Chapter 30

30

I 'll admit, I haven't spent a lot of time in surgical waiting rooms. But I have to imagine none of them are like this one is right now. It's standing room only for Katy and Bennett, and of course baby Willow. Rory is sitting on Katy's lap, tucked tightly into her. Beside her are Layla and Callan, Katy's adoptive parents. Bennett and his mom are on the other side, and all around them are every member of Central Square, their kids, including Mason and Vander who are very close friends with Katy and Owen, plus every Fritz on the planet, along with Octavia and Dr. Fritz senior.

Everyone is waiting with bated breath for word about Willow, but the moment Rory and I walked into the room, Katy's eyes, which were already brimming with tears, overflowed. Relief like I've never seen struck her features.

She knew it meant Owen was with Willow.

I feel strange being here. I'm not even sure why. In this room, to everyone here—except Katy, who knows—I'm the nanny. Yes, I grew up with some of the people here. Yes, I know them as friends. But it doesn't feel like that right now. The division feels wider.

Or maybe what felt so important before, no longer is.

The secret we've been keeping that once felt like freedom between us now sits on me like a weight. In the short time Owen and I have been sneaking around, everything between us has changed. And fast. Practically overnight.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I slip it out to see it's Billy.

Billy: Don't be mad at me, and remember how much you love me.

Me: What did you do?

Billy: *Devil smile emoji*

That's it. Nothing else comes in, and I wait and wait. What the hell? I glance over at Rory and find her still tucked in with Katy, so I leave my perch in the corner of the waiting room and step out into the brightly lit hall. It's quiet out here, the hallway all but empty, and I walk a few feet down.

Just as I go to text him back, my phone rings in my hand from an unknown number with a two-one-two area code, which I know to be New York City. For a beat, I debate answering it, almost worried it's Claude, though instinctively I know it's not. Curiosity wins out, and my finger slides across the screen.

"Hello?" I answer softly, glancing around to make sure I'm not disturbing anyone.

"Hello." A strong male voice booms through the speaker and into my ear. "I'm looking for Estlin Kincaid."

"Speaking."

"Estlin, may I call you Estlin? My name is Alfonzo Williams," he continues before I can answer him about my name. "I run the Broad?—"

"Gallery in New York," I find myself finishing for him, though I don't know why. Maybe it's from being in shock that he's calling me. The Broad Gallery is internationally known. It's the premier gallery in New York and brings in some of the biggest names in the art world. Claude had been trying to get in there for as long as I knew him and even before that. My mother had a show there decades ago, and it's part of what launched her career.

I don't know why he's calling, but whatever the reason is, just talking to him has me winded.

His warm chuckle fills my ear. "Yes, I see you've heard of us."

"I can't tell if you're being ironic or not."

"Billy said I'd like you. He's my nephew. Did he tell you that?"

I blink about sixty thousand times at the taupey-cream walls. "Um. No. He didn't."

"Well, he doesn't like to pass that around. In fact, he only shares with people he feels I should know about. Tonight, he shared your work with me."

I think I'm going to throw up. As it is, I'm shaking so badly I practically fall against the wall, needing support because my legs are anxious to give out on me.

"He did?" I manage.

"He showed me two paintings you have here, but he did hint that you had others. Was he mistaken?"

I shake my head, my free hand covering my mouth, almost wanting to cry at that question. I bend in half, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. "I have two others." Claude destroyed fifty pieces of mine. Fifty. It was years and years of work. I had forgiven him, but at this moment, I think I might want to kill him again.

"So four pieces total?"

"As of right now, unfortunately, that's all I have other than some of my clay pieces. "

"No, I don't deal in pottery despite how beautiful it can be. Okay." He pauses, and I can tell by his tone he's thinking, possibly reconsidering this phone call. Shit. I can't offer him anything more than what I have, but hell, I wish I could. It's excruciatingly painful. An old scar someone just sliced back open.

"Those other two pieces. Do you have pictures? I'd come to see them, but I'm heading back to New York as we speak."

My eyes pinch closed in anxious regret. "Not at present. They're at home, but I can send you pictures by tomorrow morning."

"I think we could do something with your work, Estlin. I know talent when I see it, even in two paintings. I believe Billy was correct about you, and I remember your mother. She was as young and talented as you are. I launched her career. She received many offers after her showcase in my gallery."

"I know," I say, my voice half-gone because I do know. She hit the New York Times with that showing. It launched her into every place she deserved to be within the art world.

"I'd need at least twenty pieces."

I collapse into a squat, breathing hard. Shit. Twenty pieces . How on earth can I do that?

"By when?" I squeak because I can't even believe he's entertaining me.

"June? Say June first. I'd love to do this as a summer event, and I think that would bring in the buyers for you. I'll need you to come to New York with the pieces you already have. You'll sign some contracts that give me exclusive rights to the reveal and sale of your work, and we'll discuss your other pieces as well as your vision for the collection."

I right my body, about to lose my mind, but not stupid enough not to sell myself and grab onto my dream with both hands. "Absolutely," I answer quickly. "When would you need me to come to New York? "

"Next week for certain, and then several times in between as you deliver your pieces per the contract we would sign. I think a forty-five percent commission is fair, and if you search around, you'll find that number consistent with the current rate in the market."

I don't get into that yet. I have to talk to my mother and likely a lawyer. I might be young and have done so many things wrong in my life, but I won't be stupid or na?ve and trusting about this.

"You want me to come to New York next week?" I think on this but not really. My mind is spinning too fast. My dream all but smacking me in the face. "Sure. Yes. I can do that. Whatever you need."

"Excellent. I look forward to meeting you then. I'll have my assistant get in touch to work out the particulars. Have a good rest of your evening, Estlin."

"Thank you, sir. You too."

We end the call, and I fall forward, panting, unable to catch my breath as wild giddiness and pure, unbridled joy sweep through me. Holy shit. Holy freaking fuckity shit. The Broad Gallery. The fucking Broad Gallery is going to showcase me. I emit a squeal and quickly cover my mouth, only to jump when a hand meets my shoulder, jostling me out of my thoughts.

"Hey," Jack says, his voice dripping with worry. "Are you okay?"

My neck twists, and I peer up at him, my eyes brimming with tears that start to fall. "Jack, I just spoke to the owner of the Broad Gallery."

His eyebrows pinch together, and he blinks at me as if he's searching for how he knows that name. "That's in the New York Times article Mom has framed, right?"

I nod. "Yep."

"Wow. Did she get you a call with them or something?"

That question shouldn't sting, but it does. I push it aside, choosing not to focus on the fact that my brother doesn't believe I could get this on my own.

"No. I have a friend who is the nephew of the owner. He showed him two of my pieces today, and the owner just called me now with an offer to do a showcase in the gallery this summer."

"Jesus, Eddie. That's amazing. I can't believe it." He stares dumbfounded at me because he actually can't believe it, and no doubt my family will be the same way. It's been like this my entire life. They're proud of me, and they talk about my accomplishments and talent, but they all still view me as a little girl.

I'm Eddie, not Estlin.

A meek thing incapable of taking care of herself. A child feeding off her mother's name and fame.

It's part of why I allowed Claude to hold me down and accepted his criticism of my work as gospel. No one believed in me the way I needed them to. I had their support and their pats on the back, but they never thought I could go out and conquer the world on my own. Maybe that's why I didn't want them to come see me in London.

I didn't want to prove them right.

I straighten my spine. "Thanks. It means I'll have to go to New York next week to review and sign a contract and return there several times over the coming months since he wants twenty pieces total."

"New York. Wow. That sounds like a lot of work. Are you going to move there?"

"You're leaving us?" The high-pitched, distressed words slice through my euphoric, bitter, and scattered thoughts.

My head flies left and then down to find a distraught Rory, blue eyes big and wide and overflowing with tears.

"Oh, Rory." I cover my mouth, my hands still trembling. "No, sweetheart, I'm not moving to New York."

"But Jack just said you were. "

"I was invited to show my paintings at a gallery there, and with that, I will have to make some trips to New York. That's what he was talking about."

"But he said move there. I heard him."

I crouch. "Honey, it'll just be some trips for a few days here and there?—"

Her cheeks turn red, and more tears start to spill. "No!" she cries loudly. "You can't leave us."

I run my hand across her cheek, wiping her tears. "If I go, it's just for a short time?—"

"No!" She stomps her foot and swats my hand away. It's late, and it's been a supremely long and emotional day for her. She's at her end and is now on overload.

"Rory—"

"You can't leave us! You love us. You can't go when you love me and my dad."

"What?" I gasp and straighten, throwing a quick glance at Jack, who is suddenly very interested in what Rory has to say.

"I saw you and my dad kiss. That means you love him, and he loves you. You can't leave us." She runs off before I can respond, and I watch her go, a sick knot of dread twisting up my stomach. Oh shit. This is bad. Rina exits the waiting room just in time to catch a crying and hysterical Rory.

Jack steps in front of me, cutting off my vision of them. "What the fuck did she mean when she said you were kissing Owen?"

Jesus hell.

I blink up at him. "Jack, calm down."

Rage excites his features. "Do not tell me to calm down, Eddie. Tell me she's mistaken. Tell me she's a little girl and didn't understand what she saw. Tell me you weren't kissing my best friend. But more than that, tell me you haven't been fucking him behind my back."

I blow out a breath. What the hell do I say ?

"We care about each other."

"How long, Eddie? How long has this been going on?"

He's really not going to like this answer.

"About a month."

"A month?" he bites out incredulously, fury staining his cheeks. "A fucking month ? So all those times I was with you, with him, you were fucking each other right under my nose?"

I stare down at the floor. I don't even know what to say. "It was new, and we didn't know what it was, and?—"

"And fucking nothing," he growls before he storms off. It's only a half-beat after he's tearing a path down the hall that I realize Owen is at the waiting room door delivering the news about Willow's surgery. And Jack is headed straight for him.