Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,59

I’ve heard nothing from him all day.

Also not like him.

“Hey, doll face!” Mikey comes up beside me, wearing a massive grin.

“Mikey!” I let them wrap their arms around me, so relieved to have them here. “You made it.”

“Of course I made it. Was I not supposed to come to my bestie’s opening?” They look around, eyes huge. “In case you haven’t noticed. You’re kind of a big deal.”

I can’t help but laugh. It’s not true, but it feels good. And having them with me feels good, too. “Have you heard from Harper?”

“Um… Yes.” Mikey goes all cagey. “And Alba’s here! She’s talking to someone outside.”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“Am I going to like it?”

“Sure hope so. Hey, come here.” I accept the hug, though I know the risk of crying is high. It’s nerves and emotion and a big dose of exhaustion. To hell with what everyone thinks. I’m an artist, after all. I’m allowed to cry at my first big opening. I let it go—just a little. A couple tears escape my eyes, I sniffle. After a couple silent snuffles, I wipe my eyes and pull back. “Thank you.”

“Stop saying that.” They lean forward and wipe under my eyes. “Now, go talk to your adoring fans.”

With a nod and a deep breath, I paste on a smile and turn back to the room.

A couple minutes later, Alba shows up, then a couple of my professors. But no Karl.

Time’s weird during events like this—especially now that I’m the main attraction. It passes in fits and starts, rushing until it’s time for me to give my speech—the part I’ve been dreading. I’m fine talking to people, although accepting compliments is still a challenge, but standing up in front of a crowd will be a whole other situation.

Darn it, I really wanted him to be here.

I stand stiffly through the Collection Director’s introduction and move to the little stage they’ve set up in the lobby.

Once I’m up there, I start to shake—nerves, I suppose. It’s not like I’ve done this before. After a big inhale, I dive into my prepared artist’s talk.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “This show is called Pieces of You because it’s a collection of my past. Bits and pieces of who I am. The good, the bad…” My hand waves to a massive, dark piece hanging on the right. “The ugly.” There’s laughter.

Okay. Okay, I can do this. I’ll get through it. I don’t need Karl. He’ll get here when he can. And whatever he’s doing, he’s got good reason for it. “We’re all made up of our past, our present, genetics, learned behaviors and experiences. Everything you see on these walls is something I’ve seen or been or lived. It’s the best of where I grew up.” I sniff. “And the worst.” I keep talking and after a minute, maybe longer, I start to focus in on the people standing here and, my goodness, there are a lot. Hundreds. I skim over the crowd, touching on one face and another. Toward the back, a tall figure attracts my notice. I blink and lose track of what I’m saying. I take a breath. “It’s disappointment…and happiness.” That last word comes out close to a whisper. It’s Karl, back there. He’s here. He made it.

With a shaky inhale, I turn to the rainbow creation I’ve put together over the past couple weeks—an ocean of color and texture. It’s the most complex piece I’ve ever made, and the most personal. I clear my throat, unsure of where I am in the speech. It doesn’t matter, I guess. I’m not a public speaker, after all, I’m a just a woman who likes to knit. “Sometimes, I’m not even sure of what it is that I’m making,” I admit, which will probably cost me some sales, since art’s supposed to be all about meaning and insight, right? “Sometimes, the process is as important as the product.” I look back to him. To Karl. To the man I love, who’s pushing his way through the crowd like a moving stone through still water.

Who am I even talking to now? What am I even saying?

I open my mouth to say something else and lose the thread when I realize Karl’s not the only one moving toward me. He’s the engine of a long train, cutting its way through the crowd. There’s Harper and… I hiccup. Is that my mother? And Rachel, my little sister? Behind her, my