteristic affection. “Learn from my mistakes, son. Art is your voice, but it’s not your whole life. You need balance. We all do.”

Emery. Her face flashes in my mind so sharp and so clear it’s like watching a movie on the highest quality screen. The time I’ve spent with her this past month has shown me everything I’ve been missing. Not just the physical intimacy, great as that is. But the before and the after. The meals and the laughter and the movie nights and lying awake in the dark, wondering if it was real.

She had the confidence to put herself out there and admit what she wanted. But I did not.

“It’s not too late to change things,” my father says, as if reading my mind. Though I wonder if he’s saying those words more for himself or for me. “It’s never too late.”

But I’m going to take his advice and run with it.

I’ve held myself back from the life I wanted for too long, weighed down by a false sense of obligation. No more. I’m going to put myself out into the world. The real me. Not Rowan the party guy or Rowan the salesman or Rowan the charmer. Just me. Imperfect, artistic, hopeful for the future. A man who isn’t stuck.

Then I’m going to get Emery back.

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