He hasn’t returned my calls, and I can’t blame him.
“Thanks so much for inviting me down here,” I say, pushing aside the melancholy thought of never seeing Sebastian again. “I’d imagined, of course, what it would be like to see my art displayed, but actually seeing it…”
Hugh points at Myron. “His idea.”
“Thank you,” I say, turning to Myron, whose hot pink suit and yellow bow tie are somehow the perfect complement to Hugh’s blue-and-white-striped ensemble. I hug him too.
“Thank me by learning what a bassist is,” he says, patting my back. “Now, you said you had another piece to show us?”
Hugh whirls around, pushing his wire-frame glasses higher on his nose. “A new piece? Since yesterday?”
“Two, actually. I’ve been playing around with them for a while,” I say. “They’re both a bit different from my usual work. I wasn’t sure if they would fit with the collection—”
“Show me.” He waves at the black canvas carrying bag leaning against my calf.
I take out both pieces and set them against the blank white wall.
I bite my lip as both Hugh and Myron examine them, one the critical eye of a potential seller, the other the mostly curious examination of a man who I’ve quickly discovered is an over-the-top romantic like myself. I find I want both their approval, for different reasons.
Myron turns away first and draws a heart shape over the left side of his chest, mouthing love it. Hugh says nothing, continuing to stare at them, until he suddenly pivots on his heel. “The only thing I don’t like about them is that I can’t decide which I like more. They’re unexpected, yes, but I think two of your best.”
I exhale in relief.
“Agree,” Myron says. “There’s a certain longing to each of them—as though you’ve captured the crackle of two pivotal moments in time. What inspired them?”
I glance down at the right painting first—a woman on a pink-and-white polka-dot couch, her denim-clad legs and pink stilettos propped up on a marble coffee table. In one hand, a champagne flute. In her other, a cell phone. On her face? A secret smile, as though whatever she’s looking at on her phone holds the key to her heart.
The other is a couple. A man and a woman on a park bench at night, the trees behind them shadowy. They’re turned toward each other, almost reluctantly, as though pulled together by a force neither wants, and neither can resist. Adding a bit of realism to the otherwise dreamy painting is a flash of silver in each hand that any New Yorker would recognize as a spontaneous late-night snack from a food cart.
“My life,” I answer quietly. “My life inspired them.”
One of them inspired by my fantasy life.
The other by my real life.
It’s time to choose.
* * *
Sebastian’s assistant, Noel, glances up as I step off the elevator.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Cooper. Lovely to see you again.” He smiles widely, looking genuinely welcoming, which tells me Sebastian must not have confided in his assistant about the antagonistic nature of our last meeting. “How can I help you? Was something amiss with the payment check? I’d be happy to have someone from accounting—”
“No, no problems,” I cut in. Then, to stall and hopefully calm my nerves, I point at the glorious bouquets flanking either side of the wide desk. “These are from Carlos and Pauline, aren’t they?”
His grin widens. “Yes! You know them?”
“I do. How are they? I don’t get up there as regularly anymore.” I make a mental note to fix that. Just because I don’t need fresh flowers for the shop doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy fresh flowers in my apartment.
“They’re great. Considering expanding, maybe offering delivery. Some of the floors in the building liked the arrangements so much that they started ordering from them as well.”
“Oh, I’m so happy for them,” I say, touching a light pink rose petal.
“So, what can I help you with?”
I glance in the direction of Sebastian’s closed door. “I was curious if Mr. Andrews might be available. I know I don’t have an appointment, but since it’s close to five, I thought I’d try my luck.”
Noel studies me a moment, his curious expression turning slightly speculative.
“Sure,” he says with a grin.
I blink. “Don’t you need to check?”
“Hmm,” he says, mostly to himself. “Better if I don’t, I think. Go on in.”
I give him a skeptical look, but I also know if I don’t do this now, I’ll chicken out.
I take a deep breath and give a quick knock.
“Yeah.” Sebastian’s voice is clipped, and I wince. Not a great start, and he doesn’t even know it’s me yet.
I step into the office and shut the door.
He doesn’t look toward me right away, his attention on his computer screen as he types. His eyes cut my way, almost absently, then he stiffens.
Slowly his hands slide away from the keyboard.
“Hi,” I say nervously.
He says nothing as he leans back in his chair.
I swallow, pointing back toward the door. “Noel said I could come in, but if I’m interrupting…”
Still nothing, but I gather my courage and walk toward him.
He looks serious and untouchable. And disinterested. Very, very disinterested.
My heart sinks.
I walk to the chair opposite his, and instead of sitting, I set my hands on the back of it, forcing myself to look into his cold aqua eyes.
“I owe you an apology,” I say, my voice quiet but steady.
His eyes flash, and his fingers interlock lightly as he sets them against his mouth and watches me.
“I’m sorry for—” I laugh a little. “Well, for a lot of things. For the things I said to you. For assuming the worst about your motives. For getting angry with you for mentioning my name to Hugh, when really I should have been thanking you.”
I glance down at my hands on the back of the chair. My knuckles are white. This is hard. Much harder than I realized. But I force myself to meet his eyes once more and continue.
“You’re kind. I didn’t want you to be. I wanted to hate you for making me see all the things that were wrong with my life. The nature of your job affects the lives of other people, and you don’t take that responsibility lightly. I wanted to believe you were acting out of guilt or obligation, because it fit with my initial image of you as a heartless businessman. You aren’t that. And I’m genuinely sorry.”
Sebastian continues to say nothing, and my heart sinks further.
“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat awkwardly. “I just wanted you to know I don’t feel good about the things I said to you, and they don’t reflect how I really feel.”
“Which is?”
I swallow, wondering how much to reveal. How brave to be.
I like you. I like you very much.
But the expression on his face is so cold that I take the safe route. “I’m grateful. For the fresh start your company’s afforded me. And for the chance to pursue a career in art.”
Something that looks a bit like disappointment flits across his face at my response. “I see. Well. You’re welcome. And I appreciate the apology. And, for my part, I regret my high-handedness. Coming by your apartment was an invasion of privacy. Giving your information to Hugh without asking you first presumed to know too much about your… wants.”