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“Oh, come on, Syd,” he says, his grin widening. “It could be fun. You like dancing.”
“No,” I insist again, shaking my head.
“Yes, you do. And you wouldn’t have to hang out with me the whole night. Just do the red carpet and look interested when I talk to the journalists covering the event. As soon as we head inside, we can go our separate ways.”
“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” I ask. “The Nuh or the Oh?”
“And we can make it clear it isn’t a date,” he barrels on as if he hasn’t heard me, which he probably hasn’t. Once Adrian starts after something he wants, his listening skills go out the window. “I’ll tell the reporters we’re there as friends. Just two old college buddies hanging out and hoping to make a difference for the starving artists of the world. Don’t you want to help indie artists make the kind of money they deserve? To help traditionally marginalized people reach a worldwide, art-collecting audience and maybe kick a few old dead guys out of The Met while we’re at it?”
I sigh, but I can feel myself weakening. “Yes, of course, I do.” His app, aimed at connecting collectors with indie artists overlooked by snobby galleries and museums, is actually a good one.
No matter how cheesy he’s been while promoting it…
The thought reminds me of how little control I have over my eye-rolling when listening to Adrian pretend to be a humble genius. “But I can’t,” I insist. “I’m busy and tired and even if I weren’t, I have nothing to wear to a club.”
“It’s not a club,” he says. “It’s a swanky hotel event space and a night of music-infused performance art. There are going to be dancers, live painting, interactive theater… There will be so much going on, no one will notice a random nature girl wearing a cotton sundress.”
“Forget that. I have a smoking hot, black satin mini and stilettos you can wear, Syd,” Noelle pipes up from the kitchen. “Show off those long, sexy legs. Remind you there’s more to life than work and capitalism.” She bats her fake lashes. “Spend some time with your bestie, who didn’t get to hang out with you at all this summer, and needs more Sydney in her life?”
Ben nods, his emotional blue eyes finding mine. “She really missed you. A lot.”
I glance at Adrian, who folds his fingers together in a pleading fist and mouths, “Please?” then back to Noelle who is still giving me major puppy dog eyes.
Finally, I exhale and snap my laptop closed. “Okay, fine, but I’m going to need you all to promise to carry me home if I get blisters. I haven’t worn high heels in so long, I’ll probably be limping before midnight.”
Noelle cheers, Ben looks slightly less emotional, and Adrian leans over to pull me in for a hug. “Thank you, Syd. Seriously. I owe you one.” He leans back, a vulnerable smile curving his lips as he adds, “I’m glad we’re still friends.”
Softening, I say, “Me, too.”
And honestly…I am.
He might be a doofus, but he can’t help it. It’s who he’s always been.
It’s my fault that I used to see him with rosy, crush-colored glasses. I’m beginning to realize that’s a habit of mine. I want to see the best in people so badly that I ignore the red flags. Sometimes, I even ignore the rainbow ones, like with my first boyfriend in high school.
Skip is now out of the closet and running a specialty dog biscuit boutique in Provincetown, Massachusetts with his boyfriend. And Adrian is…Adrian, as superficial and image-conscious as ever, but with an honest longing to do good. If he could go about it in a less pretentious, performative way, he’d be well on his way to being an impressive human being.
But pretension seems like a necessary evil in the art world. It makes the stuffy, business path I’ve chosen seem easy in comparison. Yes, I have to be professional and put together at the office, but I don’t have to act impressed by a fifteen-foot painting of white smears with a red dot in the middle.
“Then we need to get you dressed, baby,” Noelle says, bouncing up and down as she claps her hands. “Come on. I’ll slip into my dress and then get you fancied up and marvelous in thirty minutes or less.”
“Make it twenty,” Adrian says, glancing at his smart watch. “I want to be sure I have time to get inside the venue and meditate before it gets too crowded. I need to be centered to deal with influencers and journalists and gossip hounds asking why Gigi was photographed going down on a soccer player at a bar last night.”
I wince as I stand, laptop in hand. “Ouch.”
He sighs. “Big ouch.” He groans and flops back against the couch cushions. “And my dad’s going to want to have a meaningful talk at some point, can’t forget that. Dad’s always thirsty for a meaningful talk, even when it’s not the time or the place, and there’s nothing to talk about.”
“There, there, drink your coffee and think focused thoughts,” Noelle says, snagging my wrist on her way past the couch and drawing me toward her room. “You’re going to look so hot,” she whispers as she closes the door behind us. “I bet you’ll meet a fantastic older man while we’re out tonight who will help you forget all about Mr. Pilots Puppies.”
I haven’t told Noelle Gideon’s real name. I used a nickname, hoping it might lessen the pain of missing him, but it hasn’t. Whether he’s Mr. Pilots Puppies or Gideon, the thought of him still sends a stabbing sensation through my chest.
“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a laugh. “All the women at the office say dating in the city is a waste of time unless you have a matchmaker and do a background check that includes a sweep of the dark web. Apparently, the dating waters are full of sharks, giant squid, and ocean-killing islands of plastic debris.”
Noelle’s features pinch toward the middle of her face. “I’m not sure what that means, but I disagree. There are wonderful people everywhere.” She bobs her shoulders. “And horrible ones. But tonight, we’re going to draw the good ones to us like moths to a flame, I can just feel it. Now, let’s get you dressed.”
She reaches into her jam-packed closet and pulls out a black silk camisole dress with a dropped waist, 1920’s style. It has a lace panel across the chest, seed pearl decorations, and a skirt that ends in tiny pleats. On the hanger, it looks sweet and old-fashioned.
But once I slip it over my head…
