Page 60 of The Edge of Summer
Nothing I have ever done has been described asbreathtakingbefore. While it may just be a turn of phrase, isn’t it every artist’s dream to elicit a visceral reaction from their audience? To know that their work wasn’t simply admired, but that it resonated deeply with another person? I want my work to matter.
I want to matter.
I swallow the emotion building in my chest as the seams of old wounds start to tear open. I retake the envelope and slide the contents out. All I see are the wordscongratulationsandDelilahbefore my eyes blur with tears.
When I was younger, I used to feel so excited sharing my accomplishments with my parents. When I was younger, my accomplishments mattered. When I was younger, I mattered.As I got older, their attention fractured, and I stopped sharing things with them. It has been years since I felt excited to tell them good news. Still, the impulse never fully went away, no matter how much I learned to downplay my accomplishments. So as I stand here, it is a punch to the gut when I remember that it doesn’t matter—I have no one to tell anyway.
Clara’s arms come around me, squeezing me tight against her. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispers. “And I am so, so proud of you.”
I can’t help it anymore. Tears fall in rapid succession, wetting Clara’s shoulder where my chin rests. Months—years, really—of shame fester and bubble, the emotion both heavy and extremely ugly. I feel so undeserving of her praise, but as I let it wash over me, I don’t feel quite as weighed down. As I cry, I let the ugly come out.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I croak. “I’m sorry.”
Clara’s arms tighten. “I’m not. Sometimes you just need a good cry. It’s cathartic.”
So much of my life since last August has been numb, but I feel like coming to Kip Island cracked me wide open. Everything that I ignored back in Victoria is finally making its presence known. Perhaps time really does heal. Or maybe I’ve just found myself in a place, surrounded by good people, that makes me feel safe.
I pull away from Clara’s embrace and swipe under my eyes. Tears still cling to my eyelashes, and I thank God that I forewent mascara today. The last thing I need after losing it at work is to look like a raccoon for the rest of my shift.
Carole offers me a sympathetic smile. “We cantalk about all the details another day, Chickadee. For now, just wrap your head around the fact that you won—and that someone saw something in your work that made them enter it on your behalf. Whoever it was, they have great taste.”
“Thank you, Carole,” I say. “It means a lot. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”
She places a comforting hand on my arm. “I know what’s in your heart. Don’t you worry.” She checks the time on her watch. “I’ll get out of your hair. Let you get back to work. Congratulations again.”
Carole bids us adieu, sweeping out of the restaurant, her flowing skirts trailing in her wake. When she disappears, Clara turns to me and lets out an excited squeal. “This calls for champagne!”
I laugh as I tuck my envelope behind the bar for safe keeping. “Champagne? Since when do you drink champagne?”
“Since my bestie has major news worth celebrating!” She stands on tiptoe and pulls a bottle from the top shelf of liquor. “I hope you don’t mind it being room temperature.”
She pops the cork out of the bottle, the sound reverberating through the whole room.
“Hey,” Gabe calls, “what’s the occasion?”
I look over to find both him and Luke standing there, watching as their sister pours bubbly into highball glasses. Apparently we have the champagne, but no flutes.
Clara hands me a half-full glass. “Delilah won the photography contest!”
Gabe’s eyes light up. “Oh, no way! Congrats!”
I smile, my cheeks heating. Accepting compliments hasalways made me feel uneasy. “Thank you,” I say. “It was quite the surprise, seeing as I didn’t actually enter.”
My eyes, like they always seem to do, find Luke. He tips his chin and accepts the glass of champagne from Clara. The glass he can’t drink because he’s currently on duty.
“Congratulations,” he says.
That one word seems to heat me from the inside out. It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Still, I can feel my cheeks turning an even deeper shade of pink. Luke’s lips quirk slightly as he realizes this. I take a sip of my champagne, letting the bubbles slip over my tongue as I avert my gaze.
It’s been twenty-four hours since our tryst in the shed and I haven’t been able to convince myself to forget about it.
“To Delilah!” Clara declares, glass raised in the air.
All four of us clink glasses, and then Clara and I both down our drinks before taking the cups from the guys and doing the same.
Luke’s brow raises. “Drinking on the job?” he asks. If you didn’t know him well, you might mistake that as a judgment. But knowing what I know now, I recognize his tone as one of teasing.
Clara grins. “Unlike you two, we know how to have fun.”
