NORA STUDIO.
My mom stood on the sidewalk. Vanessa stood beside her, holding Toby’s hand. Marlene waved. A dozen friends I hadn’t seen in months clapped as we stepped out.
I looked up.
The sign above the door read: NORA STUDIO.
Through the windows, I could see my paintings framed along freshly painted walls, each with a small gallery card beneath it. This wasn’t just a studio. It was my own little gallery.
My knees nearly gave out.
“Greg. What is this?”
“Vanessa washed my work clothes.”
He turned to me, quiet, steady.
I stared at his shirt.
“The detergent.”
Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “Vanessa washed my work clothes. I couldn’t exactly come home covered in sawdust and blue paint.”
“That part was stupid.”
“The first weekend really was supposed to be camping,” Greg said. “Then Toby wanted to stay for the overnight program, and I suddenly had six hours. I came here to fix one wall.” He looked around. “One wall became the floor, then the lights. By then I was in too deep to tell you without ruining it.”
