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She swallows, peering up at me with big blue eyes and comically thick lashes that serve to make her look more like a Park Avenue blow-up doll than the Upper West Side socialite air she’s going for.
“Your sister,” I say, “apologized to me so much I lost count. And not once did she place an ounce of blame on you—though I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why. After talking to you this morning, I think I’ve found my answer.”
Margaux sniffs. “What?”
“She’s not an asshole.”
With that, I leave Margaux in the middle of the café, hit the sidewalk, and never look back.
I’ve got a big week ahead of me, and I want this Halcyon exhibit to be the best one yet—and the first one I’ve ever actually attended.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
SLOANE
“Have you seen the paintings? My goodness, I could just die and go straight to heaven.” Brenna clasps her hands in front of her chest before gathering a long breath. “Now if only my Xanax could kick in.”
Brenna, in all her attention-loving glory, ironically loathes public speaking. Anytime she has to do her two-minute welcome speech at the start of each exhibit, she turns beet red and breathless by the end of it. Lately it hasn’t been as bad—now I know why.
“Did you see Prince al-Moussa flew in?” she asks.
“I heard he was coming, yes.”
“He isn’t just coming, he’s here.” She smooths her blown-out scarlet locks behind her ears and checks her reflection in a nearby wall mirror. “Anyway, I’m going to go out and mingle a bit before everything starts. Please make sure you’ve seen each piece and familiarize yourself with titles and everything. We haven’t priced anything, but we’re not taking less than seven figures on anything tonight.”
Brenna strides out of the break room, her red-bottomed heels clicking with each step, and I steal a glimpse in the mirror myself. Smoothing a flyaway, I make sure my hair is in place, and then I tap the pad of my ring finger along my lips, blurring any uneven lipstick into place.
It doesn’t matter how many times I assure myself Roman isn’t coming tonight; I can’t ignore the atomic-particle-size voice that assures me he is.
If only I could tell the difference between a gut feeling and wishful thinking . . .
Drawing back my shoulders, I lift my chin and hit the floor to check out the Halcyon pieces. While all my cohorts were fawning over them earlier today, I avoided them like the plague. I’d already seen them anyway, and I didn’t want to stir up any emotions in front of anyone.
But I can’t avoid them forever, and our exhibition starts in ten minutes.
The buzz of droning conversation fills the space as people arrive. I scan the room, holding my breath in case I spot those familiar, heavy coffee-colored eyes that used to pin me into place with a single glance.
But he isn’t here.
A young man in a caterer’s uniform passes by with a tray of champagne. He stops to offer me one, likely assuming I’m a guest and not an employee. Reaching for a flute, I toss the bubbly liquid back in one swallow and place the empty glass back on the tray.
He blinks, lingering as if to question what he just saw, and then he goes on his way.
Taking a deep breath, I run my hands along my thighs and head to the first row of paintings, all of which are hauntingly familiar. Eying the neon stoplight painted on newspaper, I lean in to read the title.
LOST AFTER MIDNIGHT
My chest is tight—heavy with sadness, yet filled with delight at the same time.
That’s the name I gave that picture.
He kept it.
Surely if he hated me, he would’ve replaced it with something else?
“Oh, look at this one,” one of our patrons says, pointing to Sour Apple. “It makes me feel . . . a certain way. Dirty, gritty, alive. I want this in my bathroom, like, yesterday.”
“Good luck. You and I both know you can’t afford anything in here. You could hardly afford your half of the Uber ride tonight,” his counterpart says under his breath.
“A man can dream,” the first guy says before they move on to the next piece.
“Screw dreaming. I just want to know who Halcyon is,” the friend says. “I’m here to do some scouting. Last I heard, it’s some Greek heiress. Though some people think Halcyon’s the pseudonym of this Dutch glassblower who was tripping on acid one night and accidentally realized he could paint.”
I chuckle. I’m not sure how they got on the guest list for tonight, but I admire that kind of dedication to a beloved artist. If Roman were here, I imagine he’d get a kick out of these stories.
Either way, his secret is safe with me.
I’d take it to the grave if I had to.
