Dream On(105)

Thanks! Hope the little one feels better soon



Tell Eric I say hi!



Will do



P.S. Did you see this yet?? All because of you, girl!



Her next text is a link to a local news article: “New Community College Campus Set to Open in Buckeye-Shaker in June.” Even though I already read the article earlier today, my chest still strums with triumph. After calling out Roger Szymanski on live television, the city had no choice but to trash his proposal. With propriety, and the city council’s reputation, on the line, Councilman Truman was particularly opposed to the idea once he found out the true motives behind Roger’s proposal… and read a certain thoroughly researched alternative that Devin shared with him the week after our interview. My lungs expand at the thought of how much good a new community college will do for the residents of Buckeye-Shaker… and the city of Cleveland as a whole.

Five minutes later, we pull up to West Twenty-Eighth and Providence, in front of the warehouse that once belonged to Roger Szymanski. I smile at my Blooms & Baubles mural. It’s faded over the years thanks to the elements, but it’s still here, as meaningful as the night I painted it. We circle to the front of the building to a door with a sign that reads Ohio City Artists Co-op. Marcus opens the thick wooden door, and my heart pounds as I step across the threshold and into a cocoon of warm air.

My lips part in surprise. Inside, twinkle lights flicker above a curved white desk. Beyond it, the open gallery is packed with people.

Brie squeezes my hand. “They’re all here for you, sweetie.”

We hang our coats on the rack next to the desk and walk into the white-walled gallery.

“Cass!” Jackson calls, and he and Liam run over, their dress shoes pounding against the parquet floor.

“Did you really do all of this?” Liam’s wide eyes rove over the walls filled with artwork—my artwork. Canvasses of all sizes line the walls, filled with abstract portraits and multimedia collages, each one telling a story. My story. From my accident to the coma to my memory struggles—which, although they’ve improved over the years, haven’t faded completely—to my revelations about life, love, and finding joy through the choices we make and the people we call family.

I flick a curl off Liam’s forehead. “Yeah, can you believe it?”

“I sure can,” says Robert, sidling up to us, his arm around my mom.

Eyes shining with tears, Mom wraps me in a bear hug. “I’m sorry I ever thought your art was a waste of time. I’m blown away by you. And so, so proud.”

I hug her back before stepping away. “Thanks, Mom. Have you seen Perry, by the way?”

“Did I hear my name?” Strong arms snake around my waist, and I’m pulled backward into a firm chest. I smile up at Perry as he kisses the column of my neck. His familiar woodsy and floral scent envelopes me, and I sigh. “You’re late,” he whispers, nipping my earlobe.

“Hey, it takes time to look this good.”

He turns me in his arms and plants a kiss on my lips. “You always look beautiful.”

“Right back at you.” And damn, but he does look good tonight. He’s wearing a full suit and tie, loose around the collar in typical Perry fashion, and his cheekbones gleam in the soft overhead lights.

Jackson pretends to stick his finger down his throat and makes a retching sound. Mom laughs.

“There she is!” a voice booms, and half a dozen of my coworkers from the Cleveland Community Foundation crowd around me. After a round of hugs and “congratulations!” that leave me a little breathless, my boss, Tom, a kindhearted man in his fifties, shakes my hand. “I knew you were a talented lawyer, but an artist too? I’m stunned.”

“How did you not know Cass was an artist?” blurts Rosie, our intern. “Didn’t you ever see that one video that was all over the Internet a couple years ago? The one that was taken right outside? Cass is famous!”

Tom’s eyes widen. “Wait, you’re Coma Girl?”

There was a time when the moniker would have stung. But ever since my interview with Charlotte went viral, along with the cell phone video of me and Perry kissing, the name has taken on a whole new meaning, one that’s near and dear to my heart. Because if it weren’t for my coma, I never would have met the love of my life, found my true purpose, or helped him save his business, which is now the most renowned flower shop in the state of Ohio. “That’s me.”

The next half hour passes by in a blur of handshakes and introductions, well-wishes and thanks. And through it all, Perry never leaves my side. He guides me through the room, his hand at the small of my back, stealing kisses when no one is looking.

An art critic for the Plain Dealer introduces herself, and asks me a series of questions, jotting my responses in a little notebook. I excuse myself when I spot Devin and Mercedes walking into the gallery. Her strawberry blond hair is cut shorter now and it’s wavier, less styled—not the perfectly smooth sheet it was when we first met. Her pale blue dress swishes around her thighs as Devin takes her coat.

“There’s the woman of the hour,” says Devin. Grinning at Perry, he gives me a one-armed hug.

“And here’s the man of the hour,” I say. “This never would have happened if it weren’t for you.”