The weeks after the gala passed quickly. The exhibition ran through the end of October, and by then, I'd had three offers. A gallery in the city wanted to represent me. A museum in Marbury wanted to buy two of the pieces. A publisher wanted to talk about a book.
I said yes to the gallery. Maybe to the museum. Not yet to the publisher.
I moved into a new apartment in November, a one-bedroom on the fourth floor with big windows and a view of the water. It was still small. It was still mine.
Priya helped me unpack. We ordered pizza and sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes, and talked about nothing for hours.
"You know," she said, "you're different now."
"I know."
"I mean it. You're not... I don't know. You're not waiting for permission anymore."
I thought about the six years I'd spent
