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Although Brea wasn’t especially impressed with wealth, she was surprised that she liked Walter Billington. As he sat with them, he spent equal time speaking with Oriana as he did with Brea, a rarity amongst the elite. When Brea told him she was just starting out in the art dealing world, he tilted his head and said, “It’s because you’re an artist yourself, isn’t it?” And Brea blushed and said, “I guess I used to think I was.”
To this, Walter placed the tip of his first finger on the table and shook his head. “You’re an artist. Say it.”
Brea frowned and placed her martini back on the table. The drink had gone to her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, tell me you’re an artist. Say it out loud.”
Brea smiled, feeling foolish. “I’m an artist?”
“Say it like you mean it,” Walter insisted.
Brea giggled so that her shoulders shook up and down. Beside her, Oriana nodded, urging her along. She had to do what the client wanted her to do. That was clear.
“I’m an artist,” Brea said with more clarity, setting her jaw.
“Okay. I’m halfway to believing you,” Walter said. “But your homework is to work on that, okay?”
“Okay,” Brea said.
Throughout the entire dinner, Walter didn’t bring up the painting, not once. Instead, he really got to know them— learning about Oriana’s children, her husband, Reese, and Brea’s fiancé, Kenny.
“The four of you were best friends in high school?” Walter looked flabbergasted.
“We were,” Oriana admitted nervously.
“I think that’s wonderful. Most everyone I went to high school with turned on each other or tried to use one another for wealth, or you know, married and divorced one another in horrific ways,” Walter went on.
“That’s terrible,” Brea said.
“It is. But I never felt that any of them had compassion.” Walter leaned back in his chair, impressed with them.
Oriana’s eyes glinted. Brea sensed it, too. If Walter liked them, he would purchase the painting— and that meant a four-million-dollar deal. It meant Oriana proving herself, which also meant Brea proving herself. It meant colossal leaps in their careers.
But all this wild conversation and sensational food did little to alleviate Brea’s fears surrounding Kenny.Had the doctor called yet? Should she run home and learn the news? Should she call him? Or did he want her to leave him alone for one more night?
When they reached the dance club, the bouncer waved them in immediately, recognizing Walter. As Brea followed them, her ears filled with the pulsing beat of the club music, and she found herself in a sea of partiers, all dressed in black, their hair styled, chokers on their necks. This was a far cry from the beach parties she and Oriana had frequented as high schoolers. This was terrifying.
But a few minutes later, Walter pressed a martini in her hand and said, “Let’s go dance!” And Brea again followed the two of them into a smaller room, where another DJ played his tunes, his head pumping. Brea swayed back and forth as Oriana and Walter got into it, never dancing romantically but genuinely having fun with one another. By contrast, Brea felt like a little kid, dragged to the dance by her older sister. She wasn’t jealous of her, per se. She just knew Oriana had skills she didn’t have.
After what seemed like forever, but was probably only about a half-hour, Brea cut through the crowd and headed toward the front of the club, where a woman at the ticket booth told her she couldn’t use the telephone at the club. “There’s one down the road,” she told her.
Brea sighed. “I can get back in after I go, right?”
The woman nodded. “Sure.”
Brea dropped back into the night, shivering in the late September chill. When she reached the payphone, she dropped quarters into it and listened as it rang and rang. When Kenny answered it, he sounded groggy, as though he’d been asleep.
“Baby! Are you sleeping?”
“What? Yeah.”
It had been a while since Kenny had allowed himself to fall asleep. Brea’s heart lifted. “I’m so sorry for waking you up. I just wanted to check in to see if the doctor called?”
“Oh. No. He didn’t call.”
“He didn’t?”
“No. He must have forgotten.”
