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“Believe it or not, my qualifications for proposing marriage go beyond pretty.”
I tuck my phone under my ear and open the cellophane, taking a bite as I consider this. “What are your qualifications?”
“Is this why you called, Ms. Cooper? To discuss my personal life?”
“No, that wasn’t on my list.”
“You have a list?”
“Yup.” I pick up the pad once more. “Number one, not selling. Number two, you had no business going around me to my brother-in-law. Number three…”
“Number three?” he prods when I don’t continue.
I read the third item on my list about his beautiful eyes that I’d crossed out.
I skip that one. I’m not that drunk.
“Number three,” I say, smiling. “Go to hell.”
Sebastian—when did I start thinking of him as just Sebastian?—heaves out a sigh.
“Look, to clarify, I didn’t go around you to your brother-in-law. I’m not the villain in a mediocre legal drama. We happened to be at the same event, in the same general vicinity. A mutual acquaintance made introductions, asked if we knew each other. In an effort to make conversation and find common ground, I mentioned that I’d recently met you. He asked for context, and I said I had a business proposal for you. I assure you, had I known I’d be harassed with a late-night phone call over it, I’d have never mentioned your name.”
I finish the rest of my protein bar as I listen to his explanation. It checks out. I still hate him.
“This isn’t harassment,” I say, crumpling up my wrapper and tossing it in the trash.
“No?”
“Nope. Harassment would be sending repeated letters to a local business that clearly wants nothing to do with you and then stalking them at their place of business when you don’t get the response you want. That’s harassment.”
“No,” he says with measured patience. “That’s business.”
“Not the way I do business.”
“No, I’ve seen the way you do business,” he snaps. “Instead of acknowledging that your business model is passé and your customer base shrinking, you delay the inevitable by selling ten-dollar trinkets and cutesy Tinker Bell paintings, and then slapping a generic modifier onto your business name.”
Cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.
It stings way worse than Lily dismissing my art as a hobby. I’m not sure if it’s the champagne, the protein bar, or the combination, but suddenly I feel slightly queasy.
“I apologize, Mr. Andrews. I should not have called so late,” I say quietly, my righteous fury all burned out, replaced by heartbroken weariness. “Have a nice evening.”
“Ms. Cooper—”
If I hear a tinge of remorse in his voice, I ignore it and hang up.
To Sir, with bruised feelings,
Do you ever let a comment slip under your skin that shouldn’t? The sort of jab from someone you don’t even like that you should really brush off, but instead it keeps you up at night because it… hurts?
Lady
* * *
My dear lady,
Given the hard-to-define nature of our correspondence, this is perhaps overstepping, but I confess my knee-jerk reaction to your note was to ask for a name and address of the offender. Duels are still a thing, right?
But alas, that would be a bit hypocritical of me. I too have been up at night, though not for something I heard but for something I said. A rash, spontaneous comment I wish I could take back.
Perhaps whomever hurt you feels the same regret? And if not, let me know about that duel…
Yours at dawn,
Sir
Six
I’ve moved apartments a few times in the past eleven years, but I’ve never switched neighborhoods. The city sometimes likes to pitch this neighborhood as Midtown West or Clinton, but make no mistake: we locals call it by its proper name, Hell’s Kitchen.
It sounds gritty as hell (pun intended), and while it has its moments, for sure, the neighborhood’s not nearly as rough as it used to be. Not to say it’s glamorous—I can’t afford glamorous, but neither do I particularly want it.
I currently live in a walk-up on Fifty-Fourth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, in a cute little one-bedroom apartment. Does it have sleek granite countertops, central air, and a glass shower? Certainly not. Does it have brick walls, a window AC unit that does the trick, and a whole lot of character? Yes. Yes, it does.
If I could change one thing, I, like most New Yorkers, wouldn’t say no to more space. My living room doubles as my art studio, which means I can’t watch TV without first moving my easel, nor can I sit on the couch without first removing the plastic sheeting that protects the faux leather from flecks of paint.
It’s become my normal though, so I don’t really notice so much anymore. Whenever I start to feel a little crammed, I remind myself that I’m an artist in the city, and then I feel pretty darn lucky. Well, not a working artist—that generally implies I’d be able to live off my art, which I can’t.
