Page 11 of Back to Me

When she finally crosses the room, she stands across from me, resting her elbows against the top edge of my desk. My desk serves as both my office space and the first place customers go to when they are interested in purchasing an item.

She sighs and runs her hand through her long blonde hair. “Great. Could you call James Harris and let him know I would love to meet him for lunch on Thursday to discuss our next opening?” I open my notebook, scrambling to take notes. “Also, schedule a cocktail party here for my closest friends, say…” She looks up at the ceiling in thought. “Two weeks from Friday.”

I finish scribbling my notes when I say, “Got it.”

“Awesome.” She taps her fingers on the counter. “I’ll be back in my office. Let me know if you need anything or if a customer has a question about a piece.” She glances around the room, smiling to herself.

I’m tempted to ask her again if she would be willing to reconsider her decision to display one of my pieces. Even if it were just for one day or hell, even for an hour. But I just can’t shake the feeling I’m somehow stuck in my career. I feel stuck in my life. And I seem to be going nowhere by sitting on the sidelines.

Allison leaves me and walks back toward her office, the sound of her heels against the tile echoing once again.

I stand up. “Allison?”

She stops and turns around. “Yes, Sara?”

“Um.” I move around my desk and walk toward her, so I’m not yelling.

Confused, she asks, “What is it?” She tilts her head to the side, annoyed. “You know I have a lot of work to do.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” I nod, nervously wringing my fingers. “But I was just wondering if you would reconsider the decision to allow me to bring in one of my pieces. I think you would be interested in this one particular piece I’ve been working on recently. It’s—”

“Sara,” she says, cutting me off. “We’ve been through this before. We’re just too different.” She looks around the room again, lifting her arm as if to show me just how different we are. “You use charcoal,” she says. “I use paint.” When she turns back to me, she looks into my eyes apologetically. “I’m sorry, but they just don’t work.”

I press my lips together, slowly breathing through my nose. I can’t fight her. As much as I hate to admit it, I need this job. Even if I’m just some secretary for a bigger, well-known artist, I’m still surrounded by art. I was lucky to been given this job, but nothing hurts worse than your boss refusing to show your art. As if my art is somehow below hers because I choose to use charcoal.

Aggravated, I ball my hands into fists, fighting the urge to argue with her. I know what she’s saying is just an excuse. There is no reason why you can’t mix two different mediums. But that’s the way Allison Newbury is. She’s sweet on the outside but hidden beneath the sweetness is a mixture of self-pride and arrogance. Nonetheless, she’s quite a bit older than me, nearing her late forties and has just under two decades more experience in this business. So, I do what I do every time she shuts me down—Ignore her and push down any residual frustration.

Biting my tongue, I grin. “I understand. Thank you, anyway.”

She proudly smiles. “You’re welcome.” She turns on her heel, adjusting her skin-tight pencil skirt. Over her shoulder, she yells, “I’ll be in my office until lunch.”

I roll my eyes. She smiled as if she hadn’t just rejected me for the second time. Sulking, I walk back over to my desk, the sound of my heels now echoing through the empty building.

The next hour of work goes by slowly. For a while, I pulled up solitaire on my computer, hoping it would make the time go by a little faster. I was nervous for Graham. Nervous in a good way, hoping he would get everything he finally deserved. After all, this was why we had moved to Dallas in the first place, for opportunities like this one.

I’m about to beat my tenth game of solitaire when the phone rings.

“Hello, Allison Newbury galleries. Sara speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hey.” Graham’s voice fills the speaker of the phone, my heart instantly jumping into overdrive.

“Hey,” I say, hesitating. I’m unsure about where our conversation will go, considering the little towel mishap in our kitchen earlier.

“I was just wondering,” he says, “Did you ask your boss about the display?”

Sighing into the phone, I absentmindedly draw circles on a post-it note. “Yeah. Of course, she gave me her same run-of-the-mill answer. Apparently, it’s a hard no.”

“Really? I’m so sorry she turned you down again. She really doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.”

“That’s okay.” I decide to change the subject, refusing to replay my rejection from Allison. “Are you at the museum, yet?”

I take a deep breath, thankful he hasn’t said anything about my little towel mishap earlier. Graham always has a way of putting me at ease. We never stay mad or awkward around each other for long.

“Yeah, I just got here. I really hope I don’t screw this up.” I can hear his footsteps through the phone, picturing him pacing back and forth in the parking lot.

“Don’t be silly, Graham. How could you possibly screw it up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been up since the crack of dawn and was baking cookies all morning,” he says sarcastically.

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