Ben had finally broken through to the front, but was so far to the side that he was beyond Tim’s peripheral vision. At least he could see him now, nervously shifting from foot to foot while mumbling into the microphone.
“I owe this art to a lot of people. The subjects in each piece, of course. My dog Chinchilla, or Eric, who was a father, a hero, and much more to me. Even strangers, like the old woman I saw lying in the grass at the park, staring up at the clouds and giggling like a little girl at what she saw there.” Tim paused, searching the crowd again. “So many people have inspired me, but only one gave me the courage to show what I had painted to other people. I hope he’s here somewhere tonight, and as I finish this clumsy speech, I’d like you all to clap for him, not for me. Thank you, most of all, to Benjamin Bentley.”
The audience burst into applause. Ben blushed, even though he was effectively incognito. Tim turned off the mic and gave a little bow, and people slowly began to disperse. Some remained behind to talk to the artist. Ben watched them with envy. How easily they could walk up to Tim without being overwhelmed with a decade’s worth of feelings.
Tim chatted politely, shook hands, listened, nodded, and all the other gestures a gracious host was supposed to make. Occasionally he would risk looking away from them to search the room again, looking slightly more disappointed with each failure. Nerves buzzing, Ben walked to the center of the room where he could easily be seen.
Tim nodded and said goodbye to an elderly gentleman, and tried again. This time he found Ben, and without the slightest reservation, ran to him and scooped him up into his arms.