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I admit I am crankier than I should be. Still, my grumpiness melts when I sink into the comfy mattress of my new, high-end apartment furnished with my things camouflaged between the
luxury items.
“Have a good day, ma’am,” the mover waves goodbye and leaves with his team, leaving me alone in the foreign surroundings. Once more, I take a seat on the bed. Adjusting to it seems
inevitable. Despite the welcoming touch of the soft mattress, I don’t sleep well. Throughout the night, I remain awake, lying in bed without a hint of movement. Waiting. By nine, I'm showered and groomed. Following breakfast, I glance at the clock. It's only noon.
“Ugh,” I groan. Yes, I'm being immature, but boredom turns most adults into finicky children. So, I entertain myself the only way I know how—I paint. In what I now consider my art room, I set up shop in the guest bedroom, covering the entire floor with plastic. I'm determined not to experience a repeat of the messy situation I had in my previous apartment. Positioned in front of my canvas, I hold the brush with a touch of uncertainty. The subject eludes me, yet I begin adding colors and shapes to the canvas, hoping it will coalesce into something recognizable. Through the abstract lines, I notice eyes staring back into mine. The edge of a jaw, the fluff of hair—no.
Out of frustration, my brush is hurled at the canvas, smudging the vague face before it can materialize. It resembleshim. Feeling frustrated, I abandon the troublesome piece and resort to scrolling
through my phone, though it makes it easier for me to check the time after every post.
Go early.
My limbs carry me to my walk-in closet, and I pull on the maximalist jumpsuit. Arriving early, I'm certain he'll appreciate my punctuality. Slipping into my heels, I cast one final glance around my apartment. Have I missed anything? What are you supposed to bring to an interview? If I forget anything important, I guess I’ll find out the hard way.
For the first time in months, I rode the elevator to take me down to the lobby.This is it. I find my car in the building’s vast garage.I’m going to see him again. Lost in daydreams of Evan, I drive recklessly, far beyond what's necessary.Steering into the Inno Corp parking lot, I snap out of it.
Hurried footsteps take me through those same double doors I’ve been thinking about non-stop for the past week. The receptionist in front acts surprised when I tell her I am the portrait artist hired for Mr. Blackburn—I'm too thrilled to be insulted. The loud, vigorous pumping of blood shakes my hands as Avi appears at the top of the lobby steps.
“You’re here early,” he observes, looking almost impressed.
“Yes,” I beam, “yes, I am.”
Chapter five
Affair in the Spotlight
Evandoesn'tcareformy timeliness. He keeps me in the lobby until four. I'm called to his office, holding a falsely apathetic expression while walking into the room.
"Good afternoon," he greets.
"Good afternoon," I respond. The pleasantries aren't typical, but I brush them off before I can cling to them. No matter how high I raise my head, he towers over me easily, shoulders squared with the same neutral eyes he always looked at me—minus the times they were squinted with disgust. This time, he does a once-over of my outfit and says nothing. I suppose that's better than another insult.
"This is how this evening is going to go," he presses his palms against his desk. "We're going to walk downstairs, get in the limo, ride to the auditorium, I'm going to do my presentation, and you are going to stay quiet and still the entire time," Blackburn drills holes into my skull, waiting for me to express my understanding.
"...What about the interview," I probe. I can see the exact moment a headache begins pulsing in his brain.
"Yes, for the interview, you can speak, obviously," he clarifies through clenched teeth. "As for every other second, if you aren't directly being asked questions, you will not interact in any way with anybody, okay?"
I nod before I give him an aneurysm.
"Fine," he hands me tinted shades. "Wear these and pretend you don't see or hear anyone."
Goodness, does he want me to appear as pretentious as him? The public is going to think I am an asshole, but I slide on the glasses and follow him out of the office down to the sleek, clean limo waiting for us. Clumsy limbs manage to get me inside the vehicle; he, on the other hand, steps in with ease and sits across from me while I take far too long adjusting myself on the plush leather seats.
Five minutes in, keeping quiet is becoming difficult. I have too many questions. I've never been to anything like this. I'm not even sure what thisis,and I want to be prepared, but I know there's a slim to none chance I'll get an answer and a hundred percent chance he'll become vexed at my list of inquiries.
So, I slot my fingers together and wait. New York's visual chaos of modern buildings wedged between old ones and its cacophony of noise whir past my window. Yet, the car's limited space protects our quiet, tense atmosphere.
Why did I want to see him again? Behind the cover of my shades, I admire the features that aren't hidden behind his own pair. He appears…relaxed. I expected creases of agitation and a tightness in his jaw. Instead, he seems blank, like a piece of paper. Like he disappeared into his mind. I wonder what is going on there. With everything he needs to keep in check, it must be a crowded, jumbled junkyard of clients, dates, and meetings. Thinking about it overwhelms me.
I try to push down the sudden guilt that burns in my heart. Maybe he isn't as much of an asshole as I thought. Dealing with some unknown, fumbling artist would make anyone annoyed, but…the more logical side of me replays the way he sauntered into my home uninvited with no warning, the way he accused me of being a criminal, the prominent revulsion in his frown when we first met. He hadn't known who I was and was still repelled.
I am making up excuses for him, and an excuse for me, to allow myself a viable reason why I dare to entertain the idea of being with him.
"Not that it'd ever happen," I mutter. At the same time, Evan and I snap out of our private realities and peer up at each other.
