Free Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 3) by Lola Silverman

Nothing was ever neat and tied up at the end. I knew that what Patrick and I had in the past was complicated, but deliciously so. The difficulties made the sweet parts worth it—sweeter, even. Loving him had contained so many shades on the spectrum that it had been the richest experience of my life.
    And that’s when I realized that the love was still there, and I had let him walk away from it. How stupid could I be? I’d wasted so much time trying to deny what I truly felt that I’d confused myself in the process. If Patrick was willing to move forward with our relationship, was I foolish to push back against him, to deny myself what I really wanted because of my guilt? Was it too late to change everything?
    I arrived at the gallery flustered and confused, my makeup and hair sloppy, feeling like I was going to cry. Mere took one look at me and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom at the back of the building.
    “Everyone gets butterflies during the first opening,” she said, waving away my excuses and explanations. “Go fix yourself up and relax. I’ll send Suzette with a glass of wine for you. That’ll be better, won’t it? We have plenty of time.”
    That was just the reassurance that I needed, and the wine helped steel my nerves. I needed to forget about Patrick, for now, and focus on my show. This was important on so many levels, and I couldn’t let my emotions get the better of me.
     I smoothed my hair down and touched up my makeup before reemerging. I’d barely done anything to my appearance, but my shift in attitude was apparent to Mere.
    “That’s better already,” she coached. “Now. Let’s go through the exhibit—just a few minutes before we open the doors—and you tell me if we need any changes.”
    “I’m sure what you have is fine. We don’t have to change anything,” I protested weakly as Mere physically dragged me along each wall, insistent.
    “I want to make sure the photographer thinks her show is as great as I do,” she said. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
    It was strange, but affirming, to see my photos displayed throughout the gallery space. I’d had some input on the flow of the exhibit, but Mere had taken the lion’s share of the task upon herself, assuring me that she had ample experience with what worked. I trusted her judgment; she was the one who owned the gallery, after all. Plus, it was helpful to have a set of eyes that weren’t accustomed to my work. I’d spent so much time culling my collection that I couldn’t dream of having to curate it any further.
    My pieces on the homeless were strongly represented, juxtaposed by the glut of well-dressed tourists studiously taking photos of San Francisco’s best-known landmarks. But the centerpiece of the show was that photo I’d taken of the golden sun breaking through the fog beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, that fateful morning when I’d kissed Patrick and started everything. It had been Mere’s choice, not mine, but it functioned as the prevailing figurehead of the rest of the collection. The photo was good—I could own that much—but it just made me think of Patrick too much.
    “What do you think?” Mere asked, clearly excited.
    “It’s wonderful,” I assured her. “It really is. I’m just a bundle of nerves right now.”
    “I know just the antidote to that,” she announced, marching me over to the bar.
    People filled the gallery gradually, and I began to relax and glow—partly due to the wine I was consuming, and partly due to the positive responses people were giving regarding my work. They leaned in, interested in each and every shot, commenting on the range of San Francisco present in my photos. I was surprised, as Mere started sidling up to me from time to time, whispering that some of my photos were selling. I hadn’t intended to sell any work here; I’d thought that it was just a formality when Mere asked me for pricing information, and she’d ended up determining the bulk of it