JAYA

"Welcome all to the annual Emphasized Contest! This year, we've been fortunate enough to have Barton Enterprises as an amazing supporter of the event and our marvelous artists!"

Cheers ring out in the room, friends, family, and significant others all gathered in one space, glasses of champagne held high and smiles plastered on rows of faces, all excited to be here and finally get a look at the art that was birthed out of this competition.

"Our amazing contestants-who will each come up and reveal their respective pieces themselves-have worked for weeks, and all of their strenuous work has culminated to this moment."

Like everything attached to its name, The New York Barton Galleries location where the event is being held is a mastery of beautiful sleek furniture, bright lights, and pristine all-white walls. Two dozen or so works are arranged around us, all covered and ready to be revealed.

"Don't be nervous, Jaya." My mother slides her arm between mine, squeezing tightly. "These other children don't look like they can even hold a paintbrush." She sucks her teeth, sliding her gaze around the other anxious artists.

"Mom!" I hiss at her, biting down a laugh. "There's no need to be rude."

"Please, you know I'm right." She shrugs and reaches forward to pull Dev into a quick embrace when he descends upon us with a champagne flute for her and a cup of water for me. "Tell your sister I'm right, Devlin."

Dev passes me the water, no idea what my mom is talking about, but knowing well enough to simply agree. "She's right, J."

"Thank you, chip," I thank him for the water, and waste no time in guzzling it down.

"Do you hear your brother? I'm right." She fixes the strap of my dress-a silk slip dress in red that I absolutely adore-and pats my cheeks softly as I drink. "Slow down, dear. Don't go and spill water on your beautiful dress."

But I'm way past listening to her, my insides dry and in need of water, a clear sign of my nervousness. Funny enough, I'm not necessarily scared of losing, what I'm more preoccupied with, the thing that is making me edgy and restless, is that Fin is nowhere to be found.

I've been texting him for the better part of the past hour, initially concerned with his silence and absence, then slowly growing annoyed, and now I'm just plain nervous. I don't want to reveal and talk about my work without him here-I quite simply won't.

He doesn't know it and might frown if I were to tell him, but the piece wouldn't be what it is without him. Dare I say, it wouldn't even exist if he didn't support me in ways that go even beyond the word itself.

The countless times I didn't think I would finish nor did I want to, the times I didn't even want to finish because I didn't believe in the piece, the days that I fell asleep in the guest room, drained and over it. He was always there, always supporting, always providing.

I've won already. Whether I leave this gallery being named the winner or not, Fin has shown me that I have him and that I can trust and rely on his unending support. And that, to me, is better than being crowned the winner of anything.

At the front of the room, the speaker leaves the stage, shaking the hand of the first artist who will be explaining his work, maybe going over a bit of the process, then unveiling it for everyone to see. The guy's throat works as he grabs the mic, his eyes sweeping across the gallery.

Then he starts talking, uncomfortable at first, then more confidently, until he's walking from one corner of the constructed stage as if he's giving a Ted Talk. He has no more than five minutes to five his little spiel though, so he doesn't waste time and dives into

"The prompt for this year, 'how do you keep going both as an artist and a human?' frustrated me at first, because I honestly didn't know how to answer that question. I mean, do any of us truly know? It certainly feels like the answer is within the question itself-we just keep going. But then . . ."

Instead of being a good audience and listening, my mind goes back to Fin and where the hell he could be. I knew he was at work when I was getting ready, but we'd planned to meet at the entrance an hour ago, not looking forward to my mom's hostility but also not giving a damn because, at this point, there is nothing she can do to separate us.

My guess is that she knows that too, though she might be too stubborn to admit it. I think she assumes that her presence might snap me out of whatever Fin-induced stupor I've been under, and though she's been pleasant the last couple of days, I know that she's just waiting for me to tell her that he and I are done.

"Is he coming?" My mom whispers in question, her dark eyes narrowed in concern.

"Yes," I whisper, desperation evident even in that one word. "He's coming. Just running late, I think. Traffic is crazy at this time."

Friday evening New York traffic is not a pretty sight, one that I wouldn't wish even on my worst enemy.

"Okay," is all she says, staring at my profile for a second, before lacing her hand with mine and holding it tightly.

On my other side, my brother is captivated with the proceedings on stage, listening aptly as the guy preens at the judges' impressed words and quickly moves away to give the floor to the next artist.

Another guy gets on stage and starts talking about the materials he used for his piece. Dev still listens intently, but he must have heard my mom's question and my response, must have sensed my worry because without looking at me he wraps his arm around my shoulder.

My lanky, adorable brother. With his long legs and arms, an inch taller than me, but still a boy, really. Barely a teen, but already so wise beyond his years, so good at understanding what people need before they can even say them, that you just can't help but love him.

"He's a little late, but he'll be here," he tells me, never pulling his attention away from the front where the guy is finally unveiling his piece. A beautiful marble sculpture of a tiny girl-his little sister Ellie, he says.

"How do you know?" I look at my brother, his critical eyes assess the sculpture, and he nods in approval.

To me, he snorts and pinches my shoulder lightly. "You're asking a stupid question, J. You know how I feel about those."

This child has truly grown bossier over the years and I ought to slap him upside the head for his insolence. Instead, I keep staring at him with narrowed eyes, waiting for my answer.

"The guy practically looks at you with heart in his eyes," Dev tells me with a hint of disgust in his tone. "I'm almost sure he's worse than Jacob, just better at hiding it." As an afterthought, he murmurs to himself, "Poor Mar."

Dev has a soft spot for Amara, he always has. But after becoming best buds with Jacob, the soft spot has grown even larger, and Amara has become something like his second sister. His favorite second sister. I'd be jealous, but the kid will never be able to get rid of me, so it's all right.

Also, I can't fault guys for falling beside themselves at the mere mention of my friend. The girl is so obviously adorable that it's impossible not to love her.

"No poor me?" I ask him after a bit, letting the oohs and ahs of the people around us quiet down to murmurs as the judges ask the guy-whose name is Fabio-a few questions.

"Nope. Mar is sweet so I get her staying with Jacob, but you have no excuse." He looks at me. "You just like the guy and that's your fault."

I glare at him. What's wrong with the children of today? What has happened to the reverence that used to be bestowed on elders?

"Devlin, stop talking about things you know nothing about," our mom hisses at us from my other side. "It's all those books you read. Kids in those stories talk too much."

"So, reading books is now a crime? How things have changed-"

"It is a crime if you start talking rubbish left and right." My mom scowls at him, but not in a way that means she's really pissed. "You should read more intellectual literature. Maybe if you read your Bible more . . ."

"I do read the Bible. Which is why I know that it says something about parents not causing their children to wrath, mother. How do you feel about that?"

"I think that you have a hard and large coconut head, no wonder you almost cut me in half when I was pushing you out. That head of yours."

I gape at my mother, scandalized for the both of us while Dev tries to hold back the laughter.

Maybe it's because he's a boy or maybe because he's the second child after she has already practiced with me, but my mom is much more lenient with him than she was with me at his age. Half of the time, it seems as if they're seriously arguing until they share a look and fall into a fit of laughter.

Their relationship is one I've never fully understood, but have always watched with interest. Never with envy though, I've certainly never wanted to be at the receiving end of my mom's jibes, the woman can get quite brutal.

"Dang, I wish dad was here." Dev sighs deeply, eyes back on the stage, where another artist, who I notice is Macy wearing a cool black dress that I would never be able to pull off, begins talking about her piece. "Too bad he couldn't take off."

I smile, thinking about the tall giant of a man. A huge teddy bear. "He doesn't really like art shows, though."

"Yeah, but he would have loved to see your piece. He only likes art shows when we're a part of them." He leans forward to make eye contact with our mom. "And you're less prickly when he's around."

That's true, dad smooths out mom's edges. He's like the silent glue of our family, radiating warmth and protectiveness that I miss so much.

"Face forward," is all she tells Dev, not even denying his claim, and we snicker underneath our breaths.

We listen to Macy briefly and stoically explain how she completed her piece, how she achieved the look she was going for, and the steps she took to fix some unexpected mistakes along the way. She's not as personable on stage as the last guy, which surprises me, but her concept is interesting enough that we all listen for the three minutes she holds the mic.

Then, when she pulls the cloth away from her huge canvas, the stunning painting of a white bird within a gilded cage stuns us all silent. Her piece is called The Cage and, as she explains, it represents how her will to keep going is inspired by her desire not to be trapped in one place, way of life, or cycle.

I love the painting so much, and when she shuffles away nervously after answering the judges' questions, I vow to find her later so I can talk to her about the technique she applied for the troubled bird's feathers.

"Amazing," Dev mutters, his eyes trained on the painting. "I feel like the bird is staring at us." He sounds excited by that fact. "And those trees in the background? Creepy and hecka cool."

"Yeah, it's really good." I nod in agreement. "And yeah, those trees are so fire."

Our mom doesn't say anything, and I get the feeling that she won't be complimenting any of the other artists even if their pieces are phenomenal. That's just her way of demonstrating her loyalty.

"You're going up after the next person right?"

I swallow and answer him, "Yes, I am."

People chatter and sip on their champagne around us, the event paused for a second as the next contestant's piece is rolled to the front.

I make eye contact with Maverick from where he's standing by the stage, ready to go up and dazzle us all, and I send him two thumbs up. He grins back at me and sends the thumbs back at me, then a mic is placed in his hands, and he takes the stage with a smile.

"Okay, good," Dev continues, referring to the fact that I'll be going on next. "Because it looks like Finley finally made it."

"What?!"

I follow Dev's gaze, and he's right, Fin has made it. Wearing a loose satin shirt in black and grey dress pants, a huge bouquet of roses in one hand and a small gift bag in the other, his hair slightly disheveled and his short beard well trimmed, he looks like the stuff dreams are made of.