“Grandpa, I need a shoulder rub. But no deep tissue,” I said when I got home that night. I plopped myself on the floor in front of his chair.

“How else am I supposed to get the knots out then?”

Mom turned the computer to face me and I saw my dad’s smiling face on the screen. “Hey, kid! You made the show!”

“Yes! I did. You got my email?”

“I did. I answered back, but you’ve had a busy week, I hear.”

“So busy. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Good luck. I’m sad I can’t make it.”

“Can’t make it, huh? Yeah, right. You’re going to surprise me, like those soldier dads I see on the internet all the time jumping out of boxes at football games or cakes at birthday parties, aren’t you?”

“They jump out of boxes at football games?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s very dramatic and there are lots of tears.”

Grandpa started rubbing my shoulder, and I sucked in a painful breath.

“No, kid, that’s not happening. I wish,” Dad said.

“That’s what they all say. They try to play it off. But I’m onto you. Just don’t jump out of any of my paintings or you’ll have to pay for them. I will work on my good crying face though.”

“Abby, I—”

“She’s kidding, Paul,” Mom said. “She knows you’re not coming.” She waved her hand at me behind the computer telling me to knock it off.

Grandpa, who was always quick to jump on board when he thought people were the most uncomfortable, said, “I hope you have a videographer set up for all this, Paul. Those kinds of videos get millions of views online.”

My mom sighed and turned the computer back toward her with an apologetic look on her face. “You know how they are,” she said. “They like to take things just beyond the funny point.”

“What?” I said indignant. “I thought we were just under maximum level of humor on that one.”

“Me too,” Grandpa agreed while digging into the knot on my neck. “I had at least two more rounds in that volley.”

“Nobody says rounds in a volley, Grandpa.”

“I do, so that’s not true.”

“Ouch. I said not deep tissue.”

He backed off a little. “Are you all ready for tomorrow?”

“Yes. I think so.” I was ready to show my art. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to kiss Cooper, but both were happening regardless of if I was ready or not. I just hoped he was.

THIRTY

I paced my station in Lacey’s heels. I hadn’t had time to shop for my own, and hers were definitely too small. They pinched my toes and rubbed at the side of my foot. But they did look good. What was it she had said about sacrifice?

She’d sent me a text earlier, and I smiled remembering it now.

Good luck. Remember: your lips will change hearts.

The doors hadn’t been opened to the public yet, but they would be soon. I pulled out my phone to look at the time. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes. I’d told Cooper to wait until eight though, so hopefully he remembered that. It would be better for my mom. I sent him off a quick text just to make sure. Because of my strict charge to avoid him, I hadn’t gone over the schedule with him since a week ago at milk shakes, with Iris listening in.

A low-grade headache pressed at the back of my skull and up into my temples. I hoped it stayed mild.

The other stations around me each had three or four people arranging and rearranging paintings and placards. I twisted my hands around each other, then smoothed my dress again. My mom had helped me put my hair up in a loose twist with strategic pieces left down around my face.

My paintings hung on the wall behind me like a backdrop. I adjusted one of the placards: The Tree of Life. Which was obviously the tree painting. I’d named all my paintings that week. The one of Cooper on the dunes I’d named Fearless. The spotlight from the stage I called New Perspective. The fish-spa fish I’d decided to call Distorted. And finally, the sunrise. For some reason that painting represented all the new things I had tried over the past several weeks with Cooper. A coming to life. That painting was my favorite, mostly because that morning had been my favorite, sitting there and taking it in. So I named the sunrise The Heart List.

I was excited for people to see the paintings. I was especially excited for my mom to see the theater one. It was like a premonition of tonight. She’d finally get to see me in the spotlight.

Mr. Wallace was making the final rounds. He was visiting each artist, asking them if there was anything else they needed. I knew the drill. I just hadn’t been on this side of the drill before. When he reached me, he squeezed my hand. He looked a little more put together tonight. He had on a dark suit that wasn’t quite as big as usual. His gray hair had been cut recently, giving him a more polished look.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Excited.”

His eyes flitted over my paintings. “Good luck,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“You should put your phone away. Try to be as professional as possible.”

“Yes, I was planning on it. Thanks.” I tucked it back into my purse and set my purse on the chair behind a screen I’d set up for my mom. I’d found the pretty painted screen in the back room and thought it would be a perfect place to escape if she needed a breather.

The doors opened seconds later, and then there were people. There were people walking around the museum looking at paintings. Looking at my paintings. I hoped I could keep my excited feet on the ground.

A familiar face came into my view.

“Elliot!” I said. I hadn’t seen him since the party and hadn’t texted him since talking to Tree Man.

“I didn’t realize you were an artist featured here tonight,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure if it was actually happening either.”

“You look great.”

“Thanks.” I stepped aside, because he was trying to peer around me to look at my paintings.

“These are amazing, Abby.”

“Thank you.” I followed him as he stepped in front of each one. “Have you ever entered your sculptures in a show like this?”

“No. I haven’t. I should.” He stood in front of the sunrise now. “I like what you did with color here. Cold to warm.”

It was nice talking to someone my age who understood the nuances in art.

“Have you had a lot of people come by?” he asked.

“I’ve had a few that seemed interested. Lots of lookers.”

Speaking of lookers, a well-dressed older couple came alongside Elliot to look at the sunrise piece. Some patrons were the silent type, and it was nerve-racking not hearing what they thought of my art—good or bad.

“It’s amazing, right?” Elliot asked the man who was closest to him.

“Is it abstract or realism?” the man asked.

“It’s abstract meets realism.”

The man grunted a little, like he wasn’t into twists on classic forms. Then they moved on.

“He’s stupid,” Elliot whispered.

“It’s fine. Art is subjective, that’s what makes it great,” I said. “We each get to love or hate something on our own terms.”