Now That I've Found You - Kristina Forest Page 0,33
a loose-fitting burnt-orange dress and matching dangling earrings.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” she says, smiling at the audience. “Your support means so much to me and young artists all over the world who will benefit from your kindness. I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without you. The exhibit is on the first floor only, so please have a drink and make your way down the hallway directly to your right.”
The crowd starts to move toward the exhibit, forcing Milo and me in the same direction. I turn around, trying to keep my eyes on Candice, but I lose sight of her as she’s surrounded by her team and led away.
“Oh shit,” Milo whispers as we walk.
“What? Have you seen Gigi?” I angle my head this way and that.
“No,” he says. “But that’s Viola Davis right there. And Mahershala Ali is only a few feet in front of us! This is wild.”
“They’re just people,” I say to him. “You know Evelyn Conaway personally. How are you starstruck by anyone else?”
“That’s different,” he says.
I tilt my head. “How so?”
“Your grandma doesn’t act like a famous person,” he says. “She has this warmth to her, you know? She makes you feel like you’ve been friends with her for years.”
“Oh.” Well, his answer was a lot more endearing than I expected. I agree with him about Gigi’s warmth. I pat his arm. “Just relax. Okay, Michael Barclay?”
“Yes, Katrina Ashley.”
“It was Karolina Ains—you know what, never mind. Those names don’t even matter.” I point to the left. “I’ll go to this side of the exhibit, and you go to the right. We’ll meet back here in half an hour if we don’t see Candice or Gigi, okay?”
“Got it.”
We quickly exchange numbers. Milo walks away and pauses, blinking as Shameik Moore passes him. Then, as if he knows I’m watching, Milo glances back at me and smiles sheepishly before continuing on.
I head to the left, glancing every now and then at the large photographs adorning the walls: Diana Ross, Beyoncé, Prince. She’s even photographed Avery Johnson, the youngest Black man to start his own ballet company. Trying not to get distracted, I turn my attention back to the people around me, searching for Candice’s orange dress. There are a lot of famous people here tonight. To be honest, I can see why Milo felt so overwhelmed, but I stay focused and walk slowly, tilting my sunglasses down just enough.
I move deeper and deeper into the exhibit, until I glance around and realize that the walls are now covered with photographs of Gigi. There’s almost an entire section devoted to her. I pause in front of a photo that must have been taken on the set of Every Time We Meet. She and James Jenkins stand side by side, his arm casually thrown over her shoulder. They’re both smiling widely for the camera, brown-skinned with bright-white teeth. Someone’s already bought this one. There’s a SOLD sticker in the corner of the photograph.
I move on to a photo of Gigi standing by a pool. She’s wearing a white wrap dress, and my mom, who was a toddler at the time, has her arms around Gigi’s legs. My grandfather stands a few feet behind them, watching with a smile. I step closer and examine every inch of the photograph. Gigi and my grandfather were friends for years before they fell in love. I’ve always wondered how different Gigi’s life would have been if my grandfather had never died. Maybe she wouldn’t have married James Jenkins for a third time. Maybe her public blowout at the FCCs years later would never have happened. Maybe I could have grown up having her in LA.
Someone calls Candice’s name, and I see a girl in all black rush past me down the hallway. Instinct takes over, and I hurry to follow her. A few feet ahead, the girl reaches Candice and whispers something to her. Candice nods, and they both make a sharp right down another hallway.
How suspicious is that? What are the chances that they’re talking about Gigi?
I push through the crowd and try to catch them, but when I make the same sharp right, I find myself at a dead end in one of the quieter corners of the gallery. Candice is nowhere to be seen.
“Crap,” I mutter, turning around in a circle to see if they somehow ended up behind me. Then I notice a door in the corner, painted to blend in with