“Oh my god!” I kneel at his side, dropping my knife to check his body for signs of injury. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”
He stands tall, instantly drawing sighs of relief and excitement from the gallery, and runs back to the broken window, peering up and down the street for signs of his attacker. When the coast is clear, he turns back to the room and asks, “Is everyone okay?” A few shocked faces nod as people’s heart rates drop back to normal. “Apologies for the dramatic entrance, but it looks like I was able to ward off danger before it arrived at your door.” Applause and thankful cheers begin to fill the space, which Matt receives with a dashing “oh, it was nothing” smile.
“Great party, babe,” he whispers to me, shaking debris from his wild mocha hair. “Really…smashing.” He raises his eyebrows, proud of himself.
Well, there’s no way he’s hurt, or else he wouldn’t be resorting to dumb jokes. My girlfriend dial turns from concern to frustration. “What the hell, Matt?” I snap through my teeth. “How can you make wisecracks when you just went FLYING THROUGH A WINDOW?”
He waves my comment away, undisturbed. “C’mon, you know I’ve been working on my quips! All the greats make them! I was flipping through some of the other Warriors’ comic books last night, and dang, they have some classic puns. Like Storm Chaser! That guy—”
I exhale sharply. “This is not a comic book. This is real life! Where were you? What happened?”
“Well…” he starts, but suddenly he’s not just talking to me, but the entire room, all back on their feet and eager to hear about his super adventures. After all, it’s not every day you get to see a superhero in the flesh. Unless you’re me, of course. Minutes ago everyone was reverently discussing art and culture, but now nearly the whole crowd has dissolved into a starstruck frenzy. Matt’s out of his usual gleaming-white Vaporizer spandex, but it doesn’t matter. He’s the only Warrior who thinks secret identities are lame, meaning he gets recognized every single moment of every single day. Any fan across the country could describe his handsome, impish face, right down to the scar on his jawline. Those dark chocolate eyes and grinning caramel cheeks are pinned up on bedroom walls from coast to coast, my boyfriend desired by all. “I was almost here, when a guy grabbed me from behind and yelled, ‘Get ready for the siege!’ before throwing me through the window!” A few girls gasp, even though they saw it happen. “Total low blow, if you ask me. But don’t worry. I’ll get him next time! I always do.” He winks, and I force my eyes not to roll.
The crowd continues their applause, and I get squeezed out of the way as Matt poses for selfies and autographs the evening’s programs I designed, giving the crowd all the attention they crave. My classmates, their parents, even some of the professional artists can’t get enough of him as he poses and shouts Warrior Nation catchphrases. “Never cease, never cower!” Sigh. More like “Never get enough of the spotlight.”
I stand at the back of the cluster for a good ten minutes before he even notices I’m still there and finally moves through the throng to continue our conversation. With a kiss on my cheek, he says, “I’m sorry I’m late, I really am. I tried to get here.”
I nod, tamping down the disappointment and heartbreak churning inside. I spent this entire day worrying, getting to the gallery at five a.m. to ensure the event went off without a single hitch. It would’ve been nice to have my boyfriend of four years by my side, squeezing my hand and telling me it would be okay. Just once, I wanted to be the one in the limelight, to grab a sliver of attention for a job well done. To feel that rush of success, like I had done some good in the world. But no. Even after all my hard work, Matt is still the star tonight, with everyone clamoring to be in his orbit. As if he doesn’t get enough of that every single day.
But this is not the time nor the place to talk, because as I’ve painfully learned from experience, you never know who may be listening. Even though I’m more than ready to stake my claim to the world, I’ve had my face in enough tabloids to last a lifetime, and I already see people directing their phones our way, hoping to catch a private moment of a public figure. I’ll have to keep my true feelings buried until we can be alone.
“Thank you for coming,” I tell him, squeezing back a tear. “It means so much to me.”
“Of course,” he returns, tracing my face with his thumb. “I wouldn’t have missed it.” Even though he did. His entrance instantly brought an end to the event, the canvases and sculptures sitting forgotten behind us. Feeling eyes on him, Vaporizer turns around to face his admirers, physically unable to resist a chance to ham it up. “I must be the luckiest guy in the world,” he declares, turning his back to me, “to be dating such a talented artist.” The crowd applauds, and I muster up the most adoring glance I can, tortured at how a look of love is something I once never needed to fake.
Terese breaks through the cluster of admirers, waving her arms in frustration. Her blue eyes are magnified by overly bedazzled glasses as they take in the mess and wreckage of her beloved gallery, her thin lips tight with disappointment. “Excuse me! Attention—hello!” she shouts, followed by the deep hacking coughs of a lifetime smoker. “Thank you for coming tonight, but we’re closed now. Good night.” The crowd stays still, bewitched under Matt’s spell. “GOOD NIGHT,” Terese repeats, on the verge of yelling, but when nobody moves, I tug at Matt’s jacket, giving him a look.
“Oh, right,” he mumbles, slow to realize he’s the problem. “Um, good night, friends! Stay safe out there!” Then he turns invisible, vanishing from my side like vapor escaping into the night. People are floored, clapping and chatting about how amazing he is and how they can’t believe how lucky they are to have been here tonight. Not because of the art, but because of the spectacle. The drama. The excitement.
Houston and Anna shoot me pained looks as they walk out the door, sympathetic eyes wishing there was something they could do. But we all know there’s not. This is the price we pay. I do appreciate, though, that at least someone here understands.
Once everyone has filtered out, I stare at the remains of months of work. Photos, paintings, and sculptures sit quietly under their spotlights, forgotten against the shimmer of celebrity and sea of broken glass. My heart sinks, crushed to realize that in the end, it didn’t matter how hard I tried to make tonight a success. It didn’t matter that I curated a three-hour playlist of orchestral music to highlight the themes of my classmates’ work, or that each appetizer subtlety nodded to a different art movement. As long as Matt was in attendance, everything I’d done would be overshadowed.
I shouldn’t have to be sad right now; I should be doing cartwheels and sipping the remaining champagne to celebrate. But the room’s a mess and Terese looks like she’s regretting ever giving me a chance.
“I’m so sorry, Terese,” I say, rushing to the back to grab a broom. “I will take care of this.”
Matt reappears, flesh and bone where there was nothing. “Don’t worry about it, babe; I’ll call the Warrior cleanup crew. They’ll fix this up.”
“No,” Terese snaps, arms crossed. “I don’t want any more so-called heroes in my gallery.”