An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 35

3 months later.

I smiled at my work on display, still processing the accomplishment. It was one thing to print the pieces out on glossy paper and submit them for a grade. But to see my canvases embellishing the white walls of the Nevada Museum of Art?

Totally surreal.

And just when I thought the spotlight overhead couldn't get any brighter, Fontaine emailed her colleagues and past students and encouraged them to attend my opening night. And holy hell, did she know how to rally a crowd—over a hundred people poured into the exhibition this evening.

I stood awkwardly in the middle of my gallery, watching strangers examine my photographs and contract my subjects' infectious joy like some kind of emotional pandemic.

Even my parents made it out to support me, telling me where to stand and how to pose so they could snap a million pictures. They both seemed genuinely impressed with the quality of my portraits, and even though my father was probably brainstorming the ways he could capitalize on my talent, at least he wasn't his usual critical self.

"I'm so freaking proud of you, Rivas!" Baker exclaimed, and I ventured to the far end of the wing, pressing my phone tightly to my ear. "I'm sorry I can't be there, babe."

"Given your inability to keep inflammatory thoughts to yourself, I'd say it's probably for the best," I joked. 

"Fuck off. Those abstract artists need to be humbled."

Baker had left for her journey abroad over a month ago, and while I ached for her company, we'd established a routine check-in—mostly to ensure her survival, but also to catch up on her life overseas and my days managing the coffee shop.

I'd started working at Grounds soon after quitting The Orchard, and just like that, I no longer woke up before work with suicidal thoughts. Go figure.

I also understood why Theo spent so many years cooped up in that brick building; the environment was as soothing as its coffee, and the staff repelled the brunch-loving Karens. And hey, if my attempt at art therapy went south, I'd happily man the counter for a decade or two.

"Well, I'll let you know how it goes," I promised, my gaze raking over the gallery and the guests perusing my art.

Then a young man strode in wearing a black suit and tie, and my heart forgot its cadence.

I blinked a few times, confused by the pretty face, the lean build, and the messy hair. What the hell? Had I just spoken the barista into existence? Or was I hallucinating?

"Theo," I breathed into the phone, spinning to face the wall before he recognized me.

Baker made an unintelligible noise from the device in my hand. "Excuse me?"

"Theo's here," I whispered. "In a suit."

"Theo, as in The Ghost of Semester's Past, Theo?"

I threw a sneaky glance over my shoulder, watching him make his way down the corridor with his hands in his pockets. He appeared captivated by my photographs—more than most—and he looked as handsome as ever, too.

Dammit.

My gaze snapped back to the dead-end before me. Maybe I could throw myself out the window. A three-story fall was totally survivable, right?

"The one and only," I muttered.

I barely recognized him at first without his beanie and black jeans. But his luscious hair and sculpted features were as unmistakable as the self-assurance he exuded.