Page 103 of Gap Control

“You didn’t draw a hockey player mid-stride? Charcoal on cream, slightly unfinished on the left side?”

I swallowed. “Okay, that does sound like mine, but I haven’t submitted anything anywhere.”

“Then consider yourself lucky. The work speaks for itself.”

“How did you—?”

“I’m less concerned with how it got here and more concerned with whether you’ll let me see more of what you do in person.”

I leaned forward. The kitchen chair creaked under my weight. “You want to see more?”

“Yes. Tomorrow. That's Saturday, if you’re available. Informal. I like to meet the artists I’m considering. Helps me know whether to hang the work at eye level or near the bathroom.”

I blinked. “Saturday works.”

“Good. Bring ten to fifteen pieces, if you’ve got them. Nothing too polished—I’m more interested in line than finish. Emotion over perfection.”

“Right. Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

“I’ll be there all afternoon. No appointment needed. Ask for me at the desk.”

She hung up without saying goodbye.

I stared at my phone, waiting for the call to evaporate from the call log as if it were a figment of my imagination. Thirty seconds later, the number was still there.

Elena Vasquez. Cornerstone Gallery. Saturday.

I stood up too fast and nearly knocked over the chair. The sketchbook hit the floor, and my pencil rolled under the stove.

I didn’t care.

I didn't have words for the sensation yet, but I knew I had to tell someone. I started typing on my phone:

Mason:You’re coming with me tomorrow. Wear something distracting so they don’t look at me.

TJ showed up less than twenty minutes after I texted him, no questions asked. He wore a sweatshirt two sizes too big and joggers that might’ve once been navy but had clearly lived a full, chaotic life. His hair was damp like he’d just sprinted through a car wash, and he offered me a granola bar.

“I brought sustenance. And vibes. What are we doing?”

It took me a moment. I had to remember how to talk like a normal person.

I pointed to the kitchen table, where my sketchbook sat open, two pages I’d never shown anyone facing upward.

TJ’s eyes flicked from the sketchbook to me, then back again. “Did the hockey gods finally send you a muse? Or did the caffeine hit weird today?”

“Elena Vasquez called me. Cornerstone Gallery. Portland.”

He blinked. “Wait. What?”

“She saw one of my drawings and wants me to bring more tomorrow.”

He blinked again. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking with you?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I flopped into a chair, still buzzing from adrenaline. “I think I might puke.”

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