Page 78 of The Amazing Date

“Girl, if you’re not doing something that can get you fired, you’re not doing a thang.” Zion’s eyes blaze with interest. “I’m loving this new you. No notebook.”

I shake my head.

“No laptop? No fifty-slide PowerPoint presentation?” Zion continues to prattle on with all the devices I’ve used in the past to weigh me down and to prove to myself I am worthy to lead.

Two more head shakes have Zion grinning wider than the night half the office went out to the Village’s Halloween party. “I have to see this. I’m going to be in the room when this happens.”

I turn on my heels and head toward the conference room.

“Don’t try to stop me,” Zion mutters behind me.

“I’m not.”

He laughs as we approach the door. “I hope you don’t get fired because this version of you is going to be a hell of a lot more fun to work with.”

I take a deep breath and open the door without a clue as to what I’m going to say or do. I’m acting on pure instinct and impulse, with the nervous energy of walking a tightrope in the rain on a windy day.

It’s death-defying; it’s against everything we are taught. But to me it feels like visiting a long-lost friend. Every nerve in my body is alive and alert. I’m free-falling without a parachute. I have no clue how it’s going to turn out, but I know it won’t matter because I have an ace up my sleeve.

I have a Superman out there who will always catch me.

Chapter 45

Roberto

Rylee wouldn’t approve is the first thought that comes to mind as I stuff the stack of toiletries into my backpack. My little shopping spree began with a three-piece set of blue towels for the bathroom. Then I tripped down the rabbit hole in the Beyond section of Bed Bath & Beyond.

Hairbrush, gel, three types of facial cream, and of course, a brand-new travel hair dryer.

The New York subway system is a unique experience I wasn’t prepared to ride by myself. Between the man watching porn on his phone without a headset in one car to an entire dance troop attempting to perform inside another crowded car, I’ve seen enough for one day. It’s a beautiful day, so I decide to take a walk through this unique city. I pop into a few shops along the way, two shopping bags fill quickly with polo shirts, jeans, and slacks. With Gabby coming to New York, I expect Rylee to show us the nightlife. I purchase a new pair of dance shoes with thoughts of dancing salsa with the women in my life.

The Midtown architecture transforms, and I recognize the arch of Washington Square Park in the distance. Rylee’s apartment building isn’t that far away. Then I spot the small wooden sign hanging on a hook of a small dark doorway—Gallery 41.

My feet lock in place. I’ve avoided galleries ever since the accident, the long recovery zapping my confidence. I have a two-inch pile of sketches at my apartment I had planned to take to Europe. My portfolio at the time, my entrée into galleries.

However, since the accident, that pile remains buried in a box on a shelf in my closet. I’m proud of those pieces, but I know any gallery owner would quickly ask me what I’m working on currently and want to see recent works. There is no way I can show them the rudimentary landscape sketches I’ve limited myself to since the second operation.

But this past week has been full of unexpected challenges and positive outcomes. I’m riding a wave of euphoria, and it’s time I cash some of it. I push through the door, and the bell chimes. The space is small, the walls holding only about a dozen paintings on the walls. They appear to be oil-based watercolor landscapes. Bright oranges and golden yellows dominate the happy paintings.

The sound of footsteps from the corridor causes me to turn. A tall, thin Latinx man with dark hair approaches. He adjusts the tips of his white sleeves through the blue blazer he must have just slipped on.

“Welcome to Gallery 41.” His comforting accent eases my nerves. He gives me a firm handshake. “Let me know if I can help you with anything. Unfortunately, and I apologize as I never do this, but we’re closing in twenty minutes.”

I nod. These pieces are interesting and intricate, and I could easily stare at them for much longer. “Closing for lunch?” I ask. “Will you be open this afternoon?”

“Yes. I mean no.” My question appears to have flustered the man. He must read the concern on my face. “My daughter came to town last evening. It’s a good thing. Actually, a great thing,” he starts. “She has a crazy job, and I rarely get to see her these days, and she’s flying out tonight. She’s popping over in a few to drag me out for lunch, then a stroll through Central Park before she heads back to LA.”

With the mention of LA, my ears perk up. “I live in LA.” I step toward the next picture. The intricate strokes of gray on the powder-puff white clouds hint at the talent of the artist. I stare at the drawing and lose track of my social skills, ignoring the man.

“Amazing brushwork.” His words snap me out of my reverie. “Are you an artist or just a collector?”

“Great question.” I shake my head. “I’ve studied art, thought I had given it up, but I’ve recently rediscovered my muse.”

The man snickers over my shoulder. “A man and his troublesome muse.”

“Wait, what did you just say?” I say, turning toward him. His gaze remains on the painting behind me.

“Oh, just something my daughter told me about last night. She works for some crazy travel competition, and the teams all have senseless names. It stuck with her, knowing I’m an artist.”

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