Page 70

Marlow

Exhaustion takes hold of me, and I lie back on the concrete floor.

Staring up at the industrial ceiling of the gallery, I feel my eyes grow heavy, and my body begins to sag against the unforgiving concrete.

I roll my head to the side and wonder if I can get away with leaving the paint cans for Baker to pick up in the morning.

I know I can’t. There’s no room for error with my eyes set on a promotion, so I shove myself back to my feet and start cleaning up the mess.

Painting the gallery is something I’ve never done, but I feel accomplished and proud as I stand in front of the wall that now sports the perfect shade of white. This is not how I’m used to spending my nights, but it feels good to be so productive.

It beats sitting at home and researching how much my bags will resell for.

I close the cans of paint and then lug them into the storage room one by one. Picking up the drop cloth, I wad it into a ball and add it to the pile in the back.

Now I can really appreciate the effortless beauty of Swan Lake White. Hope my boss approves of the change. Nicole prefers Stark White. I’ll give her that it has a time and place, but it’s dated, which is the last thing a gallery should be.

I grab my bag and hit the lights on my way out. After locking up, I walk down the block to a pocket-sized Japanese restaurant that sits in the corner of a large building full of legal offices. And it’s open, so I don’t have to rush.

After ordering, I occupy one of the stools at the bar and wait, trying to keep my thoughts focused on the moment—a couple feeding each other sushi, a man hunched over a table by the window, and a few college-aged kids lining the other end of the bar while sharing loud laughter and being boisterous.

During college and for the first years after graduation, Cammie, Tealey, Rad, Cade, Jackson, and I were busy getting our feet wet in the working world, hoping our hard-earned degrees would pay off.

Call it ignorant bliss, but life felt wide open for me to conquer back then.

My bills and credit cards were paid, and we’d party into the wee hours, laugh until our faces hurt, and dance until our feet ached.

I never felt happier, more protected, or safe than I did in those days.

Jackson always had girls hanging around him like he hung the moon.

I don’t remember their names. Only him with his eyes on me.

It didn’t matter if we were at a party or hanging out at Rad’s place.

I would always catch those blue eyes aimed in my direction.

I thought he was so annoying back then, but how could I be so blind to what was right in front of me this whole time?

Pulling out my phone, I’m about to text him to just tell him he’s on my mind, but I hear, “Can I buy you a drink?” The voice is deep with a soft Italian accent by way of Jersey more than Italy.

When I lay my eyes on the guy who slid on the barstool next to me, I’m pleasantly surprised.

I mean, he’s not my type, but he matches his voice—large build, enough scruff has grown back after a long day.

That reminds me of Jackson. I don’t hate a coating of scruff on him.

In fact, I love it. I just can’t tell him, or he might never shave again, and if I had to choose, the sight of that jaw would win every time.

The sound of dishes clattering together grabs my attention, but then I look next to me again. This guy’s light-gray suit lacks a tie, and the collar is unbuttoned. Leaning against the counter, he says, “I ordered a scotch.”

“Good choice. I’m having wine, but I can cover it.” Just barely, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks, though.”

As if she heard, a server hops behind the counter and asks me what I want.

“Chardonnay. The house wine will do. Thank you.” I’m tempted to tell him I’m on a budget these days, choosing the four-dollar six-ounce glass of wine over the larger size I usually order, but I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my choices.

Especially not a stranger. I temper my embarrassment and take a quick breath to swallow it down.

Living on a budget might be new, but it’s respectable. It’s what I should have been doing my entire adult life. I just didn’t know I needed to.

He leans over, not breaching the middle between us, and whispers, “I was supposed to get married today.”

My mouth falls open, but I catch my expression before my eyes bug out. Besides it being the middle of the week, that’s quite a bomb he dropped on me, again, a total stranger. He waves as if he’s tired of explaining. “New Year’s would have been nice, but everything’s cheaper on Wednesdays.”

Ah. Yes. “Why are you sitting here at this hour when you should be with your wife?”

Glancing at me, he’s quick to avert his eyes, revealing guilt or sadness. I’m not sure which one, so I try to break the ice again, feeling sorry for him. “Where’s the beautiful bride?”

He finally scrubs a hand over his face, his slicked-back hair starting to loosen. When he looks at me, scanning my face, he smiles as if he doesn’t mind what he sees. I’ve never had trouble attracting men. I have trouble trusting them.

Angling toward me, he says, “Having sex with my best man, Barry.”

“Oh.” Maybe I should have left this guy alone.

“She had sex with him before the ceremony. They were found in the church office.”

Our drinks are set before us, and I pull a bill out of my wallet. It doesn’t matter if it’s one of my last. The man deserves a drink. “I think I need to buy you a drink.”

“Thanks.” He tips his glass to me and laughs before taking a gulp. “You ready for the kicker?”

I take a sip of my chardonnay. “I don’t know, am I?” This story is riveting. I take another drink, my body finally easing from the tension I’ve felt all day.

“They hit the microphone for the sanctuary.”

Practically spitting out my wine, I cover my mouth with my hand and swallow it down. “Whoa. I was not ready for that.”

“See? And whoa is right.” He takes another gulp of the liquor and then says, “Did I tell you that our families and friends were already seated?”

I know I shouldn’t, but I laugh, then cover my mouth again. “No, you failed to mention that. I have so many questions. Do you mind if I pry?”

He’s smiling, even laughing. That’s good, all things considered. “No, I have nothing to hide, but I never want to hear the name Barry again in my life. You would have thought it was on repeat.”

“Sounds like it was.”

He cringes just a little but grins again. “She never called out my name.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“That my fiancée didn’t call my name out in ecstasy?”

“That and the whole fiasco.” Twirling the stem of my glass, I ask, “How did you end up here, especially at this hour?”

He glances out the window. I thought he was a lot older earlier, older than me, but I’m now rethinking my guess. I’d say early thirties at most once he relaxed. “I was heading from a bar down the street where a large group of us went to celebrate?—”

“You were celebrating?”

He shrugs. “Figured I dodged a bullet. Was I hurt? Pissed off? Yes, of course. I loved her. I’ve also had a few hours and some drinks to reevaluate the relationship.

The image of my best friend and fiancée fucking before marrying me, and then everyone I know hearing them kind of tainted that love. Now I wonder if she loved me at all.”

He looks down for a moment, and I wonder if he’s secretly grieving.

Or whether more anger and grief will come in time.

He looks up again, and adds, “When she chose Barry, she made the decision regarding our future. I may not have had a say, but I know I dodged a bullet, and if I’m meant to have a second chance to find my soul mate, I’m taking it. ”

He smiles then, and it does make me wonder why his fiancée was such an asshole to cheat on him. His food is delivered alongside mine, our orders in bags and ready to go. His dark eyes take me in again, and he says, “I can’t leave without asking. You want to get a table and eat together?”

The air thickens as I take another sip. He’s entertaining, and it’s been nice not to live in my own problems for a few minutes. “This has been unexpectedly fun?—”

“But?”

I nod as the smell of my food wafts, making my stomach growl. “But I’m sort of stuck in a mess of my own that I’m trying to work out.”

This time, he nods. “Read the signs. Good or bad, they’re always there.”

I slip off the barstool and take my bag in hand. “Since we’re strangers, I should tell you that I’m terrible with directions, so reading signs isn’t my forté.”

Swirling the liquid around his glass, he laughs again. “Oh, yeah?”

“Do you mind if I ask you one more question before I go?” He tips his chin in permission. “Is it possible to see the signs before the bad happens?”

A heavy sigh is released from his chest before he finishes his drink. Setting the glass down, he finally looks at me. “Don’t waste your time on the bad. Look for the good instead.”

I’m not sure what to make of that, but that could be because of the hour. “Good luck with that new lease on life.”

“Thanks. Take care.”

“You, too.”

When I walk out, I’m still starving, but my mind is now on other things.

Using a rideshare app, I’m picked up quickly and settle in the back.

Thinking about the turn my night just took, and the even crazier story, I soak in the words of wisdom.

I mean, I figure they must have some wisdom in them, considering what he’s been through.

The signs are always there, but don’t waste time on the bad ones. How ironic because I’m starting to believe that I’ve been the one throwing obstacles in my path all along.

My apartment.

Honestly, I should have never moved here. The apartment always had more space than I needed for just me.

My job.

I could have left when I lost the last promotion, but I was determined to prove myself like I hadn’t already in the previous five years. I can’t let my boss dictate my career prospects anymore.

My . . . Jackson.

Is he mine?

I’ve worked so hard to convince myself that we’re no good for each other on a more permanent basis, but I can’t believe that line of thinking. Jackson feels too good to be bad for me.

Inside my apartment, I rip open the plastic bag and pull out the two containers of food before grabbing a spoon from the drawer. I could be polite and pour my soup into a bowl, but who am I trying to impress? No one anymore.

I move to the couch with my soup and dumplings, getting comfortable, but the handbags I have lined up against the hall wall waiting to be photographed, priced, and uploaded for sale make me feel guilty for taking even a minute to myself.

No one’s going to save me but myself, and I’m finally accepting that I’ll be moving. Where will I go? Who knows? I’ll find something, even if I have to sleep in Tealey’s or Cammie’s spare room for a while.

The thought makes me wince. It’s hard to wrap my mind around a lifestyle that involves thinking about money, or that doesn’t include spontaneous weekends away, or buying something simply because I want it. Insult to injury, now I have to add begging my friends to let me scrounge off them.

My belongings—purses, jewelry, furniture, and clothes—have always defined who I am, and shopping gave me a purpose. It’s where I developed my keen sense of style that will serve me in the art world. But that’s not all I am.

Nice things made me feel beautiful, or at least that’s what I was told to feel. Luxury items made me important in circles that mattered once upon a time. They don’t anymore. It’s just so hard to part from those lingering feelings and thoughts that have embedded themselves deep inside me.

The thought of parting with my stuff has my chest tightening.

I love it all. It’s all I’ve had to take care of throughout my life, and it feels like I’m losing a part of my identity.

Since my small art collection will never enter the equation if I can help it, that leaves one burning question in regard to everything else. What’s more important?

Save what used to define me, or do I discover the woman I am now?

I know the answer. Even if I don’t like the decision I have to make.

You know what I do like?

Jackson St. James.

I wonder if texting him tonight is too soon?