Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
After we order and return to the table with mugs, she deals me an intense stare. “You may be wondering why I didn’t ask to meet you at MoMA.”
“The thought occurred to me,” I admit.
“Look, here is the deal,” she says, glancing behind her, then around, then cutting to the chase. “I gave notice the other week. My last day is Tuesday.”
Oh, wow. That’s huge. “That’s a change.”
“MoMA is a wonderful place. I am glad to have cut my teeth there. But,” she says, in a conspiratorial tone, “Allison gave me permission to tell you this. She’s convinced me to come to Petra Gallery. They have some very exciting installations coming up, and we’re expanding the space to bring on more new artists,” she says, then rattles off details on the type of art they’re chasing—art that showcases passion, emotion, love. “We’re looking for some associates to work their way up as we build our client base.”
“Where do I sign up?” I ask, unafraid to show every ounce of enthusiasm I feel. And I feel all the ounces. All the gallons. All the drums.
“Are you sure?” she asks coyly. “I never got the impression you were that excited about theories of art.”
I roll the dice. I go out on a limb as I say, “And I have a feeling that’s why you want to hire me.”
She shrugs, but there’s a smile in it. “You’re not wrong.”
We talk more, then she tells me she’ll need to speak with Allison for final approval. “I’ll get back to you this week,” she adds.
“I look forward to it,” I say, and I leave, floating on a career high.
For the first time ever, this feeling of buoyancy is all mine. It comes from my head, and my heart, and my work. The time and energy I poured into art—when I learned what I liked and didn’t like—has almost paid off.
When she heads downtown and I head uptown, I finger the I on my necklace, then whisper, “Can I tell you a secret, Mom?”
Then I imagine telling her about the rest of today, knowing she’d be proud of me.
I gaze heavenward, then back down to earth, taking a deep, excited breath. Time to tell my friends and my brother, but first I spot a sneaker on the sidewalk, near a grate. A lone purple Converse. I snap a photo and post it, asking the question: Lost or found?
When I open my texts to share the news with my friends, there’s a new message blinking up at me.
From Bridger.
And once I read it, I hail the next cab I see.
32
INNOCENT AND SEDUCTIVE
Bridger
A few minutes ago
I often spend Saturdays working. It’s not unusual for me to be holed up in my apartment poring over scripts, contracts, deal memos.
So switching between finalizing the streaming terms for a script we acquired late last year, Anti-Heroes Unleashed, and prepping the details of the Afternoon Delight rewrite should keep me in the zone all day.
Operative word being should.
These twin projects ought to occupy me well into the evening when I can grab a bite with Axel, or maybe connect with some producer colleagues.
Trouble is, it’s late afternoon, and I’ve made seriously shitty progress on both fronts. I’m alone in the Lucky 21 office, staring blankly at the laptop, the terms turning blurry.
What the hell am I even reading?
Maybe I’m just distracted today.
Maybe I should turn off the Card Game soundtrack.
There. Done.
Surrounded by silence, I try once again, but my mind is wandering. To last night. The night before. Then the one prior.
I curse, then pace, stare out the glass fourteen floors below, watching New York stroll by on a Saturday. Peering farther, into the park. Harlow loves the park. Did she go there today with her brother? Did they wander around the lake? She’s told me of their adventures when they were younger. Others I heard about on my own, just from being in her home, working late to launch this company many years ago.
Working with her dad.
I jerk my gaze away from the window, like I can flip off the reminders of our twisted connection.
Then I turn the other way, but I’m still a treacherous ball of nerves.
I could do yoga to let go, but I’m wearing tailored slacks and a button-down. I’m not going to be that jackass in an office doing yoga in his work clothes.
Pass.
I blow out a long stream of air, then flop down on the couch. Maybe I just need a break from work. Maybe I’ve been too go-go-go lately.
Except…
I’ve worked a little less than usual the last three nights because I’ve spent them with Harlow.
All at once, my body feels lighter as I think of her. A feel-good drug works its way through me.
I close my eyes, slipping into the most delicious memory of last night. Up against the wall. The way she moves as I touch her. The sexy whimpers that fall from her lips.