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I’m amused to note Manny’s switch to less formality with me—something I insisted on soon after I moved in to the building. In spite of the confusion and anger I’m still carrying from lunch, it’s not difficult to manage a smile for the one man who’s always got a twinkling grin or a kind word for me.
“Just this one bag,” I tell him as I step out of the limo. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
Since I’m wearing my day’s purchases, the L’opale bag I stowed in the vehicle over lunch contains the underthings I had on when I left the apartment this morning.
All of Nick’s talk about wanting me to feel powerful and confident feels like a joke as Manny opens the door for me and I make my way through the lobby of the soaring tower high-rise that’s just one more of Baine International’s extensive holdings.
I feel like a joke.
How long before Nick tires of me and I find myself in Kathryn’s place?
Am I going to be standing in front of him one day, desperate to reach him but receiving only impenetrable, scathing contempt in return? Am I already heading toward that eventuality?
One hundred nights.
That’s the only thing he’s promised me.
Should I really be surprised if that’s all I have in the end?
That thought haunts me as I push the elevator button and wait for the car to descend. While I stand there, I realize I haven’t checked my voicemail since Tasha’s aunt called. I pull my phone from my purse and play back the waiting message.
She’s made some calls about cheap art studio space, but nothing’s turned up. The only possibility she’s found is a shared sublet situation in a developing section of East Harlem.
“There’s a good chance I can call in a favor and get you an appointment to see it today, but I need to hear from you as soon as possible. Please let me know if you’re interested.”
Shit.
Her message was time-stamped almost two hours ago.
Stepping aside as the elevator arrives and a small group of people exit, I hit the callback and hope I’m not too late.
“Mrs. Vargas,” I say when she picks up on the second ring. “Hi, this is Avery, Tasha’s friend. I’m so sorry I missed your call earlier. Will it still be possible to see that sublet you found?”
She tells me the address and asks if I can meet her there in half an hour. Considering it’s a fifteen minute subway ride to the East Harlem neighborhood, that means I have about ten minutes to change clothes and get to the station.
“The space is small and nothing fancy, dear. But from what I understand, you’re mainly interested in price and a decent location, and this checks off both those boxes.”
The idea of having space of my own in which to paint again invigorates me so much, I wouldn’t care if the sublet is a rat-infested closet. I need to paint simply for my own sanity, but I can’t deny that I’m still hopeful of one day seeing my art for sale in a gallery again. I’m practically vibrating with excitement as I step into the vacant elevator and push the button for the penthouse.
“It sounds great, Mrs. Vargas.”
As eager as I am to look at the space, I’m also relieved to have something productive to do, rather than sit around licking my wounds and waiting for Nick to return.
Tasha was right when she said my art is a part of me. It’s a part I’ve been neglecting for too long. If I learned anything today, it’s that I can’t afford to lose myself because I’m tangled up in someone else. Not even if that someone is Dominic Baine.
Hell, especially him.
“Thank you again, Mrs. Vargas. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”
~ ~ ~
As it turns out, the sublet isn’t rat-infested. It is, however, only slightly bigger than a closet. It’s also a co-op studio being utilized by two other artists—a painter and a mixed-media sculptor. Only one of them, the sculptor, is there when we arrive at the one-room studio above a shoe repair shop on Lexington Avenue. She’s a curvy girl with a beautiful face and a choppy pixie haircut dyed in the dark rainbow colors of an oil slick. Countless tattoos and piercings decorate her pale ivory skin.
“I’m Lita Frasier,” she says, giving me a perfunctory handshake as Mrs. Vargas and I step inside the tight, cluttered space.
“Avery Ross. Thanks for letting me come by and take a look.”
She shrugs and walks away from us, drifting over to mute the music that’s blaring from a decrepit, paint-speckled boom box on the other side of the room. The CD playing is Mozart, which is a surprise, but something tells me Lita enjoys catching people off guard.
