I checked the directions twice once I arrived at the destination — a bustling white building with a bright blue roof nestled between a hotel and a restaurant. There was a considerable crowd inside the building, from what I could see through the glass front doors, and two couples offered me polite smiles as they pushed past where I hesitated and let themselves in, too.
The sign above the doors read γκαλερί τέχνης.
Which meant I had zero idea of what was inside.
An older gentleman brushed past me, and when he saw the unsure look on my face, he smiled, opening one of the glass doors and gesturing for me to enter. I returned his smile as best I could, trying to soothe my stomach with a warm palm pressed against it as I slid past him and inside the building.
No, not just a building.
A gallery.
I blinked like I’d walked in from the blinding light of the sun, adjusting my purse on my shoulder as the gallery came into view. It was a small space, quaint, all-white walls and black ceilings with a mosaic-tiled floor. There were two thick wall-like dividers in the middle that separated the one room into four sort of aisleways, each one lined with artwork. The lighting was low, mostly just the up-lights illuminating the art, and soft jazz played from a speaker in the corner.
There were at least a few dozen people inside, the sound of laughter and chatter and the clinking of drinkware combining with the music to set a pleasant ambience. It was like a party, but I had no idea who the guest of honor was, what we were celebrating, or why I was here.
A lean woman dressed in all black approached me with a tray full of champagne, but I declined with a smile, confusion setting in more and more as I waited by the door for Theo.
I searched the crowd, but didn’t see him.
I searched the alleyway outside, but didn’t see him.
I scanned the crowd and the gallery again, and still, I didn’t see him.
But what I did see that second time around was so unbelievable I pinched my side to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
I tilted my head, heart picking up from a trot to a gallop as my brain tried to fight me with logic. It screamed at me all the reasons why there was no way I could possibly be seeing what I thought I was.
I let my feet carry me blindly across the entryway of the gallery to the first piece of artwork hanging on the wall, muttering excuse me’s as I weaved through the crowd, and the closer I got, the more my brain quieted, leaving only my racing heart to pulse in my ears.
There was no refuting it.
There was no trying to talk myself out of the possibility of it being real.
The photograph in the frame was mine.
I covered my lips with shaking fingertips, eyes bouncing from one end of the photograph to the other. It was one I’d taken on the island of Capri, three children playing kickball in the yard with the white limestone cliffs stretching up to touch the sky behind them, the sun’s rays peeking through thick white clouds, specks of dark and light green foliage peppering the hills of houses. I remembered the way the sun coming through the clouds seemed to almost cast a golden hue over the entire island that day, and how I’d felt that piercing light into my very soul when I took this photograph. It was seeing the pure joy on those children’s faces, watching the way they ran unabashedly forward, onward, without fear or hesitation. They laughed and played and capturing that moment made me feel like I had plucked the fruits of innocence and peace straight from the tree of life and tucked them away into my heart forever.
The photograph was framed by a warm wood that only brought out more of the glow in the photograph, and there was a soft pool of light cast over it from the lamps shining on each side.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, blinking, swallowing back emotion, trying to understand. But when I finally turned my head to cast a glance down the rest of that first aisle in the gallery, my heart stopped altogether before kicking back to life with a fierce thump thump thump.
Every photograph in that aisle, and the next, and in the entire gallery was mine.
“Oh my God,” I whispered under my breath, shaking my head as I walked on jelly legs to the next photograph.
It was the one from Nice of the couple on the seawall, and as much as I loved seeing it printed and framed, I loved the expressions of those who were viewing it even more. There was a young couple, much like the one in the photograph, who stared at the picture a while before giving each other a knowing look, their hands clasping, cheeks blushing as if they knew the secret the couple in the photograph did, too. And an older woman behind them looked at the photograph with solemn eyes, her fingers twisting around the bare ring finger of her left hand. I wondered if there once was a gold band there, one signifying a love that was never supposed to die.
I weaved in and out of the guests of the gallery, chest tightening more and more with every step that revealed a new piece of my art. I watched as the patrons pointed and nodded, listened as they whispered how each one made them feel, and all the while, my brain was still trying to convince me none of it was real.
I must be in a dream.
I must have fallen asleep on the boat.
This can’t possibly be happening.
But when I
