Page 10

She doesn’t answer me, she just smiles. “Let’s take a walk.”
She gives me a tour of the gallery and it’s beautiful. A second-floor loft space with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in gorgeous light that sparkles against the black granite floors. She asks me about my tastes in art, half testing me but also half interested, and seems surprised when I’m not afraid to disagree with her about preferences in style and medium. “Usually, the people who come in here for interviews wouldn’t know a Pollack from a Warhol. They think selling a painting is like selling a car,” she tells me, her tone thoughtful. She stops in front of the bank of windows looking over the street, directly above where I parked my car. “Yours?” She says it without looking at me, pressing a perfectly manicured nail against the glass.
Despite the fact that she complimented me on my worn bag and ridiculous shoes, I’m embarrassed. James calls my beloved Carma Ghia a death trap and refuses to be seen in it. “Yes,” I say, feeling warm blood creep across my chest. “I worked summers all through high school to buy it. When I came here from Ohio for college, I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.”
“Ohio?” Miranda says, shooting me a sidelong glance. “I had you pegged for California. One of those ritzy little beach towns… Santa Barbara or maybe Malibu.”
The only thing ritzy about the tiny town I grew up in were the crackers in our kitchen cabinet. I don’t know why, but for some reason, the fact that she took me for a rich California girl makes me feel good. “I’ve never been to California,” I tell her. “Before I moved here, I never even saw the ocean.”
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that might have been approval before she looks back at my car. “It’s long hours. Hard work. You’ll be dealing with temperamental artists and jackhole customers who’ll treat you like hired help. I’m a raging bitch most of the time and I’m not likely to apologize for it—to you or anyone else,” she tells me plainly, shifting her gaze so she’s looking directly at me. “But I can pay you enough to keep you just about the poverty line and offer you 2% commission on any paintings we sell. If you’re interested, you can start on Monday.”
Driving back into the city, I’m feeling pretty good. It’s been nearly a year since graduation and it’s been rough watching all my friends move on from college life to stable adult living. Before Miranda McIntyre offered me the position as her personal assistant, my life felt about as stable as a skyscraper built on the San Andreas fault line.
When we graduated, he immediately started looking for a position in an architecture firm and the job offers started rolling in almost as fast. The problem was they were all thousands of miles away from Boston. Thinking about Patrick moving away was unbearable. Besides Tess, he was my best friend. Living here wouldn’t be the same without him.
He’d been about to take an offer in Seattle and been miserable about it when his cousin, Conner offered him the solution to everything. “Why don’t you and Dec go into business together? He’s already got the construction thing locked down—you design them, he builds them. Should be a piece of cake,” he said, gesturing with a beer between his cousin and his older brother before he set it down in front of the guy who ordered it. It was Thursday—Ladies Night at Gilroy’s, the family bar—and Conner never missed a Ladies Night.
It had been the perfect solution, the fact that it’d come from Conner, notwithstanding. Three years in and Patrick and Declan are flying high, designing and building custom homes for Boston’s mega rich.
Pulling up the drive, seeing the house Patrick designed, knowing his dreams were coming true was almost enough to take my mind off the fact that while I’d landed my own dream job, it didn’t fix the fact that I was on the verge of homelessness. Not wanting to worry him, I kept it to myself. There would be plenty of time to figure it out tomorrow.
Now, chugging down the freeway, I think about the glass and metal buildings clustered together, skyscrapers wedged between Old City Hall and the Old State House. That’s where James is.
On impulse, I dive off the freeway and pilot my death trap to the parking garage attached to the building that houses James’s law firm. I flash my parking pass and smile at the attendant and he lifts the gate with a tip of his hat. James gave me the pass a few months ago, so I can bring him lunch. Lunch inevitably leads to a quickie in his office. The prospect usually excites me. Today, I wished I had a sandwich to throw at him instead.
Parking as close to the elevator as I can manage, I grab my bag and hustle toward it, catching the car just before it started its way up. Leaning over, I tap the button for the 22nd floor, smiling at the young mother and her daughter who were getting off on the 7th.
I know what he’ll say when I tell him I got the job. He’ll give me a bland, vaguely annoyed smile that I bothered him at work and say, Congratulations, babe. How ‘bout you lift your skirt so we can celebrate.
When the doors slide open on seven, I almost get off with the mother and her daughter. Telling James can wait. I want to go home and change. Go get Tess and head to Gilroy’s so we can plot how to get my roommate back and toss back too many dollar shots while we wait for Patrick and Conner to get off work.
Instead, I stay put, offering the little girl a small smile when she waves at me while her mom drags her off the elevator. I’ll tell James. Maybe he won’t be a complete dickface about it. Maybe he’ll tell me I look nice and take me out to lunch to celebrate.
I step off the elevator and into the small reception area at the center of the pod of offices where James’s is located. As a junior partner, he shares an assistant with four other lawyers but it’s still a big deal. He’s an attorney at one of Boston’s biggest firms and set to make full partner before he turns 40. He’s successful and soon, I will be too.
“Hi, Janine,” I say, breezing past his assistant and she looks up from a stack of files, a ready greeting on her lips that falters when she sees me.
“Hi—oh, Ms. Faraday,” she says loudly, scrambling from behind her desk to wedge herself between me and the door to James’s office. “Mr. Templeton isn’t here. He’s at—in with one of the partners, discussing a case.”
I know she’s lying. When James is in a meeting, she lets me wait in his office, no problem. I reach past her and turn the knob, pushing the door open. Janine makes a small sound and turns her face away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Templeton—I tried to…”
Her voice, directly in my ear, fades away. James isn’t in a meeting with a senior partner. He’s in his office with someone who looks barely old enough to wear make-up. He’s got her bent over his desk, her skirt jacked up around her waist. His pants around his hips. The girl—and she is a girl. If she’s older than eighteen, I’m the Queen of England—has James’s tie stuffed in her mouth to muffle her moans while he pounds into her. Despite the tie in her mouth, she doesn’t look like she’s under duress. She looks like she’s loving every minute of it.
James looks up from the girl sprawled across his desk and glares directly at me. The worst part of it is that when he sees me, he doesn’t even stop fucking her. Doesn’t try to explain or make excuses. He just looks at me like I don’t matter. Like I’m nothing.
I leave quietly. Calmly, with Janine following me to the elevator, her short, stocky legs working double time to keep up with me. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Faraday,” she huffs softly behind me. “You’re such a sweet girl and I wanted to tell you, but...” she trails off when the doors slide open and I step inside and turn to look at her. I think she’s expecting to see tears. That I’m going to lose my mind, ride the elevator all the way to the roof and fling myself off it.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
“I really am sorry, Ms. Faraday.” she says softly, her hands chest-high, churning themselves into knots. I’ve been dating James for almost a year and she’s the only person in this entire building who ever called me Ms. Anything. To everyone else, I’m nothing more than James’ hot young girlfriend. The girl who’ll get out of bed to bring him coffee at 3AM when he’s working on a big case or pick up lunch for the team while they’re prepping for court, even though he has an intern for that. But why ask your intern to fetch you lunch when you can just as easily ask her to lift her skirt and bend over your desk?
Laughter bubbles on my lips and I fight hard to suppress it. “It’s alright,” I say, pressing my thumb against the button marked G for garage. The day I hurdle myself off a building over a guy like James Templeton is the day I sprout wings and fly. I offer her a smile to show her that I really am alright. “I understand, Janine, and it’s okay,” I tell her as the doors slide closed.
It doesn’t really hit me until I pull into my driveway. I just walked in on my boyfriend fucking someone else and I’m four days away from sleeping in my car. Nia’s here. I can hear the TV blaring the divorce court show that comes on after her soap. Over the din, I can hear her on the phone, babbling away about how Justin popped the question and about how she wants to get married in Belize. Her parents are loaded so she’ll get her way.
Because I don’t want to go in and deal with her and because I’m a total glutton for punishment, I sit in my car and use my phone to google James’ law firm and search their employee directory. I clicked the tab marked SUMMER INTERNS and there she is in a group photo. Elisabeth Lindstrom, looking fresh and wholesome and not at all like the kind of girl who would let someone who is practically old enough be her father, stuff a tie in her mouth and pound her into the side of his desk.
Looking at her, I realize I don’t care. Which is sad, really. I’ve been cheated on so many times by so many different guys that I can’t even work up a decent rage over the fact that I caught my boyfriend cheating on me. Again.