I feel his eyes on my back the entire way out.
20
CLAY
The next two nights, we play in Dallas.
Miles pulled a muscle and can’t start, but I play my best game since I came back, shooting lights-out, grabbing passes from Jay, finding Rookie in the corner for threes, hooking up Atlas.
But Kyle’s in a shitty mood and not talking about it.
He fouls up and down the court.
It’s a tight loss, Kyle getting called out on fouls a few minutes before the end.
When we pile onto Bear Force One to head back, Miles and Atlas are arguing.
“What is this, self-help?” Miles taunts, trying to take the thick book open in Atlas’s lap.
“Get your hand out of my bearspace,” Atlas shoves at Miles. “Worry about your own game.”
Rookie drops into the seat next to me.
“What’s eating you?” he prompts.
“Nothing.” I fuss with my headphones.
“Yeah, that’s a real ‘nothing’ face.”
I shoot him a look. “Nova. She practically ran out of the party on the weekend.”
Maybe I came on too strong. I wanted to get closer to her, and instead I pushed her away.
She texted me to let me know she got home okay but hasn’t been in touch since.
I know she’s heading to New York for her show this week and we’re getting ready for a stretch of home games.
But I can’t let it go.
“It wasn’t you,” Rookie says.
“What do you mean?”
“When I was looking for Waffles, I found her upstairs talking with Kyle.” He hesitates, glancing across the plane to the man in question. “Didn’t get the background, but she didn’t sound happy.”
Kyle locks gazes with us, narrowing his eyes.
He’s selfish, and I hate the thought of him being around her.
I have to figure this out.
Before it gets out of hand.
21
NOVA
“Are you ready to come out?” the gallery owner asks, teasing. She’s a few years older than me and seems to understand the nerves.
I’m hiding in the back room, chewing on my cheek and pacing the storage room filled with canvases.
My first dedicated art exhibition is at a gallery in NoHo.
Brooke texted a little while ago to wish me luck and say she’d be first in line tomorrow.
The team is on a back-to-backs, so they’ll be spending every second from the end of tonight’s game until tomorrow’s afternoon one in recovery.
My collection tonight is not about sports but people captured in motion. I like movement. It implies change, momentum, celebration. Everything changes. Everyone does.
“And here you thought no one would come,” the gallery owner says.
“They are?” My heart leaps.
“We’re nearing capacity.”
I follow her out to the main gallery, and my jaw hits the floor when I see a few dozen people milling around with drinks and canapés in hand.
“Let me introduce you around,” she says, tugging me toward a couple talking animatedly about a painting inspired by dancers in LA.
An hour later, I’ve managed to consume a glass of champagne and I’m buzzing happily, but it’s from the atmosphere and this place.
From the corner of my eye, I see the owner sticking red dots on the name cards of not one painting but two.
My breath catches. “What does that mean?”
“Sold. At preview.” She looks around. “To him.” She nods discreetly. “And them.” Another couple. “If we’re not careful, you might sell out tonight.”
She takes another red dot sticker and places it on yet a third painting.
“Who bought that one?” I ask, spinning around.
“That was someone on the phone who bought it sight unseen from the gallery’s website.”
Here, I am valuable. I do matter.
“Excuse me,” says a pleasant voice that has the hairs lifting on my neck.
Her gaze lifts to something over my shoulder.
“We’ll pick this up later,” the gallery owner murmurs to me.
I turn, and the blood drains from my face. The man standing in front of me is wearing tailored jeans and a sport jacket. He has a beard, unlike the last time I saw him, but his face is the same.
“Brad,” I whisper.
“Long time, Nova.”
It’s like seeing a ghost.
A couple moves to pass us, and Brad smiles pleasantly at them and takes my arm, moving me toward the canvases.
“What are you doing here?” I demand under my breath, aware of the environment we’re in. I don’t want to make a scene.
“I wanted to apologize for the way things ended.”
My eyes widen. “Like how you disappeared in the middle of the night without a word? This is one of those instances you could’ve just texted.”
He blinks, surprised by my boldness. “I had to see what you’ve created.”
I shift toward the next painting over. “Creativity is the one thing we had in common. You got creative with the company’s clients and their money. And you set me up to take the fall for it.”
Brad casts an uneasy look around.
“I was trying to provide security for us. You ran at the first sign of trouble.”
This man shared a home with me. Asked me to be his forever.
But my gaze runs over the strokes I put on one of the canvases. There’s the old version of me in that painting and the new one. Every layer is another layer of me.
I lift my chin. “I can see things through. At least when they’re worth seeing through.”
“Did I hear right that you’re dating some basketball player? Guys like that don’t stick around.”
The words are aimed at the soft spots between my ribs, but they glance off.
He can’t hurt me anymore.
The realization makes me stand straighter.
“As agonizing as it was to be left overnight and face the consequences of all you did, I should thank you.”
“Thank me?” Brad echoes, uneasy.
“You helped me clear everything out of my life that I didn’t want and made room for what I did. Now,” I lift my chin, “if you’re not here for the art, I’m going to ask you to leave. I know you have that part down.”
I watch him trip toward the door, stumble outside and cut across the street in front of the gallery.
I never wanted to see him again, but in a way I’m glad he came. It showed me he’s only a ghost with no power. A reminder of who I used to be and how far I’ve come.
Before I can turn back, my gaze lands on the bench outside. My heart kicks when I see a familiar form resting on the bench holding a bouquet, half illuminated by the gallery lights.
I’ve never run to a door so fast in my life.
CLAY
When I got to the gallery, I started to go in but stopped short when I saw her through the glass smiling with another woman.
She was wearing a pale gold dress, her hair pinned up in a pink knot on her head with dangly earrings.