Yes. That worked.
Fine. Was I manufacturing a crush for myself to give my wounded brain something to focus on that wasn’t deeply, hopelessly depressing?
Sure. Probably.
Was there anything wrong with that?
Not in the slightest.
If I needed a little oxytocin-filled romantic pick-me-up courtesy of Dr. Oliver Addison’s GQ-level hairdo and Olympically handsome gait, was that really such a crime? Why not, right?
Dr. Nicole said our thoughts create our feelings.
Maybe a few good thoughts were just what the doctor ordered.
Or the veterinarian, as the case may be.
* * *
THE WALK HOME was surprisingly pleasant.
It was sunny and breezy out, and I cradled Peanut to my chest while we held our chins up and let the wind caress both of our faces. Meeting my future husband had renewed my strength and my courage, and I fearlessly enjoyed my journey back—and let all the faceless people flicker past me like butterflies.
Until I got stopped by one of them.
“Oh my god! Sadie?” It was a woman’s voice, from some distance away.
I turned toward the sound.
She was tall, dressed in all gray with a pop-of-color pink scarf, and had dyed blond hair … and a face like a cubist painting.
She ran over and grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me into a hug that squeezed both me and Peanut tight.
I tried to fight the rising panic. I had absolutely no idea who this was. What were the tricks I’d read about online again? Smile a lot. Ask leading questions. Be warm and friendly. Don’t say anything to give it away. Beat the clock and solve the mystery before the person figures it out.
Before I could think of what to ask, this faceless woman said, “How long has it been?”
“Gosh,” I said, stalling. “How long has it been?”
“You look amazing,” she said next.
What else could I say? “You look amazing.”
“What are you up to these days?”
“Oh,” I said. “Same old, same old.” Then, trying to turn the tables. “What are you up to?”
“Same,” she said. “Just working and working. Trying to conquer the world. You get it.”
“I sure do.” I nodded big.
Then there was a pause.
I’d never realized before how much personal questions needed a little something to go on.
But I tried to encourage myself. I was doing okay! I was passing!
“Well,” she said then. “It’s been so great to see you.”
“You too,” I said with maximum warmth, like it really, really had been.
She started to walk away, but then she turned back. “Oh—and Sadie?”
“Yeah?” I asked, smiling big.
“I know you don’t know who I am.”
My smile dropped.
She took a step closer. “You’d never be this nice if you had any idea.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Mom told me all about it—but, I don’t know … it was kind of too good to be true. I had to see for myself.”
“Mom”？ Told her “all about it”？
And then I knew. Just as she leaned close and spoke into my ear, I knew.
It was my evil stepsister. Parker.
It wasn’t until I realized who she was that I noticed her signature perfume as well. She always wears—and I swear this is true—a perfume by Dior called Poison.
So on the nose.
“Hey, Sis,” she whispered, and then she patted me on the butt and strutted away.
And that, right there, settled it. Optimism canceled.
I’d find a dog-sized Pajanket for Peanut and never leave my apartment again.
Seven
WHEN I GOT back home, there was an email waiting for me from the North American Portrait Society, which reminded me I’d forgotten all about it. It had a big long to-do list of action items before the juried show, and another copy of the rules and guidelines, including:
Portraits must be on 30 inch × 40 inch canvas.
Portraits must feature only one subject.
Portraits must be of a live model—no work done from photographs.
Portraits may be either oil or acrylic, but no mixed media.
Portraits must be new work—painted within six weeks of the deadline.
Also there was a whole attachment about a component of the evening I’d evidently missed in the original email. Not only was the show a competition that would be judged in real time, it was also a silent auction. Our portraits would be bid on over the course of the evening and sold to the highest bidder—with the proceeds going to fund classes and education.