“I think you could use a shot,” he laughs uncomfortably, standing behind the bar, pouring three shots. One for Jason, himself and me. My breath starts to slow slightly and I’m feeling more like myself.
“You’re such a badass,” Jason laughs, clinking his shot glass with mine.
“To Kate,” Vince raises his glass, “the badass. That guy needed a nice slap.”
“I’ve never done that before,” I say, my eyes wide, still taking in what happened.
Jason downs his shot. “How did it feel?”
“Surreal, but fantastic.” I smile. “For two years, I’ve thought about what I would say if I saw him again.”
“Well, you don’t have to think about that again. He won’t be back,” Vince says, looking confident.
“I hope you’re right,” I say, downing my shot. “Good riddance.”
***
I didn’t sleep at all last night. And I’ve been jittery all day. Bree attempted to distract me by taking me to lunch and toasting my success as a photographer. I laughed at her and rolled my eyes, but deep down I have to admit that I’m hopeful. I’m really proud of what I created. Even though it tears at my heart since Patrick’s wedding. When I woke up the next morning in Vince’s office, my first instinct was to go home and destroy my piece. The thought of looking at Evan’s face was unbearable. I wanted to tear it apart and forget about him. I stormed into my apartment, determined and angry. But, when I saw it leaning against the wall in my living room, I couldn’t do it. I’m proud of it and my reasons for making it. I can’t control Evan, but I can respect myself enough to show the world what I created. And even if nothing comes of this exhibition, I’ll know that I made something I’m extremely proud of. That’s enough for me.
The Gallery sent some of their employees to pick up my piece earlier this afternoon, so all I have to do is get my frazzled ass over there. Bree forced me to have business cards made. She seems to think I need to make connections. I realize that at some point, I’m going to have to embrace the business side of my passion. But, right now it’s not something I can focus on. I just want to see my work hanging on the wall of a gallery. And I’ll be able to do that in just a few minutes.
Fixing my makeup one last time, and touching up my hair, I put on my winter coat and head to the gallery with Bree. We walk in silence, mainly because I’m so nervous that I can’t muster small talk. I just want to get there, see how everything is going to go, and absorb it all. I’m ready for tomorrow morning to be here already.
We walk into Blue Door and I hear jazz music playing through the speaker system. Waiters and waitresses are walking around with trays of appetizers and tiny glasses of white and red wine.
“This is fancy,” Bree whispers. She’s so excited for me. I can see it all over her face. She’s right, it is. And I’m a part of it.
“Kate, welcome,” Tosha, one of the event coordinators, says to me as she gestures for me to give her my coat. I slide it off of my shoulders and hand it to her, trying my best to control my shaking hands. “Your piece is right near the front. We wanted everyone to see it. It’s so unique,” she smiles. This sends my pulse racing. Suddenly, this has all become real. Completely real.
“Um, this might be a silly question, but what should I do?” I ask, looking around the gallery.
Tosha chuckles and pats the side of my arm. “Mingle, make connections. Try to stay near your work so if people have questions, you’ll be there to answer them.” She smiles warmly before carrying my coat to a room down the hall.
“All right,” I say, raising an eyebrow at Bree, “here goes nothing.”
“I’ll get us some wine, you go see your piece. Is it lame if I take a picture of it with my camera? I’m dying to know what photo you used.”
Bree walks towards one of the waiters as I walk around the gallery, looking for the familiar faces of my art. When I see it hanging on its own small wall, I almost lose it. My work is hanging in a gallery. My work is hanging in a gallery.
“Kate,” Bree gasps as she stands behind me, putting one hand on my shoulder, “it’s magnificent.”
“Do you really think so?” I ask, almost surprised at Bree’s enthusiasm. I thought she’d at least reject the subject of my work. But, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Instead, she seems blown away. Her eyes are moistening as she gazes at the collage of photos, the many faces of Evan and of our life together. The canvas I used was a standard 36”x54”, and I covered it with a collection of expressions that my love made while we were together. But, dispersed throughout, there are several tiny prints that are not faces, but memories. A small photo of the Christmas tree, the sign for Molly’s tavern, a picture of Soldier’s field, bacon cooking in a pan. They’re almost meant to be hidden treasures that you only see when you really study the piece.
“A Thousand Faces,” Bree says, reading the small placard next to the large canvas. “It’s so beautiful, Kate. I had no idea his face was so expressive. You’ve captured every emotion on the planet.”
“That was the idea. He was a good subject,” I smile weakly, still looking up at the piece.
“Impressive,” a voice says from behind me. She’s a petite redhead with a glowing expression and tiny glasses. Her black business suit tells me she’s not just attending this event for fun.
“Thank you,” I respond.
“Are you the artist?” she inquires. I nod and she extends her hand. “I’m Deb Stuercke. I work for Shutterbug magazine. Have you heard of us?”
“Absolutely, I’m a subscriber,” I say, doing my best not to seem overexcited. But, I am. I am in love with Shutterbug because, although they focus mainly on digital photography, they still have the occasional article about the value of film.
“Well, that’s good to hear,” she says. “This piece is incredible. Tell me about it.”
“Um,” I say, taking a deep breath, “well, these were all taken on my Canon EOS 55—”
“Wait,” she says, extending her hand towards me, looking shocked. “This was done with a film camera?”
“Yes, I’m not very modern,” I laugh nervously.
“Wow,” Deb says, getting closer to the photographs to inspect them, “to say I’m impressed would be a giant understatement.”
“Thank you,” I say again, watching her as she studies my piece for several minutes.
“Do you have a card?” she asks, not making eye contact. She’s still inspecting the piece. Bree gives me a look that says ‘I told you so.’
Quickly, I pull a business card out of my pocket and hand it to her. She still doesn’t peel her eyes away from my photos. “Now, that I’m really looking at this, I can tell this was done with film. What developing service did you use?”
“Um, I have a darkroom in my apartment. I developed all of these photos,” I answer.
She raises an eyebrow before looking once again at my piece. She then nods and gives me a knowing smile, looking down at my card. “Well, Kate Armour, I will most certainly be in touch. Good luck tonight.” She extends her hand once again and I shake it, barely able to catch my breath as she walks away to greet another photographer.
Bree turns her back to Ms. Stuercke, and her eyes look like they’re going to pop out of their sockets. “Can you believe that? We’ve only been here for five minutes and you already made a connection with someone important.”
“That was surreal,” I say, taking a deep breath and exhaling through my mouth.
“Here, drink this.” Bree hands me a glass of wine and I drink it down like it’s water.
“Thanks, wanna walk around a little?” I ask, my hands still shaky. Bree nods and we stroll around to the photographs near mine, not going too far. The rest of the pieces are all very nice, but similar to one another. Landscapes and skyscrapers, mostly. No faces, no faces at all. At first, that makes me nervous, that perhaps I’ve stepped too far out of the norm. Maybe I’m too outside the box for my own good.
After about twenty minutes of looking at artwork and introducing
ourselves to the other participants in the exhibition, we make our way back to my piece. Bree’s convinced that another ‘important person’ might be waiting. She’s not entirely off base. Someone I never expected to be here is standing in front of my piece, studying my photos intently. My breath catches as I observe her. Hair tied back in a bun, a powder blue cashmere sweater set and long black pants on her thin frame. Tasteful black heels on her tiny feet. She’s here.
“Mom?” I say, walking towards her, unable to hide my shock, “you came.”
“Of course I did,” she says, looking at me with a soft smile before bringing her attention back to the piece, “you sent the flier, remember?” Bree winks at me before walking around the corner, giving us privacy.
“Sure, I just — I’m really happy you’re here,” I say, not wanting to argue with Angeline Armour. Not tonight.
“Kate, this is so impressive,” she says, walking closer to the photos of Evan. “Is this him?”
“Yes,” I say meekly.
“I can see why you were so taken with him. He’s very handsome and has such an expressive face,” she says, almost marveling at Evan before reading the placard. “The name is very appropriate, too. He seems to have so many faces.”
She has no idea how right she is.
We stand in silence for a few moments before she reaches and takes me by the hand. My gut reaction is to flinch and pull away, but I’m too overwhelmed to do it.
“I’m so very proud of you, sweet girl,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes. I’m not sure what to say in return, so I squeeze her hand and nod emphatically, swallowing hard to keep my own tears at bay. She hasn’t called me sweet girl since I was young. This has to be the most surreal moment of my life. After a short moment, I’m able to collect myself enough to speak to my mother.
“Thank you for coming, Mom. It means a lot that you’re here,” I say, squeezing her hand once again. We stand together, staring up at the piece, staring at the love of my life as he looks back at us from the canvas.
Ten minutes later, my mother is kissing me on the cheek, saying her good-byes, asking me to come for Christmas and telling me how much she’s missed me. And for the first time in so long, I feel at peace with Angeline Armour. And best of all, I feel hopeful.
Just as she’s about to leave, she stares into my eyes, runs her hand down my cheek and simply says, “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t have to say any more than that. I know what it means. She knows photography is not a hobby, she knows I’m capable of more than she has given me credit for, and that there’s more to me than she realized.
I hug her tightly. “Thank you,” I say, pressing my eyes closed tight, not allowing the tears to come. My happiness overrides our past.
Angeline waves as she leaves the gallery bundled in her large fur coat. Bree returns and holds my hand tightly, knowing just how emotional that exchange was for me. I take a few deep breaths, down another glass of wine that she hands me and thank my friend for pushing me to do this. Somehow I know I will never forget this night. It’s not just the night that my piece hung in a gallery. It’s also the night that Kate Armour reached a turning point. This is the night that Kate Armour started to believe in herself. This is the night that Kate Armour made peace with her mother. This is the night of new beginnings, I think to myself as I study the many faces of Evan, even if my new beginnings are bittersweet.
Chapter 27
Evan
30 minutes later . . .
I stand on the sidewalk, staring at the door of the gallery and shivering in the bitter December air. Not sure if I should go in or walk away, my feet are stuck to the ground like they’re in the clutches of a vice. I’m struggling to make a choice. I want to see her work, to tell her I’m proud of her, to ask for another chance. But, after what I’ve done, I don’t know what she’s thinking or feeling. And I sure as hell don’t want to ruin her big night. I know her, and I know that a night like this is monumental. It took guts for her to submit her work and then follow through when it was accepted.
Finally, I remember her mantra, the one she always said to everyone but herself, “no regrets.” If I walk away, I will definitely regret it. And so, I take a deep breath and make my way into the gallery. A friendly woman takes my coat and points me in the direction of the photographers and their work.
My face is staring back at me. Pictures and pictures and pictures of my face. Pictures of me smiling, frowning, laughing and looking concerned. Just like Kate, the huge canvas takes me into its orbit, drawing me in. I remember Kate taking every single shot. I remember playing around in her apartment when I first gave her the camera. I remember her taking pictures of me when we were lounging on a park bench in the sunshine. And I remember her taking shots of me as she lay in my lap under the Christmas tree.
As I walk closer to the canvas, though, I notice so much more. Tiny little shots tucked between my many expressions, and that’s when I feel like the biggest loser in the world. This entire canvas feels like a love letter, a walk through the happiness we once shared. And in a strange way, I feel like I should leave the gallery before she sees me. Like maybe she wouldn’t want me to see this after all that’s happened. I take one more look at the piece and turn to walk away.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice pierces into me as I hear her walking up behind me. When I turn to face her, I see that she’s as pale as a ghost and looks horrified to see me. My heart sinks. That was the reaction I was dreading.
“You gave me the event flier, and I told you I’d come,” I say, trying so hard not to sound like an idiot.
“But, that was before,” she says sharply. Her eyes are angry and dark.
“I know, I just — Kate, this piece is so awesome. Seriously,” I say, pointing at the canvas. She looks away from me before she speaks.
“Thank you,” she says, her words dry and bitter.
“Look, I don’t wanna spoil your night, so I’ll go, but before I do, I hope you’ll let me say something,” I say. Kate looks at me with expectant eyes.
“I’m proud of you,” I say, shrugging my shoulders, “I always knew you could do something like this.”
She says nothing and I feel like such a patronizing ass. “Anyway,” I say, “I guess I’ll be going.”
“You’ve left me twice, Evan,” she says with bite.
“I know,” I say softly, my eyes pleading, “I shouldn’t have walked away.”
“I used to walk away, too, remember? I walked away from the guys I didn’t really love,” she says, looking me dead in the eye. “So, maybe you never really loved me, Ev.”
“You can’t honestly believe that,” I say, aghast. She’s really convinced herself that I didn’t love her? How am I going to assure her that I’m just a stupid, jealous guy who couldn’t get past his own ego?
“I do,” she says simply.
“I was hurt, I was broken,” I offer.
“And I wasn’t? You broke me just like you broke your promises, Ev. You promised me so many times that we were in all of this together. That you loved me, that you trusted me.” Her hands are planted on her hips as she glares at me.
“But, I did love you,” I protest. Kate looks at the people around us before stepping towards me, her eyes searing into me.
“You left me without even listening to what I had to say. You made so many assumptions, so many horrific assumptions about me and who I am.” Her words are intense, but she says them softly so we won’t make a scene.
“I know,” I whisper, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
“And then, I let you back in the night of Patrick’s wedding. And you did it all over again. Do you have any idea how that felt? You treated me like a goddamn whore.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I know I was a jackass, but I had no idea that I made her feel cheap. “I had no idea, Kate, honestly, I—”
“I’ve thought about you every single day since you left me two years ago. And you? Have you been thinking of me or did Patrick�
��s wedding just bring all of those memories to the surface?”
“Of course I thought about you. It was suffocating me. I think about you all the time.”
“Were you thinking of me when you brought that redhead to Molly’s? Or the blonde?” she snips. My breath catches. I had no idea she had been there when I brought Daphne to Molly’s last year. Or when Daph set me up with Krissy this summer. I remember standing on the sidewalk, thinking I had seen her inside the bar. I convinced myself it was all in my imagination. Good Lord, I must’ve looked like such an asshole, rubbing her face in the fact that I was dating. Why did I take them there?
“I’ve been dating, trying to move on. I’m sure you’ve been in relationships, too,” I say, trying desperately to get her to understand my side of things.
“No,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Not at all?” I’m completely shocked. Maybe I don’t know her as well as I thought.
“No, because no one even comes close. No one even comes close to you. What would be the point?” She shrugs her shoulders and a single tear escapes her eye and pierces right through my heart. I feel like such slime.
“Kate, please—”
“You’re not the only one who lost their first and only love,” she says softly. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I’d always assumed she’d loved others before me. I never dreamed I was the first. I’m too dumbfounded to speak, and we stand in silence for a moment before Kate’s expression changes. She looks irritated and impatient.
“You need to go, Evan. You came to see my piece, but now I’m asking you to leave. This isn’t the time or the place for this.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. And I know she’s right. It’s time to go. She deserves to focus on her art.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I hang my head, so afraid of walking out that door. Afraid of her never speaking to me again.
“Thank you,” she says, relaxing her posture slightly.
“Before I go, though, I need to say something. And I need you to hear me. Really hear me.”
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