“That’s not true. I’m not going to listen to a word boys say from now on. I’m only going to watch what they do.”
“You’ll go far if you remember that. It was so nice to meet you, Amanda. Have fun at your dance.”
She took her pile of clean, folded laundry and left me to my three washers, my report, and thoughts of my father. Was it because Amanda’s father was of a younger generation that he was so involved with her growing up? When I was younger, every now and then my dad had tried to get involved in my life. I even remembered him coming to a couple of my school plays. But it had never lasted long and then we wouldn’t see him for months. He’d just disappear as soon as I started to expect anything of him. I grew out of any expectation eventually.
Or maybe not. I still wanted him to ask me to go work for him, even knowing all the times he’d let me down. I guess I still wanted him to prove with his actions that he loved me. It would be like he’d turned up for every birthday and school play. My mother always told me he loved me but I never saw any evidence. So when I graduated and he didn’t offer me a job, I stopped answering his intermittent calls. And now my only communications with him happened through his lawyer.
“Is that a penis?” I asked Grace matter-of-factly as we stood in front of a canvas at the exhibition in New Jersey she’d convinced me to attend. The space wasn’t a pretty, shiny gallery in Chelsea, but a huge warehouse in the middle of some industrial area. I was pretty sure if we looked hard enough, we’d find a dead body.
“No, it’s not a penis. Why would my boyfriend paint a gigantic knob?”
“Men are weird. And obsessed with their penis,” I replied. I thought that was obvious. I was always surprised when male artists didn’t paint their junk. I was sure Van Gogh had plenty of penis drawings hidden away in his attic.
“Many of the great artists painted beautiful women,” Grace said.
“Exactly. Because they were obsessed with their penis. Case closed.”
“How’re things with your asshole boss?” Grace asked as we walked over to a plinth with an empty Perspex case on it.
I hadn’t told Grace I’d wound up naked with Max. How could I explain it to her when I didn’t understand it myself? She’d think I’d totally lost it. “Still an asshole.” Which was true, even more so now that he was ignoring me after the nakedness.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
I shrugged and took a sip of my warm white wine. “What can I do? I’m just going to grow a thick skin and stick it out.” And try not to fuck him again. Scratch that—definitively not fuck him again. I hadn’t mentioned to Grace that he lived in the same building. There wasn’t any reason to hide that piece of information, but for some reason I didn’t feel like sharing.
“Great. So I have to listen to you moan about him for the next two years?”
“You brought it up, and anyway, I have to put up with things like this for you.” I twirled my finger in the air, then peered closer at the box in front of us. It was as if someone had stolen the artwork we were meant to be looking at. “Did they forget to put something in here?” I asked.
“No, it’s supposed to be some kind of commentary on reality TV and how the public will watch anything the networks commission.” Grace pulled her eyebrows together. “I think that’s it. Or they might have just forgotten the art.”
We giggled before being interrupted by Grace’s new boyfriend, Damien, and his very tall friend.
Grace’s eyes gleamed as she said, “Harper, this is George.”
George had one of those faces people describe as friendly. Five-foot-ten, with brown hair cut short and in a blue, button-down shirt and jeans, he was quite attractive. There was nothing about him that would immediately have me pressing my red emergency button and running for the door, which had happened more often than not when Grace had introduced me to men.
“George, this is Harper, my best friend in the world. Keep her company? Damien’s taking me to look at his etchings.” Grace pulled Damien’s arm, leaving George and I alone and embarrassed.
The word setup echoed around the space.
Couldn’t we all have just stayed and talked?
“Excuse Grace. She was dropped on her head a lot,” I said.
“As a baby?” George asked.
I shook my head. “No, by me, every time she tries to set me up.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, she’s a force of nature.” A half-second of uncomfortable silence followed before George said, “Are you enjoying the art?”
“Honestly, no. I don’t get it.” I winced as I looked him in the eye.
“Thank God I’m not the only one,” he replied, smiling back at me. “Don’t tell Damien I said so, but what the fuck? Have you been into the black room?” He pointed across the space to a sectioned-off part of the warehouse. “It’s full of women holding their heads and screaming.”
“Really?” I asked, intrigued. “Women sick of bad dates? Sorry, present company excepted, of course.”
He laughed again. “Maybe. I didn’t recognize anyone, so I’m hopeful none of my exes are in there.” He winked and for the first time in my life, instead of getting an urge to put a spoon through a guy’s eye, I thought the gesture was cute. “Another drink?”
“The bar I like.” We walked toward the biggest crowd of people who all seemed to have similar taste in art—the kind that smelled like wine. “So, tell me about yourself. Was your mother a Wham! fan?”
“No, I’m named after my grandfather, not George Michael. Although I am a fan, particularly of his day-glow period.”
There weren’t many men who made me laugh. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out to be the worst setup in the world. We got fresh drinks and found a free spot, away from the crowd and the art.
“I’m an architect, I’m from Ohio, and I don’t like cats. You?”
“I’m from Sacramento,” I replied. “I don’t like cats either and I’m a researcher at a consulting firm.”
“Grace said you were new to the city. Did you move for the job?”
“Partly.” My move had been totally about King & Associates. I’d have moved anywhere to work with Max King. “And to live in New York.”
“And now that you’re doing it, is it all you thought it would be?”
“I don’t get along with my boss.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “But does anyone? I mean, isn’t it like the rule that you hate your boss? Isn’t he just there to stand between you and your internet surfing habit?”
I tilted my head. “I don’t resent him because he interrupts my online shopping experience. I enjoy what I do. My boss is just rude.” And gorgeous. “And arrogant.” And great in bed. “And ungrateful.” And kisses as if it was his major in college. Max King was a man who had every right to be obsessed with his penis.
George had a dimple that appeared on the left of his face when he smiled. “I have my own firm. I wonder if one of the guys working for me is standing at a party having the exact same conversation about me.”