Page 12 of Pretend for Me

“I need to fix this. Cassie can’t lose her job because of us. Because of me.” I racked my brain for ways to fix yet another mess I’d made for Cassie. “Can I have Bridget’s number?”

“If you’re going to get me in the doghouse again, then no,” Holden resounded.

I entered the kitchen, going to the wall phone. “Number, jackass!”

8

CASSIE

Iwalked out of my room and found Audrey scrubbing the carpet with a toothbrush.

Audrey glanced up from the floor, and with a pointed look at me, she said, “Don’t ask!” She resumed her violent scrubbing as she let out her frustration on the mess she was cleaning.

I snickered, making my way to the fridge to grab a yogurt. “I told you not to take that cat in.”

“Shut it!” Audrey groaned. “Did you follow up with the apprenticeship on the Upper East Side?”

While waitressing paid the bills, art was therapy for me. Over the years, I had applied to be an apprentice at different art studios all over the city. Most of them didn’t want someone so inexperienced and the rest hadn’t even bothered to respond.

“They passed,” I muttered, peeling the wrapper off the yogurt. “Again.” I shoveled the four spoonfuls of yogurt into my mouth, tossed the empty container in the recycling bin, and rinsed my spoon.

“Your big break will come. You need to think more positively. Did you sage yourself last night?” Audrey pondered, getting offthe floor, dusting off her knees, and making her way to Oreo, who was sitting on the couch.

“Oreo, you’re an asshole,” I spat, grabbing my portfolio and travel bag and draping it over my shoulder. NowIwas talking to cats.

“Don’t you dare speak of my baby like that,” Audrey said in a whiny voice, holding him close to her chest while she rocked him.

“I’ve gotta get out of here before I catch your crazy.” I laughed and made a beeline for the front door.

I heard Audrey call down the hall, “Put some lipstick on for Aiden.”

I wasout of breath by the time I walked up to my table. Once I’d set my bags down, I started to think of the layout I would use to display my work this time.

The street fair in the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn happened every Saturday if the weather permitted. I’d been retaining a booth there for about five months. I was trying to sell my art, and I’d even made a few friends so far. Being an unknown artist, all of my art was affordable and only gave me a little bit of pocket change, but I relished every sale.

As I finished rearranging the pieces, I realized I forgot to sign my name on one of the paintings. Grabbing a Sharpie from my bag, I scribbled C. Wright on it and moved to find a small easel. Instead of one of my regular muses, I’d drawn a picture of my mama. Or what little I remembered of her.

“Cassie?” a voice called from behind me. I spun and was met with a glowing smile. “How are you?”

“Hi, Aiden. I’m okay. How was the rest of your week?” I cringed, remembering that I’d forgotten to text him back the other night after the whole Matthew debacle. “I’m sorry I never got back to you. Work got crazy, and … I actually got fired.”

I looked down in embarrassment. While Aiden didn’t have a “cushy” job like some, he was hardworking and understood the hardships that came with trying to make ends meet. I hoped he wouldn’t judge me.

“Fired? Oh no, I’m so sorry.” Aiden grabbed my bicep, giving me a reassuring squeeze. “Can I take you to dinner next week sometime? To cheer you up? I had a lot of fun last time.”

I hesitated for a split second before I nodded. “Yes, I’d love that. Just not at Sonny's.” I laughed, trying to flirt and make light of my recent unemployment.

Aiden chuckled and walked to the adjoining table that housed his art. He was an aspiring artist as well, but he specialized in sculpture. We’d met at the flea market a few months ago and had bonded over a haggling couple who called our art, “overpriced garbage.” After the couple walked off, not buying anything, we got to talking. I shared with him how I had been waitressing in Manhattan, but I still hoped to one day be able to do something with my art. His daytime job was equally as unexciting. He worked as an assistant manager of a popular grocery store chain, but he told me it beat being a starving artist. We’d hung out a few times after that, including having dinners in the city on our nights off.

“There’s actually this great restaurant, Beau’s, opening in the village,” Aiden offered, coming back to my table, not noticing how uneasy I became at the mention of the name.

“Excuse me, how much is this?” an older woman with a cane asked, waving around one of my sketches.

“Ten dollars.”

“For this?” The woman scoffed, lifting the piece up. “Junk.” She threw my art on the table and moved to the next booth.

Aiden and I exchanged a look. “Don’t let her get you down,” he whispered, low enough for only me to hear.

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