“
Thanks,
”
I whisper, taking a few steps toward him.
“
And looking at them now just... wow, Liv, it hurts,
”
he says.
“
It feels like it did four weeks ago.
”
“
Really?
”
I ask him, turning to watch him study my work. He
’
s biting his lip in restraint. He blinks quickly, and I wonder if the back of his hand just wiped away a tear. I let out an audible sigh. He continues to avoid my gaze, but when he finally does look, I can tell it
’
s taking a lot of effort. We stare at one another. I
’
m trying to read him. I
’
m sure he
’
s doing the same.
“
I hurt you,
”
he says.
“
I didn
’
t think you could communicate that any better than you did here,
”
he says, motioning toward the art,
“
until I looked at you just now. God, Olivia, I am so sorry.
”
“
No, I am,
”
I start to cry. His arms are around me instantly, his hand smoothing the curls of my long hair.
“
I was so stupid and thoughtless and I can
’
t apologize enough.
”
“
Please don
’
t cry, Olivia.
”
I wish I could stop, but I can
’
t. I pull away from him just enough to make sure I don
’
t get makeup on his suit. I glance up, expecting to see my parents or Granna or his mother, but they
’
ve left us alone.
“
Shhh. Liv, come on. You look so beautiful tonight. You don
’
t want everyone to know you
’
ve been crying. All of your students will be here in a few minutes. Come on, it
’
s okay.
”
I sniffle a few times. He backs away a little and puts his finger under my chin, angling my face to his. I want him to kiss me, but he doesn
’
t. He simply smiles and wipes the last of my tears away from my cheeks.
“
Why don
’
t you go get some tissues,
”
he suggests.
“
Your mascara
’
s a little...
”
He laughs a bit, and I roll my eyes in response, tracing each of my lashes in hopes of removing the makeup.
“
I want to talk to you, though,
”
I say, my tone pleading.
“
After. Unless you have somewhere to be. It
is
Saturday night, after all.
”
“
I don
’
t have anywhere else to be.
”
“
Do you think your dad will let you?
”
“
I
’
m sure he will.
”
“
Okay. Well go freshen up. I
’
m going to take in these paintings a little more.
”
“
You really like them?
”
“
I really do,
”
he answers.
“
Thanks.
”
I start towards the restroom, my stomach still in knots. I stop to tell him one last thing.
“
Jon?
”
“
Yeah?
”
“
That suit looks amazing on you, and I love your hair, and I
’
ve missed you.
”
He smiles and thanks me. I nod and make my way to the mirror to fix my makeup for the second time.
When I come back out, the doors have been unlocked and the students and their parents filter in the doors, gravitating toward the paintings they
’
ve worked on throughout the year. For some of the moms and dads, it
’
s the first time they
’
ve seen the work of their children. The mood is jubilant; the families proud. It seems to be shaping up to be a good evening. I make the rounds, introducing myself to people I haven
’
t met, and getting reacquainted with those that I have. Jon talks to a few of the kids who he knows from his days at Nate
’
s Art Room. Every once in awhile, our eyes meet across the room, and we both smile.
“
Mind if I interrupt?
”
my father says while I
’
m talking to Amanda and her mother.
“
If you
’
ll excuse me.
”
I nod to the family and follow my dad over to my paintings.
“
Livvy,
”
he says, taking his place next to a dark-haired man in pants and a blazer.
“
This is Abram Edwards.
”
The young man holds his hand out to me. When I extend mine, he kisses the back of it instead of shaking it.
“
It
’
s a pleasure to meet such a talented young lady, Miss Holland,
”
he says, his British accent surprising me.
“
I
’
ve been admiring these since I walked in.
”
“
Thanks,
”
I tell him, curious.
“
Are you related to one of the students?
”
“
I invited him here,
”
Dad says.
“
He
’
s an agent. He
’
s interested in representing you.
”
“
What?
”
I can
’
t believe my ears.
“
Yes, I met your father awhile back. He
’
s been showing me your work over the past few months, and I think it
’
s time you had someone managing your career.
”
“
My career?
”
“
Yes, Livvy. You have something most artists would kill for. I would be honored if you would be my client.
”
“
He
’
s one of the best in the city, Tessa,
”
my dad explains.
“
He represents many up-and-coming young artists. He
’
ll help get your work into galleries, museums, art shows around the world–and when you
’
re ready to start selling them...
”
he suggests.
“
Wow! I don
’
t even know what to say!
”
“
Well, your mom and I support you, but we aren
’
t equipped to help you get the exposure you deserve. Now, you don
’
t have to say yes tonight–
”
“
Yes!
”
I smile brightly at my dad and Abram.
“
Just a second,
”
my dad says to the agent–
my
agent! He puts his arm across my shoulders and walks me a few paces away.
“
You don
’
t want to meet with him one-on-one? Maybe get to know him a little?
”
“
He likes my work, right?
”
“
Loves it,
”
he says.
“
And you trust him?
”
“
I do. He comes highly recommended, and I
’
ve seen what he
’
s done for other talented kids.
”
“
Dad, if you trust him, I trust you.
”
He studies me a little more.
“
You
’
re ready for this?
”
“
I
’
m ready.
”
Dad nods, and I follow him back to Abram.
“
It looks like you
’
ve got yourself a new client.
”
They shake hands before I hug my dad excitedly. Caught up in the moment, I hug my new agent, too. He laughs nervously, but hugs me back.
“
I
’
m looking forward to it,
”
he says.
“
Listen, Mr. Holland, I
’
ve got to run. Why don
’
t we set up a meeting for sometime next week?
”
“
I
’
ll call you Monday morning,
”
my dad says.
“
Thank you.
”
“
Nice to meet you,
”
I tell him, shaking his hand before he leaves. The music Granna had chosen starts to die down, and all of the guests begin to take their assigned seats at tables that my parents had brought in. Caterers begin to bring out salads as the ceremony commences. I sit between Dad and Granna at the head table.
Every year at this banquet, Granna presents the students with various awards, certificates, and words of recognition. Everyone leaves with something, but there are two awards that are more coveted than the rest: the Artist of the Year award, which is presented to the artist who has shown the most growth over the year, and the Nate Wilson Memorial Scholar award, which is presented to an Art Room student who
’
s graduating. This, of course, is the award Jon will be receiving.
Mom typically hands out these two awards, but after presenting the first one to Jordan, she takes her seat and my dad stands up at the podium. My dad, the excellent speech-writer, is going to give Jon his award. It seems fitting somehow.
Jon
’
s table is at the front, and I look over at him as my dad begins. He is watching Dad intently.
“
Good evening,
”
my dad addresses the room.
“
I
’
m Jack Holland, and normally my beautiful wife, Emi, presents this next award, but I have a vested interest in this, so I asked her if I could step in. Graciously, she said yes.
“
As most of you know, the Nate Wilson Memorial Scholar is typically a senior here at Nate
’
s Art Room. But this year, we didn
’
t have a senior, so we were faced with a bit of a conundrum. We thought about giving it to a junior instead, but there was one young man who studied here for many years–ten, was it?
”
He watches for Jon to respond with a nod.
“
Almost ten years, before he withdrew himself from the program. It wasn
’
t because he didn
’
t like the program, though. We discovered later that he wanted to give up his spot to someone who had more of a financial need than he did.
“
Nate
’
s Art Room prides itself on transparency. I mentioned that I have a vested interest in this, and I do. My daughter, Livvy, and this year
’
s recipient, Jon Scott, were good friends and shared a workspace here while he was enrolled. They
’
re still close, but I want everyone to know that this is not why we went to the board of directors and asked them to make an exception this year.
“
Jon is a young man with a ton of ambition and
a
curious mind. When Livvy was much younger, Emi would come home after picking up our daughter and go on and on about young Jon
’
s artwork. She would talk about how his understanding of perspective was so precise and exact, a knowledge that was well beyond his youth. His drawings were calculated, well-planned, geometric marvels, she would say. He would talk about math concepts, and apply them to his work. She was always in awe of how his left brain and right brain worked so harmoniously.
‘
Like the perfect symphony,
’
she said to me one night.