Page 43 of Shame

“It was…” I can’t.

He wraps his arm around me, his fingers caressing my shoulder. “It’s brave.”

“I don’t know about that.” I twist away again. “I’m going to get a drink.”

He follows me to the bar, and Alex joins us. He has a friend with him, and they’re heading out. On their way out, they pass the photographer fromThe Star, who asks if he can take a picture of Alex.

Our friend refuses. It wouldn’t do for a middle grade fiction author to be photographed at a kinky art show.

Echoes of Luke, not wanting the Preston name attached to the show.

And yet now he waves the photographer over, introduces himself, and is happy to pose for a whole set of pictures with me.

* * *

By the timethe show winds down, my cheeks hurt, my heart aches, and my feet are ready to fall off.

Luke drives me home, and I don’t complain. Then he walks me to my door, which I also don’t hate. When I unlock the door, he leans against the wall instead of heading for the elevator as he has the last couple of days. I give me a narrowed-eyewhat are you doinglook.

He grins. “I’m going. I just want to make sure you get inside safely first.”

I laugh and push the door open, but then the chuckle dies.

The loft is full of balloons, and there’s a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket just inside the door. Beside it is a newspaper, but when I step inside and pick it up, I realize it’s today’s paper with stuff glued to the front.

He’s made a headline from other words and pasted over the real headline. The cobbled together one reads,Local Artist Stuns City With Incredible Show.

The photo below it is a picture of me in my studio, which he must have printed from my website.

It’s very thoughtful.

“One day you will be front page news. Canada’s own dirty Banksy, and I’ll remember tonight as that turning point. I’m not the artist that you are, but I did my best to capture—”

I spin around and throw my arms around him, cutting him off. “It’s great,” I mumble into his chest. “Thank you.”

“Step by step,” he whispers.

I twirl forward, grabbing some of the balloons, letting myself just be happy for a minute. When I stop, he’s picked up the bottle of wine. “Do you want me to open this for you?”

“Do you want to share it?”

“Yes.” Another grin. I’ve missed his smile. “But if you want me to leave you alone with it, that’s fine too. Pour yourself a glass and go have a bubble bath.”

That sounds nice, but company sounds better. “No. I want you to stay.” I glance around the loft. He let himself in here earlier, which is…a problem. But a sweet one, and I’ll worry about that tomorrow. “Stay here. I’ll get glasses.”

“We could move to the couch,” he calls after me.

“Don’t be so familiar,” I holler back.

I grab two flutes and return, plopping myself down on the floor.

He joins me.

“Can we just sit together? Be still together?”

He nods.

“I’m kind of scared of sitting in stillness. I always have been. It sounds like a fate worse than death. Like if I stop moving, stop worrying…” I shudder.

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