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“It just makes me so curious about your art,” Neal said. “The stuff you were making before you got into this silly industry. I mean, if that’s worth four million dollars, what you created should be worth eight million! Or more!”
Brea laughed. “Don’t flatter me. You haven’t even seen my stuff.”
“But I would like to,” Neal said, leaning back in his chair. “I have this strange feeling that, well…” He trailed off.
“What is it?” Again, Brea was frightened that he wanted to confess his feelings, that he’d realized he couldn’t be “just friends” with her. That was something she couldn’t accommodate.
“I just keep feeling like we’re going to be friends for a long time. The thing is, back when I was a teenager, my best friend in the world was my sister, Jocelyn. We did everything together. Nintendo, bike rides, pancake eating contests. Everything.” Neal’s eyes clouded. “But she died right after we both got into college. It was devastating for me. I had to drop out. I had to reconfigure how I felt about the world.”
Brea’s heart shattered. Neal understood the density of loss— the way it weighted you down. She hadn’t yet lost Kenny— but a part of her had begun to prepare for it, as it was impossible they’d be able to afford his surgery.
“Anyway, being with you reminds me of who I was back then,” Neal went on. “Carefree.”
Brea wanted to tell him that being with him was a similar experience for her, that it reminded her of the person she’d been before Kenny’s diagnosis. But she just didn’t feel up to talking about it. So, she said, “Thank you for telling me about Jocelyn. It sounds so painful.”
“It was,” Neal affirmed. “And it was so, so long ago now. I don’t know that I’ll ever get over it.”
Brea understood. She knew that, once Kenny was gone, she would never recover. Not completely.
Over the next week, Brea hung with Neal a handful of times— for coffee, some hot dogs on the street, or to enjoy a couple of beers at the end of a long day. As Oriana grew increasingly frantic and stressed in their work environment, Brea had begun to think of Neal as her last link to normalcy. He made her laugh. He surprised her with her favorite chocolate bars, asked her questions about her family, and never, ever made her feel less-than or unintelligent.
But everything fell apart just like that.
Neal invited Brea to his apartment for the first time, explaining that his girlfriend wanted to meet her. “She’s heard so much about you and wants to make sure you’re real and not a figment of my imagination. Plus, I think you two would get along well.”
Brea considered this to be proof thatWhen Harry Met Sallywas incorrect. Men and women could befriend one another without complications. She and Neal were proof of that.
But when Brea arrived at Neal’s apartment, his girlfriend was not there after all.
“She got called into the hospital last minute,” Neal explained regretfully.
The apartment was about three times as big as the one Brea shared with Kenny and his mother, with two bathrooms and a view of Central Park. It seemed incredible to her that such a rich and successful man drank at dive bars with her and shelled out quarters for jukebox songs.
“You want a drink?” Neal asked as she hung up her coat.
“Um. Sure?”
“I was thinking about making Negronis,” he explained.
Brea wasn’t sure what those were. “Sounds great!”
Brea sat in the living room and crossed her ankles beneath her. The space was decorated with simple sophistication and sharp lines that evoked Scandinavia. On the right-hand wall was a piece of art covered with a white sheet. “What’s this?” Brea gestured toward the covered canvas. It wasn’t exactly common for people not to reveal their decor.
“That’s part of the reason I wanted you to come over,” Neal said breezily, handing her the Negroni cocktail, a burnt-red drink in a square glass.
“Oh?” Brea’s heart sank. She figured that now, Neal would beg her to ask Oriana to “deal” a piece of art he’d either made himself or come across. Ugh. She wasn’t sure how to let him down easily.
But instead, Neal walked toward the artwork, counted to three, and pulled the sheet away to reveal the painting Oriana was currently selling to Walter Billington. The four-million-dollar painting.
Brea leaped from the couch, petrified, spilling her cocktail across her skirt. “What the heck is that?”
Neal laughed gently, clearly pleased with her reaction.
“I mean, Neal. What is that?” she repeated, trying to stabilize herself.
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s a replica of your four-million-dollar painting.”
Brea sputtered. “A replica?”
