Chapter 35 Brush strokes and bubbles
Hannah
The days leading up to the exhibit passed in that same strange, brittle quiet that had settled between Timothy and me.
We weren’t fighting. We weren’t talking either. It was like living with someone who existed just slightly out of phase with me, always nearby, never quite reachable. We crossed paths in hallways, exchanged polite nods at meals, occasionally brushed fingers when Lisa handed us something at the same time. Each tiny interaction buzzed with unsaid things, then fizzled out into nothing.
By the time the night of the exhibit arrived, my nerves were already humming.
I was standing in front of my mirror, hands shaking slightly as I tried to fasten my earrings. They were delicate silver with tiny glass beads that caught the light. I’d changed outfits twice already, finally settling on a simple black dress that skimmed my knees and made me feel… like myself. Not a wife. Not a scandal. Just Hannah.
“Come on,” I muttered, finally securing the clasp. “Don’t betray me now.”
A polite knock sounded on my door.
“Yes?” I called.
Lisa’s voice followed, perfectly neutral as always. “Ms. Juavero has arrived, ma’am. She’s waiting downstairs.”
My face split into a grin. “Thank you, Lisa!”
I grabbed my purse and hurried out, nearly tripping on the hem of my dress in my excitement. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart already lighter than it had been in days.
Sienna was standing in the foyer when I reached the bottom, wearing a deep emerald dress that made her glow. The moment she saw me, her eyes lit up.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You look incredible.”
“So do you,” I said breathlessly.
We collided in the middle of the room, hugging tightly and bouncing on our toes like teenagers who’d just been let loose at their first real party.
“I can’t believe we’re here. Your house is like, fucking big. I’m not even playing,” she said. “You know people would sell organs for these tickets, right?”
“I know,” I laughed. “I still don’t know how he got them.”
As if summoned by his name, Timothy walked in from the adjoining room.
The air shifted immediately.
Sienna straightened, her smile dimming just a notch. I felt suddenly awkward, painfully aware that these were two parts of my life colliding: my refuge and my reality.
“Sienna,” I said quickly, turning to her. “This is Timothy. Timothy, this is Sienna.”
She extended her hand, smile polite but cool. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” Timothy replied, his tone smooth, unreadable.
Sienna tilted her head slightly, studying him in a way that made my stomach flutter with nerves. “Thank you for the tickets. Hannah’s been excited all week.”
“You’re welcome,” he said simply.
There was a beat of silence. Thick. Awkward.
“Well,” I jumped in, clapping my hands softly, “we should go before we’re late.”
Timothy nodded. “Enjoy your evening.”
We said our goodbyes, and moments later Sienna and I were ushered into the car. As soon as the doors closed and the vehicle pulled away, she turned to me, eyes wide.
“Wow,” she whispered dramatically. “He’s… intense.”
“Sienna,” I warned, but I was already smiling.
She leaned closer and mimicked a stiff, aristocratic posture. “‘Likewise,’” she intoned in a deep voice. “‘Enjoy your evening.’”
I burst out laughing. “Sienna! Stop it!”
“I mean it,” she said. “He looks like he scolds puppies for existing.”
“That’s unfair,” I said, trying and failing to sound stern. “He doesn’t scold puppies.”
“How do you know?”
“Because…” I stopped, then sighed. “Okay, I don’t know.”
She cackled, and I couldn’t help joining in.
By the time we reached the exhibit center, my nerves had settled into a warm, fizzy excitement. The building itself was stunning, glass and steel and light, towering and elegant. Inside, everything gleamed. White walls. Polished floors. Soft music humming beneath the low murmur of conversation.
We were checked in discreetly and allowed through.
“Oh,” Sienna breathed. “This is unreal.”
We wandered slowly, letting the art wash over us. Sculptures that looked like they’d been carved out of light. Paintings so vivid they made my chest ache. Installations that made us stop and tilt our heads, debating meaning and technique like we actually knew what we were talking about.
We accepted glasses of bubbly wine, then another.
And another.
Somehow, we fell into easy conversation with the people around us. Gallery patrons, collectors, critics. Sienna was magnetic, charming them effortlessly, and I found myself laughing, adding my thoughts, enjoying the give-and-take. No one looked at me with pity. No one whispered.
For a few precious hours, I wasn’t that Hannah.
Then there was a stir near the center of the room.
“Oh my God,” Sienna hissed, gripping my arm. “That’s him.”
The artist himself, Jon Yanks approached, smiling warmly. “Good evening,” he said. “I hear you’ve been admiring the pieces.”
“We’re such huge fans, oh my God,” Sienna blurted.
He laughed, clearly delighted, and spoke with us for several minutes, about process, inspiration, failures. Before he left, he pressed a small signed token into each of our hands.
“For remembering the night,” he said.
The moment he was gone, we squealed like children.
“I’m never washing my hands again,” Sienna declared.
We drank more wine.
By the time closing time rolled around, the world felt pleasantly soft at the edges. The guards approached gently, guiding us toward the exit.
We dropped Sienna off at her place first. She hugged me tightly, swaying a little. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I needed this.”
“So did I,” I admitted. “I love you!”
“Love you, sis!” Once she was safely inside, the car pulled away.
The quiet settled in.
My stomach growled loudly.
“Oh no,” I groaned. “I’m starving.”
One of the guards glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “We’ll be home shortly, ma’am.”
“No,” I said seriously. “I need a burger.”
Silence.
“A greasy one,” I added. “With fries. Oh God, and some slutty ranch.”
“Ma’am…”
“Please,” I whined, leaning forward. “I promise I’ll be fast. Five minutes. I’ll inhale it.”
The guards exchanged a look.
“I’ll behave,” I added solemnly. “Scout’s honor.”
After a long sigh, one of them said, “Five minutes.”
“Yes!” I beamed.
As the car turned toward a familiar neon sign, I leaned back, smiling stupidly.
Art. Wine. Sienna. Laughter.
And my thoughts flickered, traitorous…to Timothy.
I shook my head hard.
No. Not tonight. Tonight was about burgers and fries and pretending, just for a little while longer, that my life wasn’t complicated.
Just greasy food.
Nothing else.