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EMILY
The drizzle taps a rhythmic pattern against my window, a soft reminder of the city's penchant for rain, while I'm cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, listening to my brother's teasing drawl from an ocean away.
"So, Emily, has any dashing Brit in a top hat offered to share his umbrella with you yet?"
I let out a chuckle, picturing his teasing grin. "The day that happens, I'll ship him straight to you for Christmas, how's that?" I counter, watching the rain blur the bustling London street below.
He snorts, his laughter crackling through the speaker. "Well, you know I don’t swing that way, but make sure he's got that Hugh Grant charm, and maybe I’ll be persuaded to change teams."
"Yeah, because charm's what I'm knee-deep in," I say with an eye roll. "No, it's more like spreadsheets and coffee runs at the moment. Thank goodness for Sasha, she’s keeping me sane."
"Ah, the glamorous art world," he mocks gently.
I can almost see him shaking his head in our small-town kitchen, half a world away.
I sigh, my breath fogging up the glass. "It's not all glamor, but it's a start. I'm learning the ropes, making connections. And who knows? Maybe one day I'll move from fetching coffee to creating the art that hangs on these walls."
There's a brief silence on the line, and my words hang in the air, taunting me. But then my brother’s voice breaks it with his usual burst of optimism. "You'll get there, Em. Just don't forget us little people when you do."
I smile, warmed by the support that I can always count on from him. "Never."
His voice drops a notch, a hint of mischief returning. "So, this best friend of yours, Sasha, she's the Art Queen's granddaughter, right? Is she hot?"
And just like that, the brotherly concern flips back to typical male curiosity.
I'm about to chastise him for his shallowness when my bedroom door bursts open with a bang.
Sasha whirls into the room, a frenzy of brown curls and bohemian flair. Her eyes are wide, her freckled cheeks flushed with what looks like sheer panic.
"Emily, you will not believe—"
I hold up a finger to pause both her and my brother, who's still yammering in my ear. "Hold that thought, Sash," I say quickly, then to my brother, "I gotta go. Duty calls."
"Wait, Emily! Hook a brother up—"
I end the call before he can finish his sentence, turning to face Sasha. "Okay, what's the crisis this time?"
She paces, her gypsy skirt swishing with every step. "The Willoughby Gallery," she starts, and that's enough to make me perk up.
The Willoughby name is synonymous with prestige in the London art scene.
"They agreed to showcase Grandma's art," Sasha continues, practically vibrating with anxiety, "but they want to meet her. And also, her granddaughter."
I arch an eyebrow. "And that's bad because...?"
Sasha flops onto my bed, the picture of despair. "Because they'll expect me to know about art, Emily, and I don't know a Dali from a donut!"
I can't help but laugh at that, though I try to keep it sympathetic. "You're not giving yourself enough credit," I say, though we both know it's a stretch.
"No, you don't understand. Remember last week, I told that couple that the Monet was painted by Chopin. It was awful!”
I snort at the memory. “Didn’t they offer a million bucks because they had never seen a Chopin painting before and figured it was a one-of-a-kind?”
After all, Chopin is known for classical music, not abstract paintings.
I frown. “Why do they want to meet you anyway?”
Sasha puffs out her cheeks, her energy is jittery as she looks around the room all jumpy. Like she’s half-expecting a camera crew to jump out and expose her.
