Page 9

Five
Cari
I woke up late.My interview at Gallery Blu was at 10 o’clock so I set my alarm for 7, giving myself plenty of time to get ready. I woke with jolt at 8:30 and scrambled out of bed and dove into the shower, only to find that my roommate, Nia, used all the hot water.
Typical.
Teeth chattering from the cold, I quickly dried and dressed, progress stalled when I couldn’t find the subdued black pumps that I’ve been wearing on job interviews. So, I was stuck with wearing the only other pair of heels I own, a pair of bright red stilettos I’d bought on a whim and never wore because the make me look like an Amazon warrior who moonlights as a hooker. Irritated, but in a rush, I stepped into them and hurried into the kitchen to grab something for breakfast that I can eat in my car. Rummaging through the fridge, I found the carton of blueberry yogurts I bought yesterday at the store. Where there should have been four, I found only one. Again, typical. My roommate’s motto is: what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine too.
I yanked the last yogurt free from the carton and straightened, slamming the refrigerator closed. The rush of air fluttered a piece of paper trapped under magnetic Tiki bottle opener a girlfriend brought me back from a trip to Hawaii.
C ~
Justin proposed!!! We’re getting married in a
few weeks so I need you out by the first of the month.
Thx,
N.
p.s. I borrowed your black heels.♥
I let out a strangled scream, crumpling the note in my fist before tossing it in the sink. Bitch ate all my yogurt, stole my shoes and kicked me out, all in one morning. The worst part is that the first of the month was less than a week away. Left with nothing else to do, I pulled my Tiki bottle opener off the freezer door with an angry jerk and jammed it into my bag along with the last of my yogurt and a spoon before storming out the door.
God must’ve felt sorry for me because despite my perpetual tardiness, I arrived at the art gallery with ten minutes to spare. Deciding to use my time wisely, I dug into the nuclear wasteland I call a purse and pulled out my yogurt. Between bites, my phone let out a chirp. I had a text. It’s either my roommate telling me she’d packed my room up and left the boxes on our front porch or it was James, bored at work, asking me to send him nudes. Not that I ever did. When he asks, I just send him a stock photo off Google of a pair of tits. He’s never noticed the difference.
Looking at the screen, I see that the text is from neither of them. It’s from Patrick.
Patrick: Good luck today!
Just seeing his name on my cell screen makes me feel better. Smiling, I tap out my answer and hit send, strangely anxious while waiting for his reply.
Me: Thanks… I’m nervous.
He replies almost immediately. Patrick’s never been one of those guys who takes forever to text back.
Patrick: Why? The luck was just a formality.
You’re gonna get this job. I know it. Now get
out of your car and get in there before you’re
late.
He’s on a construction site, 30-miles away and he knows exactly what I’m doing. Sitting in my car in front of Gallery Blu, trying to calm my nerves before I go in and try to land my dream job. Well, not my dream job exactly. I want to own my own gallery someday. But that takes time and someone willing to show you the ins and outs of the art game. I’m hoping Miranda McIntyre with be that someone for me.
Me: You’re the best friend a girl could ask for. ♥
I don’t wait for a reply this time. He’s right, if I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late. Sliding out of the driver’s seat, I sling my paint-splattered canvas bag over my shoulder and hurry across the street.
The interview takes less than twenty minutes. Miranda, while intimidating at first, with her jet-black hair and flawless porcelain complexion, set me at ease almost immediately. “Nice shoes,” she said while I settle into the seat across from her, gaze roving over my clothes, probably trying to reconcile my professional outfit with the canvas satchel that James makes me leave in the car whenever he takes me to dinner. “You’re an artist.”
I look down at the bright red stilettos and feel the blood rush upward to collect in my chest. I don’t blush like normal people but anyone who knows me and cares to pay attention can tell how I’m feeling by gauging the strawberry birthmark, just below my collarbone. Right now, it feels like a red-hot brand against my skin. “Oh…” I look down at my ridiculous red shoes for a second. “I’m not—not really. It’s more of a hobby.” It feels like more than that to me. Painting is something I have to do. Compared to it, even breathing feels optional. “Or maybe therapy.”
When I look up, I find her studying me, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out if I’m for real or not. “You feel like you need therapy?”
I fight the urge to look away again. “Don’t we all?”