Page 18 of Love Me

Chapter 10

The best option to Coco was to ignore the problem in front of her, to pretend like it didn’t exist. Like I didn’t exist. And part of me wanted to do that to the baby growing inside of me. It couldn’t possibly exist, could it? My period would come in a day or two and all of these issues would be gone.

So I carried on like nothing had changed, and I had my night out with Misty. Actually, we didn’t go out—the vomit fountain, also known as my mouth, wouldn’t let me move more than a few feet. So we stayed inside, watching crappy romance movies for free on demand, making fun of them but gripped to the edge of our seats (or for me, gripped to the edge of the plastic bucket in front of me), eager for the characters to fall in love. Luckily, I could manage a few spoonfuls of hot and sour soup. Misty wanted shrimp fried rice but devoured a box of vegetable chow mein instead. I couldn’t stand the smell of seafood, despite the fact that I normally loved it.

Right before the best friend convinced the heroine it was okay to fall for the hero, I looked at Misty. She was texting Clay, giggling as she typed, her eyes lit by the screen, and while she wasn’t my best friend, she was there for me when I was a jerk to her. I had been rude at the store, and she still invited me over, welcomed me into her space, not caring that she would have to douse the whole floor in tropical room spray once I left.

“Misty?” I said. She looked up. “Thanks.” She raised an eyebrow. “For being there for me.”

She rolled her eyes, but with a smile on her face. “What are friends for?”

I hadn’t had many friends. Like romantic relationships, I pushed people away, knowing all too well what it felt like when someone left you. I sipped another spoonful of room temperature soup and went back to watching the hero and the heroine fall in love.

For the next few days, I worked on my sculptures, careful not to move very far from where I was seated, keeping the nausea at bay and a trash can nearby. I declined Orinda’s phone call again and deleted her voicemails. I knew I had to face her eventually and decided it would be better to meet her in person. Besides, I had an interview at Stock & Holdings.

Wearing black pants and a button-up cream shirt, I looked like I was ready to work a shift at Chez Tonton back in San Francisco. I studied myself in the full-length mirror, second-guessing my outfit choice. I wanted to look professional, but like I belonged in the art community, which sometimes meant rainbow parachute pants, a lime green tube top, and gold chokers meant for an Egyptian princess. I couldn’t pretend to do that, though. I hated drawing attention to myself.

I took another rideshare to the interview despite Misty’s insistence that I take the subway, like a true New Yorker. I couldn’t walk that much with the nausea, and I had to fake like I was at least mildly competent to the gallery owner.

It was silent in the gallery. The walls were lit with warm lights, showing how stark everything was, as if your fingerprint could tarnish the cleanliness. Most of the paintings were just as white, with a single red stroke near the borders.

“Hello?” I called. “I’m here for the—”

“Right, right, right,” a woman with icy blue hair cut in an a-line said. She scurried from the back to the front of the gallery, barely looking where she moved. I assumed it was the owner, Diana Holdings.

“Riley Glass, correct?” she asked. “I hear you have a showing at Orinda’s gallery soon.”

A showing, when I had vomited all over another artist’s work? That was highly unlikely, but if that’s what she thought, I could play along for now. “I’m not sure when,” I said.

“What experience do you have?” She paused. “Awards? Connections?”

“Not much actually.” The dismayed look on her face showed, and though I didn’t want to have to explain why I wasn’t at the Foundation anymore, I knew I had to say something. “I was the recipient of the Borchard Fellowship at Foundation for the Arts in San—”

“The Foundation?”

I hesitated. “Yes?” I said cautiously.

“Is Hunt still there?”

Rebecca Hunt was the only professor who was willing to back me for the fellowship. “When I left, she was.”

“She’s an old friend.” She smiled to herself. “I owe my love of art to her, actually.” She stood up straight, looking me in the eyes for the first time. “Can you answer the phone, schedule appointments, clean the gallery after closing, and make sure we never have a dull moment?” I nodded. “Good. It’s very simple.”

I would work in the evenings, part-time. The most important thing to Diana was that I was there on time. She needed someone reliable, she said. I could do that.

I walked over to Winter Precipice Galleries, my stomach filling with nerves at the thought of facing Orinda Jones after the puke fest. Of course, the hormone-induced nausea kicked in. I raised an eyebrow at my stomach, thinking, Right now, Uterus?

As I opened the door, the assistant, Misty’s friend, instantly recognized me.

“Miss Glass!” she said. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know,” I said. “Sorry.”

She scrambled around the podium and disappeared into the gallery. A few seconds later, Orinda’s voice could be heard through the halls.

“—like the gods themselves dropped you into my lap. Riley Glass, you do exist.”

I blushed. “How are you, Miss Jones?”

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