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ELEVEN
Cari
I considered calling Miranda and canceling ourmeeting. There was no point in it anymore. She hired me because she thought I was different than the other brainless bimbos that applied to work at the gallery. She thought I was serious about art. That I was passionate about it. That she could trust me to be reliable and act in the best interests of the gallery. Now that the video was out there, she’d know she’d been wrong about me, same as everyone else.
I could explain it to her. That yes, I’d gone out with Everett Chase on the night that presumably the video was made but that, despite what the time stamp said, it’d actually been made by a vindictive ex-boyfriend, over a year ago and without my consent.
I knew it was the truth and even I didn’t believe it.
And I would have to explain it to her. If I’d had my phone. But it didn’t matter because, by the time I woke up, it was already over.
In the back of my mind, I knew this was going to happen. The second James sent me that video, I knew it would be posted. I knew there was no escaping it but I’d hoped… stepping away from the canvas in front of me, I gave it a long, hard look.
Patrick again. Always Patrick.
I love you. I love you, Cari.
He took the leap. Did the one thing no one thought he was capable of. He told me how he feels. What he really wants and I laughed at him. Told him none of it mattered. That it was fun but that I was through with him. That I didn’t want him anymore. Didn’t love him back.
I don’t know what prompts me to take my earbuds out, but when I do, I catch the tail end of someone knocking on the door. Must’ve been knocking for a while because there’s an impatient edge to the rapping that has me dashing out my bedroom door and across the living room. Throwing the door open, I find a very annoyed Miranda standing on the other side. As soon as she sees me, the annoyance smooths out completely. She looks almost pleased.
“I called you but didn’t answer,” she says, breezing past me to toss her purse on the chair across from the couch. She gives me a glance, letting her eyes flick up and down the length of me. “I’m glad to see you’re using your day off wisely.”
She focuses on me, totally unaware of her surroundings. No oooingand ahhhing over the apartment or the work Patrick’s put into it the way Chase did. I realize now that he did it to put me at ease. Either Miranda doesn’t see how nervous I am or she doesn’t care. It’s anyone’s guess which one.
I look down and feel a flush creep across my chest. I’m not wearing pants. My legs are covered in paint. “I was just—”
“I’m a gallery owner, Cari—I know what you were doing.” She waves a hand at me that’s meant to shut me up. “Well, let’s see them.”
My paintings. Right. She’s here to see them.
“Okay,” I mumble, rubbing my hands over my bare legs. “Do you think I can—”
“Put on clothes?” She finishes for me before giving me a vague shrug. “You’re not the first artist I’ve shown that works naked.”
I’m not naked. I’m wearing a shirt. And underwear. But now doesn’t seem to be the time to split hairs or catch a case of modesty. “This way,” I tell her, leading her across the living room, past the kitchen to my room. When I push the door open, it’s like I’m seeing the space for the first time. Like it’s Patrick beside me, showing me the room, giving it to me without so much as a twinge of regret. And even though I know how hard he worked on it, I take it.
Because that’s how it is.
Patrick gives and I take.
“Excellent light,” Miranda says to herself, her artistic eye drawn around the room. I watch them drift a sense of pride swelling in my chest, and I open my mouth to tell her how hard Patrick worked on it, but it snaps shut when her gaze lands on the painting Chase gave me.
“I—” I start to explain, but she cuts me off completely.
“I suppose we should get it out of the way—I saw the video.” She tells me, her gaze finally moving past the painting to rest on me. “It was in my inbox this morning when I checked my email.”
“Oh…” I knew it would happen. I did—I’d just hoped that I’d have a chance to tell her first. Explain. But of course, James sent it to my boss. My friends. Patrick. Anyone who cared about me. Any way to hurt me. “I see.”
“Do you?” she says. A small smile touches her mouth, and I can’t tell if she’s angry or amused.
She came here to fire me, face to face. She came here to tell me how disgusted she is by me. She came here to tell me I’ll spend the rest of my art career doing reproduction work in some sweatshop somewhere, or those god-awful landscapes they hang in hotel lobbies and model homes. A week ago, I wouldn’t have dared to hope for even that much. A week ago, I was content with making her coffee and placating temperamental artists.
Now, I want more. Knowing I’ll never get it is killing me.
“Yes, I went out with Mr. Chase but we never—that wasn’t…” I feel like I’m going to pass out. When Miranda starts laughing, I can actually feel myself tipping over.
“I know that’s not Chase in the video,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes even though she’s still laughing. “Whoever it is, the poor guy can’t fuck his way out of a paper bag—Chase is imminently more skilled than that.” She looks at me like a horrible thought just occurred to her. “Tell me that it’s not Patrick.”