Whitney, Ian’s gorgeous girlfriend of three years, sashays into the room wearing a slinky red dress far too fancy for happy hour at the beer garden/sports bar across the street from the Possums’ midtown arena. But that’s never stopped her before. Whitney is an assistant designer at a major fashion house. She has a wardrobe any New York City fashionista would kill for and zero concerns about standing out in a crowd.
“I’m good. You?” I ask, ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut as she wraps her arms around Ian and leans in.
Whitney and I are about as opposite as two people can get, but when our paths cross, she’s always polite. I don’t know why seeing her with Ian makes my stomach snarl into a stress knot.
Maybe it’s just that I wish Ian were with someone…friendlier, a woman who appreciated his sense of humor and kindness as much as his studliness and fame. Whitney sighs at his jokes and shushes him when he laughs too loud, and it’s always bothered me.
The world can be such a hard place. It just makes sense to enjoy the good times and embrace laughter and happiness whenever possible. Whitney should be amplifying Ian’s joy, not warning him to take it down a notch.
That’s probably why I want to pry her fingers off Ian’s abs with an extra-sharp colored pencil.
Or maybe it’s something else, something I’ve never admitted to anyone—even myself.
Sometimes I suspect that my feelings for Ian aren’t purely of the surrogate-little-sister variety and that what I’m feeling when I watch him hug Whitney isn’t concern for a friend who’s dating the wrong woman, but plain old jealousy, rearing its ugly head. But if it is jealousy, it’s completely stupid—Ian will never see me as anything but a kid-sister type—so I do my best to ignore the ugly little prickle across my skin whenever it arises.
“You look so cute, Evie,” Whitney says, rubbing a possessive hand over Ian’s pecs through his long-sleeved Ice Possums t-shirt. “Like a little farmer doll about to go feed the goats.”
“Or the sheep,” Ian adds with a wink and a laugh. “I’ll talk to Sven before Monday’s class, too, get him to ease up on the sheep stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. There are worse nicknames, and if it gets out of hand, I’ll shut it down myself. I don’t want the guys thinking I can’t fight my own battles. If they’re going to open up to me in their work, they have to respect me first.”
“Aw, she’s so cute,” Whitney says, doing that thing where she talks about me like I’m not standing right in front of her, which also drives me crazy. “Little Evie, all grown up, with a real job.” Her gaze shifts from Ian’s face to mine, her voice cooling a degree or two as she adds, “It doesn’t matter that your brother had to pull strings to get you this gig. I’m sure you’re going to do a fabulous job.”
“Thanks,” I grit out, accepting the backhanded compliment with as much grace as possible as Whitney takes Ian’s hand and starts for the door.
“Come on, honey, we’re going to be late,” she says. “I want to get a table on the roof before they’re all gone.”
“See you there, Evie?” Ian asks, smiling back at me as he follows her.
“Yeah, see you there.” I force a grin until they’re out of the room and then let it fall away as I exhale an audible breath.
That could have gone better.
But it could have been much worse, too.
As I collect the drawings, I see a few that are actually right in line with what I was hoping for, proving this team isn’t a lost cause. I’m already getting through to a few of these men. On Monday, I’ll reach a few more. With a little luck, by the time I write my final evaluations, I’ll have helped the players connect with their feelings and process them on the page instead of out there on the ice.
By the time I’ve cleaned up the space and repacked all my art supplies, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic and eager to start the weekend with my roommates and very best friends.
Harlow and I have been tight since second grade, Jess joined our crew when she moved to town in sixth grade, and Cameron was welcomed in as our boy bestie not long after, when he helped us pass our elementary school’s mandatory cooking class. He was already a foodie and amazing in the kitchen, while the three of us couldn’t boil water without burning ourselves.
For the most part, we still can’t. When we moved in together at the start of last summer—thrilled to finally be making our dream of living together come true after attending different undergraduate programs—we quickly realized Cameron was still the only one who could be counted on not to poison people with his culinary offerings. Jess, Harlow, and I agreed to pay for groceries and keep the common areas clean in exchange for homemade meals.
It’s been working out great so far, but even with healthy, delicious food waiting for us at the end of each day, the past three weeks have been grueling. Harlow is in one of the most competitive forensic accounting programs in the country, Jess is working for a video game company doing coding so complex I’m pretty sure I saw her brain leaking out of her ears a few days ago, and Cameron is a sous chef at one of the swankiest, and most demanding, restaurants in the city.
And me…
Well, I’m getting mistaken for one of the homeschooled high school kids who take art classes at NYU, even in the watercolor technique class where I’m the teaching assistant. I’m also getting overlooked in my studio classes, just like I did when I was in undergrad, proving my new professors are just as disdainful of art involving adorable baby animals as my old ones.
Which just…sucks.
Why does the art world have to be so pretentious? Why can’t they see that sweet, happy art is just as valid as the edgy, violent stuff?
Sure, I could paint my next panda bear with part of its skeleton exposed, sitting in a puddle of blood or something to please my critics, but…ew. I want to paint a happy panda hugging its baby in a misty bamboo forest. Why can’t pandas be allowed to live in peace?
At least in paintings…
I cross the street to the bar to find Harlow waiting for me under the awning of the coffee shop next door, looking elegant as always in a pair of vintage wide-leg trousers and a white button-up with a brown bow tied at the neck that perfectly matches her long, glossy brown hair.
I lean in for the hug she offers and ask, “Why can’t the pandas live in peace, Harlow?”
“Because the world is a fucking shit show,” she says without hesitation, proving why she’s still my best friend after nearly sixteen years. No question is ever too random or weird. “And people are garbage who don’t deserve good things like pandas. How was your first day with the sweaty grunt monsters?”
I grin. “Okay. They kept the sweating and grunting to a minimum. They also kept the art making to a minimum, but I think our next session will be better. Ian is going to help me get through to them.”
Harlow’s nostrils flare. “Oh, is he? How nice of him. The others are waiting up on the roof, by the way. I told them to go ahead and save us a table in the garden, so we don’t have to sit at the indoor bar with the men yelling at televisions.”
“Great. And yes, Ian is nice,” I insist as we start toward the entrance to the pub and the elevator that will whisk us up four flights to the beer garden on the roof.