“All set?” Candace stands behind the make-shift desk she rolled in for the opening. Her arms are crossed above her mid-section and she eyes me expectantly. I can tell she thinks I’m nervous about tonight, but she’s wrong.

It’s Brynn that has me walking from painting to painting, adjusting and readjusting. Will she show? She said she would, but I’m not convinced.

“I’m good,” I respond, leaving the desk to walk across the small space, eying all the work.

Picasso-style abstracts in one section, landscapes in another. And then, there’s me. There is no way to categorize my work except to say it’s emotional. Capturing feeling is my thing. I finished the painting of Brynn, and in it, I see reluctant desire. She wanted me, but she didn’t want to want me. I don’t think I ever wanted to want her either. The choice wasn’t mine. The decision was made by something greater, something that eclipsed thought and reason.

Eye of the Storm is here also, and underneath it is a small note that reads Not available for sale. I’m still waiting on the email to find out where to send it. I add that to my mental to-do list and move on. Included in my collection is an anatomically correct heart with cracks throughout, and colorful tears dripping down. Two people embracing, their faces buried in one another’s necks, and the last one is two wrinkled hands grasping. It represents my parents, their marriage vows, and how now they need those vows more than ever.

“Twenty minutes to go,” Candace shouts.

I meet the eyes of the other artists. One girl bites her lip and looks around. Another guy tilts his chin and crosses his arms. I disliked that arrogant prick from the moment he walked in and huffed about not being up front. Normally I’d be nice and introduce myself, but not this time. I’m too on edge about seeing Brynn again and having to say goodbye to her. I can’t waste my life on that douche.

I pull my phone from my jeans and check it. No messages. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

To pass the time, I fuck around on the internet, reading the news and playing a stupid word game.

When Candace opens the door, Julia and Anthony are the first to walk in.

Anthony claps me on the back and shakes my hand. “This is great, man. Really.” He looks around at the pieces in my section. His eyes raise at the one of Brynn. “Is this a figment of your imagination? Or a real person?”

I shrug. Her profile is outlined in black. Inside she is a collection of expressions. Happy, alarmed. Pensive, coy, afraid. Different emotions wrapped up in one exquisite shell. I was careful not to include anything that would give away her identity.

“It all comes from here,” I answer Anthony, tapping the side of my head.

“Connor, your work is incredible.” Julia stands back from the painting of my parents’ hands. “Wow. How do I see love when I see these hands? Their wrinkles tell a story, and they aren’t old old, because there aren’t age spots yet.”

“It was inspired by my parents.”

Julia walks over to the painting of Brynn and studies it. Two more people, a man and a woman, walk up. Soon the place is crawling with people and I’m fielding comments and questions.

“Where do you get your inspiration?” an older woman asks, pointing to the Brynn painting.

“This is unique. Why isn’t it for sale?” a young couple asks about Eye of the Storm.

A woman dressed in a long skirt and hair reaching down to her knees tells me the hands remind her of her parents when her mom was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer last year.

I answer everything as much as I can. My chest is swollen with pride and my body feels light, buoyant. I never expected anything like this. The number of people, the admiration of my work. It’s a heady experience, a lot like being high.

My parents walk in, and the feeling gets even better. Dad makes a face, but I know it’s a smile. Mom palms her chest with one hand and her eyes shine.

There’s only one person I’m waiting on, and it’s in the back of my mind as I continue to talk to people. Every thirty seconds my eyes find the entrance, only to be disappointed.

I wait. I answer questions. I make small talk.

I wait longer. Answer. Chat.

Brynn never comes.