Page 1 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter one

Y ou can do this.

I take a deep breath.

Today, of all days, you can do this.

The green juice swirling in my plastic cup looks more unappetizing than the flattened, sidewalk French fries being picked through by pigeons outside, but I’ve already come this far.

Mind over matter, I think as I ignore my roiling stomach, take a sip, and—

Oh, God.

It’s lumpy.

I can’t remember the exact combination of organic fruits, vegetables, and herbs on the ingredients list, but I’m pretty sure that’s asparagus clogging up the straw right now.

A wave of nausea rolls over me.

I can’t tell what’s making me feel worse—that blended dandelion-asparagus-pine-pollen juice is the first thing to hit my stomach today, or the fact that I paid fifteen dollars for it.

Could it have killed them to add something that doesn’t include pine pollen to the menu?

The front door jingles, and I glance up, but the curvy, blonde that struts inside Chakra Green Juicery is not who I’m waiting for.

“I’ll take your gluten-free rejuvenating green smoothie,” she says as soon as she’s within spitting distance of the counter. “But add a probiotic shot, take out the organic grass-fed ghee, add unflavored colostrum and organic bee pollen.”

The cashier doesn’t so much as blink. This is the Upper East Side. Organic bee pollen is probably a more conventional choice than a latte steamed with whole cow’s milk.

The blonde sheds her Canada Goose jacket to reveal a workout set so tight it might as well be sewn to her skin.

Hm…I’m guessing spin class.

“I’ll know if you add cane sugar instead of stevia,” she warns the cashier. “I just got out of Pilates, and I am very specific about how I fuel my body.”

Pilates.

I should’ve known.

I can count every single one of her abdominal muscles through her shirt.

She reaches into her Prada purse for her Prada wallet, and a flicker of envy ignites in my belly.

I bet she doesn’t have to check her bank account before she spends fifteen dollars.

Pilates Blonde turns my way, and I bury my head in my sketchbook, hoping she can’t scent my jealousy the same way she can sniff out non-artificial sweeteners.

Thankfully, I’m the only other customer here, which means I’ve carved out the perfect table for myself. It’s tucked in the corner, but still visible enough that anyone walking through the front door will see me.

So she will see me.

I can’t believe I’m really doing this.

My nerves don’t mix well with the nausea, and I suddenly wish I’d taken LuAnne up on her offer to split our last freezer-burnt breakfast sandwich this morning.

Instead, I fiddle with the watercolor paints I’ve strewn all over the table. I dip the paintbrush into the red, mix it with some green, and swirl them together on the palette in front of me.

But I never actually paint with the brush.

The elaborate watercolor portrait I’ve opened my sketchbook to is a piece I finished last week—but I’ve layered enough paint on top to make it seem like I’ve only just started it.

Like I’ve trekked all the way here, a forty-minute subway ride from where I actually live, to just drink lumpy green juice while I paint.

Like I haven’t been brimming with nerves while I watch the door for the past hour.

“Here’s that gluten-free rejuvenating green smoothie,” the cashier slides Pilate Blonde’s drink across the counter, and she accepts it wordlessly, chin pointed high like she’s the most important person in the room—if not the world.

And maybe she is.

It wouldn’t surprise me. New York City is the kind of place where you’re as likely to encounter a nobody like me as you are a B-list celebrity walking their dog.

It’s also the kind of place where, with weeks of planning, research, and a small bribe, you might even learn where the city’s most well-known art gallery owner likes to fuel up once a week.

As if on cue, the door jingles again, I look up, my heart lurches into my throat and—

There she is.

Ocean Winton is taller than she looks in pictures.

If I had to guess, she’s probably close to six feet, and she’s not wearing heels—just a pair of flat Greek sandals that should look ridiculous considering it’s January, but somehow, she pulls them off.

Maybe it’s the turquoise peasant skirt and jean jacket she’s paired them with.

Her height is the only surprise—everything else is exactly what I expected from my thorough inspection of her socials.

Bottle-green eyes and freckles that cover her from scalp to chin.

Shiny corkscrew copper curls she stopped trying to straighten since, according to her Instagram, a “life-altering” yoga retreat in Peru three years ago.

I force myself to keep mixing paint like it’s all I’m here for as she traipses, the bangles on her wrists clanging the whole way, up to the counter.

“Your usual, Ocean?” The cashier asks.

“Please,” she says, and even her voice is tinkly. Like wind chimes. “A medium cherry—”

— elixir smoothie with extra collagen, dragon fruit, and mucuna extract.

I’ve got her Instagram to thank for this tidbit too. She doesn’t drink caffeine, but she does spoil herself with an “energizing elixir” every Tuesday before she heads to the gallery.

It’s the one part of her day—her life, really—she’s not swarmed by assistants, art collectors, curators, directors, and artists vying for an interview with her.

And now, my only shot at catching her attention.

If I told anyone, save for LuAnne, that I was stalking an art gallery owner and bribing people for information about her schedule, all for the chance of orchestrating an “accidental” meeting at her favorite juice bar on the UES, they’d refer me to a psychiatrist.

But it’s not delusion that’s driving this decision—it’s data.

And a lot of desperation.

Ocean’s gallery has a three-year waiting list just to get an interview with one of her art directors, and then, assuming they like you enough, another year to get in front of Ocean, who rarely approves anyone who makes it that far.

Because Ocean doesn’t like interviewing artists with curated portfolios and prepared answers.

She likes discovering them.

She stumbled upon Niko Costas selling his sculptures at a craft fair. She saw one of Asia Bower’s murals on a park bench. She found Jaxson Valentine’s paintings hanging on the walls of a tiny coffee shop in Queens for ten bucks a pop.

And all three—really, all the artists Ocean has put on at the Ars Astrum—have transformed into international successes.

Sold out their work to collectors in Paris and London.

Painted murals in Times Square for hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Received patronage from Scandinavian billionaires who want their own artist-for-hire.

I ask the universe to send me once-in-a-lifetime talent,talent, and Mother Earth delivers the signs, is what Ocean said in her latest ARTnews interview.

I can’t speak for Mother Earth, but if it’s a sign that Ocean Winton’s looking for, I’m more than happy to deliver one.

“I’ll have your drink out in just a moment, Ocean.” I hear the roar of the blender and soft footsteps padding away. My hand trembles as I mix the paint.

Does she see me?

My eyes flick upwards, but she’s staring at a flyer on the bulletin board.

She has to see me. I’m the only person here.

I take a deep breath and focus on steadying my hand. The blender shuts off.

Maybe she’s not going to approach. Maybe I don’t look like a sign from the universe. Maybe I just look like a pretentious artist taking up space in a juice bar. Maybe—

“That’s an interesting technique you’re using.”

I startle, nearly dousing my composition with fifteen-dollars' worth of green juice.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Ocean says, both her thin, pale palms held up in surrender. “But I noticed you were painting from the counter, and I couldn't contain my curiosity. I'm something of an artist myself." Her bottle-green eyes flit down to the sketchbook. “May I?”

“Uh…” I’ve imagined this exact scenario hundreds of times in the past month, and yet—it’s like my brain is short-circuiting. I’ve lost the ability to form words.

Ocean seems to interpret my silence as discomfort, though. “Of course, I don’t mean to bother you.” She takes a step back. “I’ll let you get on with your—”

“No!” It comes out harsher than I intend it to, and her eyes widen.

Fuck.

Dial it back.

I clear my throat. “I mean, no. It’s no bother at all. Go right ahead. I’m Poppy.” I hand over the sketchbook, and Ocean takes it gracefully. “It’s nothing elaborate, though. Just a practice piece.”

And by that, I mean that it’s hours and hours of painting.

“It’s beautiful,” she replies a beat later. “If there’s one medium, I have a soft spot for, it’s watercolor.”

Oh, I know.

You mentioned it three years ago in a digital magazine interview.

“You use a wet-on-wet technique,” she murmurs, and I’m a little unsure if she’s talking to herself or me, but then an expectant glance follows.

“I do,” I nod.

“Most watercolor artists prefer a wet-on-dry technique. It’s easier. More precision.” She’s still studying the painting, and I wish I could read her mind. “The wet-on-wet technique is more challenging, especially with a portrait like this.”

“It is,” I reply. “But you get softer edges this way, and a better gradient of color.”

She nods like she already knew that, and then asks, “Pratt?”

My eyes widen with genuine surprise. “Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

Ocean offers me a smile—like she expected that question too.

“Because it’s also the Pratt technique. All the Pratt students learn this way,” she explains.

“It’s one of many gripes I have about art school programs. For as much as they teach you, they also teach there’s a wrong and right way to create.

A better technique. I’ve seen it kill an artist’s individuality more times than I can count. ”

Shit.

Well…I’m probably not making a great impression if she thinks art school murdered my individuality.