“Mom...” I feel a lump rising up my throat.

“Let me finish, Mia,” she says. “I don’t want to spend another ten Christmases without you coming home. I don’t want all our phone conversations to immediately turn to arguments anymore. I’m willing to change and be the mother I should have been to you for the rest of your life, if you just give me a chance.” She lets go of my hands and wipes my tears away. “I know I was terrible, Mia, but I love you and I want a second chance. Are you willing to give me one?”

I don’t answer. I just cry.

She pulls me into her arms and hugs me for the first time in over a decade. Unlike all the times before when I was in high school, I don’t count backwards from five to pull away, and I don’t make a move to pull away at all. I hug her back and cry even harder, feeling that every word she said was absolutely sincere.

The two of us stand like that for at least half an hour, with her repeatedly telling me that she’s sorry and that she loves me and that she really is determined to show me what a real mother/daughter relationship should be like. When we finally do pull away from each other, both of our faces are red and tear-stained and it’s as if we both realized just how much time we’ve wasted.

“Let’s not waste anymore.” She says.

Stepping back and picking up the glossy brochures that I created for tonight, she smiles. “Tell me what I need to do to help you for your first show.”

***

Several hours later, my mom is organizing the cheese and fruit tray that’s at the back of the space, Autumn and Jacob are giving the floor one final sweep, and Michelle is walking around the room taking notes on all of my pieces—nodding her head in absolute admiration.

I slip away from everyone to get dressed in the bathroom, quickly stepping into a simple black dress and dark grey heels. I pull my hair into a sleek bun on top of my head and I take my time doing my make-up, making sure it’s noticeable, but not too heavy.

When I’m done, my eye-lids are covered in a light pink, my lips are coated in a thin layer of soft red, and there’s bronze blush on my cheeks.

I stare at my reflection for a little while longer, feeling extremely nervous about what all the guests might think about my collection tonight. I purposely didn’t tell any of them that I’m the creator behind the pictures just so that I could get their true and honest reaction.

“Mia?” Autumn calls from the other side of the door. “Mia, your former boss is saying that it’s time to open the door. Are you ready?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, she comes inside instead. “You’re going to do great tonight. All of the pieces are amazing and you’re going to sell out of each and every one.” She puts her hands on my shoulders. “And you are not going to think about he who shall not be named for this entire event. Are we clear?”

“Who is he who shall not be named?”

“Dean.” She rolls her eyes. “Just don’t think about Dean.”

Without giving me a chance to say something else, she opens the door and pulls me inside of the gallery. The show has already begun, and I smile at how quickly the room is filling up. I mingle with the guests, serve wine and cheese whenever I can and listen in on bits of critiques whenever they may float by.

As I’m adjusting my very first portrait of Seattle’s waterfront, a woman in a blue dress walks up to me. “Do you know if this is going to be this artist’s only show for the year?” she asks.

“I’m not sure yet, why?”

“Because I was interested in purchasing the piece you’re looking at right now.”

“Oh! Well, all you have to do is go to the curator and she’ll tell you the price of it and you can purchase it if you’re still interested.”

“No, no, no,” she says, laughing. “I think you’ve misunderstood me. I was very interested in purchasing this piece, just like I was very interested in purchasing the piece right next to it, but someone has already bought everything and there’s nothing left.”

What?

I quickly look over at Michelle who holds up two fingers, silently letting me know that the showing is now in “museum phase” because there are no pieces left to purchase.

“Do you have a business card?” I ask the woman. “I’ll be sure to shoot you an email the next time this artist has a show.”

“Please do.” She quickly places her card into my hand. I give her one last smile and walk away heading off to tell Autumn the good news.

When I’m halfway there, I feel another patron tapping my shoulder, hear a familiar voice say, “Can you tell me about this one?”

I turn around and find myself face to face with Dean. I know he’s not really interested in the painting that’s in front of us—a picture of him in all blue and silver, but I begin to explain it anyway.

“It’s called Resentment,” I say. “It’s about an amazing relationship gone bad. One that breaks down on multiple levels before it can even begin.”

“How is it about a relationship if the picture’s only one person?” His eyes have never left mine and mine have never left his.

“If you look a bit closely into the picture, you’d see that the guy is actually made up of smaller frames of her.”

“Her?” he asks.

“Yes. She’s a woman who spent ten years hating a guy for something she didn’t totally understand.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t all her fault,” he says, using his thumb to wipe away a stray tear on my face. “From this picture, I can tell that the guy in question probably never told her what he was going through. He probably treated her terribly instead of telling her the truth.”

“Yes,” I say. “The ‘he’ from the picture was actually quite an asshole at times. She was an absolute angel.”

He smiles. “I’m not interpreting that part, but what I do see is that he desperately wants to make up with her if she’ll finally give him five minutes of her time.”

I nod and he slips his hand around my waist, pulling me close to him and leading me outside. For a second, I think he’s going to talk to me out here, but he leads me into the abandoned building next door.

Letting go of me, he steps back and looks directly into my eyes. “If you never want to talk to me after today, I’m not going to lie and act like I’d be okay with that, but I’d do my best to deal with it.” He pauses. “Ever since you texted me and told me you read my letter—a letter I contemplated not giving you, I’ve been trying to figure out the right way to approach you and get you back.”

As if he regrets taking his hands off of me, he steps closer and runs his fingers through my hair.

“I know we were young when we fell in love in high school,” he says. “But it’s been ten years and I’ve never felt that way about anyone else. And I know for a fact that I will never feel that way about somebody else.”

He suddenly stops talking and kisses me deeply, not pulling away until I’m utterly breathless.

“Sorry,” he says softly. “I needed to get one of those just in case you do tell me that you don’t want to hear from me after today.”

I smile and he continues.

“I’m really not a guy who sits up and thinks before these emotional type of talks so please excuse me for how short this is about to be.” He pulls a small sheet of paper out of his pocket (It’s literally the size of a post-it note) and then he begins to read.

“Mia Gray.” He looks at me. “For the record, I know you’re aware that I stole your notebook on purpose in high school, but you also need to know that I temporarily stole your CDs, your books, and your journal—which you apparently stopped writing in during eleventh grade by the way.”

“What?”

He keeps going. “I had to do whatever it took to get you to talk to me, because for some reason you didn’t think I would be genuine, and to this day you probably still have no idea that you were the most beautiful girl at Central High.”