“You deserve the dressiest guitar,” I say with a grin.
“By the way, meet my bandmates. Cole”—he gestures to a tall man in a suit—“and Killian. This is my sister Bean.”
Max has been in the band for years now, but this is the first time I’ve had a chance to meet the others. I look at them, making sure I’m focusing on their eyes. It makes people feel less uncomfortable, although I’m not too crazy about it because I can’t quite read anything, when I know I should be able to. “Nice to meet you. You can call me Becca. Max is the only one who calls me Bean.”
“Becca it is,” Cole says. “Wouldn’t want to infringe on the whole brother privilege thing.”
“Ditto.” Killian’s voice is familiar, of course. He’s the vocalist of the band.
We shake hands. They’re both in black suits, so it’s going to be very hard to tell them apart. Then I note their ties and accessories and sigh inwardly with relief. Cole’s tie is half a shade lighter than Killian’s, and he has a black stud in one ear, while Killian’s wearing a wedding band with an unusual twisting design. That should help.
I don’t usually tell people about my condition. It upsets Grandma. Plus, I’m not sure exactly how to bring it up without making the other person feel awkward or putting a weird stop to a conversation. Or worse, have the other person not believe I really have face blindness and try to test it or probe me about my condition. So irritating and embarrassing.
“Where’s the other one?” The band has four members. “Devlin, right? The drummer?”
Max shrugs. “He’s here, but… Best you don’t meet him.”
“How come? Did you guys have a fight?” Tabloids often publish articles about how Axelrod is about to break up or how the members don’t get along or whatever. The band’s been together for so long that I usually dismiss them, but maybe there’s some truth…?
“Nah, we don’t fight. It’s just he isn’t the kind of guy a brother would introduce to his baby sister.”
“He’d behave with a sister,” Cole says.
Killian nods. “He’s been completely hands off with Mir.”
“Don’t. Care.”
I shake my head. Max treats me like I’m made of glass. A glass figurine that’s been broken once and barely put back together with glue and tape. Maybe he treats me like that because of the almost-fatal car crash I was in as a kid. The head trauma is what gave me prosopagnosia.
“Bean’s a good girl. Not some lamb nugget for Dev to gobble up.”
“A lamb nugget? Is that what I am now?”
“You know what I mean.” Max’s voice is hard with stubbornness. No matter what weird metaphor or example he comes up with, he sticks to it.
Max glances at a few people hovering around us. “Looks like your fans want to talk to you. We won’t take up all your time.”
I pat his hand. “See you before the party’s over?”
He grunts, which in this case means, “Of course.” I smile and wave as they walk away, then start working the crowd, saying hello to the people who are here to support my art. Thankfully, Isaac stays away, so it’s easier to interact with them. But throughout, there’s a niggling thought in the back of my mind: where the hell is Jeff? Even if he didn’t get to meet my brother, I wanted him to share my big moment. He’s the most important person to me after Max and Tasha.
There’s no way he got lost. I sent him the address, and it pops up on GPS fine. I checked.
I finally finish chatting with an old gentleman whose name I can’t recall. He’s probably the thirtieth person I’ve met today. My head throbs with a tension headache. It’s so hard to remember who everyone is when they all look alike—suits and dresses, nicely styled hair, clean-cut and moneyed.
“This is a simply marvelous turnout,” comes a familiar voice.
Finally, somebody I know! I turn and face Catherine, making a quick note of her magenta silk mermaid dress. Her dark hair’s piled high and set with three sparkly butterfly-shaped pins to showcase diamond chandelier earrings. It’s so much easier to pick someone out if I know exactly how they’re dressed and styled, and Catherine is somebody I should definitely make an effort to recognize.
“Champagne?” she says, plucking two flutes before I can respond.
“Thank you.” I take the drink. “None of this could have happened without you.”
It isn’t an empty platitude. Catherine’s an art curator and the one responsible for my first solo show. She buys for billionaire Barron Sterling’s collection, and people in the art circle know of her superb taste and knack for spotting undiscovered talent. But recently she’s been patronizing artists more directly, using the Sterling funds. Apparently, it’s what her boss wants.
So being selected for the first solo show she’s sponsoring and bankrolling is a huge deal. For all I know, everything I’ve created might triple in value because of it.
“It would’ve happened regardless,” she says warmly. “Talent is always recognized.”