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Mrs. Power has her work cut out for her if she really wants to change the corporate culture of Will Power & Brothers. She could turn the entire tower into one giantNestrogenand it wouldn’t make a difference. My installation is a joke in this environment. I have half a mind to return her money, take my nest and head home to Texas, where this would never have happened since I’d never have been seduced into letting my walls down.
I’m as angry with myself as I am with Will. And I have no idea what to think about Eric and the question he blindsided me with when the phone lines were opened.
“What can I do that will make you believe you can trustme?” he asked.
“This is the problem,” I snarled, “people with power in society believing they should be able to make other people do whatever suits them. If you want me, or any person, to trust you, there’s only one way. You earn it.”
I get off the elevator at the floor where I’ve been given a temporary office for the duration of Eric’s stay in the nest—andmystay inhisapartment—and pack all my drawing tools into their custom case. I can’t work here with so much hate in my heart. I’m done.
Bruised. Broken. Bleeding.
My phone is pinging like a fire alarm. I’m not even going to look. I suspect some are from Eric. I need time to process before I engage.
The rest of the messages? Don’t know, don’t care.
I pull my art box on wheels to the elevator and silence the damn phone.
I walk through the lobby with my head down. I don’t want to have seeNestrogenin this building. It feels like a farce to have it here as some kind of feminist message of inclusion. What was I thinking? So danged naïve. Maybe even a little arrogant expecting that art can change the world.
How’s that going for you, Clay? Your giant clitoris only served to ignite a once-forgotten obscenity law. The reverse of the goal. Well done.
“Shut up,” I snap.
“Catherine! Wait!” Eric’s voice stops me, but I refuse to look up.
“Can you let me down, please?” he asks.
I don’t know. I’m not ready to talk. I shake my head, still looking at my feet, which I force to start moving again.
“Catherine! Come back!”
Before the building doors close behind me, I hear Eric yell to the security guy to get the scaffold. I have two minutes or less to find a taxi. Not a single yellow cab in sight; I hate Uber in this moment.
I duck into a coffee shop to call and wait for a ride with no idea where I’ll have it take me. A television in the corner of the café is playing a movie. The scene is at an airport. Thank you, Universe. I double check that I have my passport.
Good to go. Goodbye, Canada.
Eric comes into sight so I bend low, as if looking for something on the floor, so all he’ll be able to see is my back. I’m in black, like ninety percent of the city, so I feel hidden.
I hold the position for twenty seconds—maybe longer—to make sure he’s moved along. But when I sit up again, I see him, standing in the street staring into the window at me.
He wears a pained expression.
I shake my head and mouth, “don’t want to talk about it.”
He nods and mouths, “I understand.”
And all my anger, rage, humiliation coalesce in that instant into grief. And I start to cry.
I hear the door open and footsteps approach. A hand touches my shoulder. I grab it and hold on. He bends and coaxes me to standing then grabs me in a tight hug. I shatter.
Eric doesn’t speak. Doesn’t make a sound. I, on the other hand, am making quite a scene. And I don’t give a flying duck.
After I don’t know how long standing like this, a horn honks outside the café. My phone pings. I feel Eric turn his head.
“Yours?”
I nod against his shoulder.
