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She rolls her eyes. “Kimmie got promoted last week. Joel put her in charge of the bar, of all things.”
“What? She can hardly place a drink order without messing it up, much less mix one.”
“You’re telling me? Not that it matters. She’s an expert at kissing Joel’s fat ass, so she’s golden.” Tasha dumps a sugar packet into her tea, then chases the granules and ice cubes around with her spoon. “I’m supposed to be training her on the inventory and the register in our downtime, which, as you know, is next to nil. So, basically, I’m doing everything myself while she stands around and chats up Joel and the customers.”
I wince. “I’m sorry. If I’d known my leaving was going to make things worse for you—”
“No. Don’t even go there,” she interjects sharply. “I’m glad you stood up to him. I’m glad you got out of there. Believe me, I would too if I had half your guts.”
There was a time, not so long ago, that the thought of locking horns with my employer would have been unthinkable, let alone something I’d actually do. But I’m not that person anymore. Maybe I never was. I just never dared to push back before, to let that side of me loose.
Nick has said he thinks I’m running from who I really am—hiding from it. I’ve been turning those words over in my mind ever since, and although he made that observation in connection to my art, I can’t help thinking that he is right. There is so much about me that he’s gotten right. So much that he’s unlocked, set free.
I can open doors for you. I can lead you through them.
The truth is, he already has. Even if our relationship ends tomorrow, I know I can never go back to the person I was before he entered my life.
Where exactly that leaves me now, I haven’t quite figured out yet.
“So much for my bartending career,” I mutter, giving Tasha a wry look. “Vendange was the only restaurant I’ve worked in since I came here, and it’s not like Joel is going to give me a reference.”
“Oh, please.” Tasha dismissively waves her hand. “Who needs references when you’re Dominic Baine’s mystery girl?”
“His what?”
“You haven’t seen it?” She draws back, giving me a surprised look. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot—you’re allergic to the Internet. Yes, you and your maybe-sorta boyfriend were all over the society pages after the mayor’s gala last month.”
She wipes her hands on her napkin, then digs in her purse for her phone. I feel uneasy and confused, waiting as she brings up a website page on her browser. She turns the screen toward me and wiggles her brows.
“See? There you are.”
It’s the gossip page of a big New York City newspaper. There among the dozens of paparazzi shots of socialites and business magnates attending the mayor’s fundraiser are two photos of Nick and me. One is the snapshot taken of us through the windshield of Nick’s limo. The other was captured as we made our way past the photographers and police barricades into the hotel for the event.
“‘A rare public appearance tonight by billionaire businessman and philanthropist, Dominic Baine, arriving with his guest, Ms. Avery Ross,’” Tasha recites for me, adopting a faux snooty inflection that normally might make me giggle along with her. But not now. Not over this.
“Let me see that.”
I take her phone and look at the photos, groaning because I know how Nick values his privacy. Hell, I value mine, too, and it’s with no small amount of alarm that I realize these photos—and my name—are now in the public domain. They must’ve gotten my name off the registry when Nick and I checked in that night.
I glance down at the social media stats at the bottom of the article and feel some of the color drain from my face. “Are you shitting me? Tasha, this article has more than a million views.”
“Congratulations,” she says cheerfully, unaware of the growing knot of unease that’s coiling in my stomach. “You’re officially famous, girlfriend.”
~ ~ ~
I’m in a restless mood when I arrive home from brunch with Tasha, and I can see it in the painting I’m working on in my makeshift studio in Claire’s living room. The landscape I’d been trying to perfect for so long without success currently sits abandoned against the wall, along with the crated works I haven’t bothered to open since I brought them home from Dominion a couple of months ago.
On my easel now is something all new, a piece inspired by my getaway with Nick. I began working on it secretly after we arrived back in New York. In the weeks since, it’s been my obsession. As I add the last of the shading on the silvery feathers that are the heart of the piece, I’m so engrossed, I barely register the ringing of my cell phone on the end table beside me.
Although I’m waiting on a call from Nick after texting him when I got back from brunch, I’m not surprised to see the Pennsylvania area code on the caller ID display. After a favorable interview with the parole board a couple of weeks ago, my mother’s excitement for her pending case review next month is practically all she talks about now. I’m excited, too, praying with an almost desperate hope that the state finally shows her some mercy.
Setting down my brush, I quickly wipe my hands on a paint cloth and grab for my phone. I swipe the lock screen and wait to hear the automated operator.
But the familiar message doesn’t come.
The line is connected, but all I hear is empty air . . .
And the faint sound of breathing on the other end.
