Page 40 of There is No Devil

So has Arthur. He might be the only man who’s ever done something kind for me without trying to put his hand on my ass afterward.

“There she is,” Arthur says, chucking my apron directly into my face. “You know you’re in the paper this morning?”

“I am?”

He tosses that at me too, already helpfully folded back at the right page.

It’s an article in theChronicle,in the arts section. Just two columns on the bottom of a page, but it includes a large color photograph ofThe Mercy of Men,and a smaller picture of me, lifted off my Instagram.

This is Cole’s doing, I’m sure.

He’s constantly working behind the scenes, pushing me into the spotlight. He seems to get more pleasure out of grabbing attention for me than for himself.

I try to catch his eye, where he’s seated himself at the furthest corner table, but true to his word, he’s not distracting me and is only quietly taking out his laptop like any normal business-bruncher. Assuming that person just so happened to look like an off-duty supermodel in a cashmere button-down.

Arthur raises one thick, grizzled eyebrow at me.

“Isn’t that your other boss over there?”

“Yes.”

“I could be wrong but … didn’t you drive into work together? Quite early in the morning?”

I can feel my face flaming while I try to maintain a dignified expression.

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve been staying with him.”

“What!?” Arthur cries with mock surprise. “How did that happen? When you weren’t even trying to date him …”

I take back everything nice I said before. Arthur is the fucking worst.

I scowl at him.

“We’re not dating. It’s … complicated.”

“It always is,” Arthur nods wisely.

I throw myself into the business of waiting tables so I can avoid further interrogation.

Arthur is not going to be repressed that easily. He’s in a shockingly chipper mood, whipped into something approximating actual happiness at the prospect of teasing me all shift long.

This is catnip to Cole.

He immediately shoves his laptop to the side so he can gang up with Arthur against me.

I’m actually quite fucking busy as Sweet Maple hasn’t stopped being delicious. The sidewalk tables are crowded with people clamoring for bacon.

Meanwhile, Arthur has completely abandoned his duties and is sitting down with Cole, laughing and chatting like old friends. One thousand percent for sure discussing every intimate detail of my life that I’m heartily regretting sharing with either of them.

As I carry a backbreaking load of mimosas past them, I hear Cole saying, “I’m setting up a show for Mara in December. You should come, I’ll put your name on the list …”

The thought of Arthur coming to see my new series is too much to bear.

The more intimate and personal my work, the more it frightens me for other people to see it. Especially people who know me. Paradoxical as it seems, I’d rather strangers view it, because they won’t know how deeply self-referential my work has become. They won’t recognize how I’ve opened myself up, guts and all, laying myself bare across the canvas.

It feels good to work for money again, in a direct exchange, where a tray of food carried out equals a five-dollar tip. I’m puffing and sweating, but in a nice way. The way of good, honest labor.

Cole has never had to work for money at a menial job. That’s why money is only an abstract concept to him. He knows its power, of course, and wields it like a weapon. But he has no attachment to it. It comes easily to him, and he can always get more.

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