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"You'd rather shut down the idea than consider a healthy, loving relationship because it doesn’t fit into your preconceived understanding of how things aresupposed to be? Because you think that would make her less worthy or less perfect?"
My words are gentle, not angry or combative, but I see the angry flush working its way up his neck.Good.Ezra doesn't getworked up easily. This is proof that he cares.
"I'm not talking about a random threesome with a stranger to get your rocks off. I'm talking about sharing a woman that we both care about. And, yes, I do hope you'll be able to comfort her when I'm gone. I don't expect the two of you to wait for me, or anything like that.” In my wildest dreams, I hope they would. “But maybe my interference can help bring the two of you together."
"What makes you think she'd even want to beshared? How would one even approach a conversation like that?"
"I don't know. It's not like I've done something like this before. I figure it might just happen naturally."
Ezra scoffs. "You always have been prone to fanciful notions."
"Yeah, well, it's worked out well for me so far."
"I don't know if I'm comfortable with this, honestly."
"I'd never push either of you into something that you weren't comfortable with. Just, I don't know, think about it?"
Ezra makes a noncommittal noise and gets up to take a shower.
Beth
It has taken me nearly five years to admit this to myself, but I fucking hate it here. These assholes are ruining this gallery, and they’re ruining me.
Almost an hour ago, I had to text Cal and cancel our date for tonight because Cherith can’t get her shit together, or maybe it’s that she has her shit together just enough to make my life miserable. And now I’m standing in the middle of a disaster of an “exhibition” that Cherith is heading up. She wants to turn the gallery—TheFucking Gregg Gallery—into some kind ofsocial media club.
And stupid, weak, idiotic Bobby Vandreth, who has more money than brains and his head up Cherith’s ass, is going to let her do it.
Not only that, but he actually canceled an up-and-coming artist’s exhibit so she can “makeover” the space. I walked in to find the lobby full of massive boxes full of neon plastic andall manner of horrific bullshit. Instead of curating interesting, handmade, artistic backgrounds for this travesty, she has to one-up herself and turn my sacred space into a copycat version of some Barbie Dreamhouse bullshit she saw on Instagram using cheap mass-produced bullshit.
As I fill yet another overpriced, cheaply made, glass jar with god damnedsprinklesof all things, I find myself replaying my life choices and wondering how I got here.
I wanted to be an artist. A real artist. I busted my ass to put myself through art school and continue to take class after class, strengthening and refining my skills, only to find myself scooping rainbow pastel fragments of hell.
Calling area galleries to help the sculptor we were supposed to be showing find a new space, and apologizing profusely for my colleagues embarrassing and disrespectful behavior, cinched it for me. For the first time, I think I may not be able to stay here, in this place that I’ve loved so much. I’ll no longer get to meet incredibly talented artists, see their pride on display in carefully crafted exhibitions, and never get a chance to get so close to the art that I can feel each stroke of the brush. I’ll never get to spend quiet evenings soaking in the perfection of an empty gallery.
The announcement of the new direction of the gallery, the horrific phone calls, and the amount of work I’ve been continuously subjected to today have kept me numb. I’ve barely been aware of the time, other than realizing I’ll never make it out of here on time to meet Cal for dinner, especially since the outfit I wore today is trashed and my sweaty hair is piled in a messy bun on top of my head. I’ve been stewing in my own misery and self-pity all day.
Across the room, I hear Cherith gasp. She sits up, removing herfeet from the front desk where she was painting her toenails a nauseating shade of pink to match my sprinkle nightmares.
“Oh my God, what is he doing back here? I look like such a mess, too!” Cherith squeals, fussing with her hair and actually lifting her skirt up to expose more of her thighs. She crosses her legs provocatively as she calls out to whomever is walking in.
“Well, hello there, handsome. Fancy meeting you here again. The gallery is actually closed for renovations, but what can I do for you, Mr. Flynn?”
My head snaps up and peaks out of the plastic cubicle I’m in to see Cal strut up to the front desk. I’m not proud that I track his eyeline to see if he’s checking out Cherith’s mile long tanned legs. He definitely gives her a look over, but to his credit, he doesn’t look impressed. No, he looks more annoyed than I am about this turn of events.
Ugh, first they ruin my job. Now they’re going to ruin my few weeks in paradise by pissing off my delicious man candy.
“Hi. I’m actually looking for Beth.”
“Beth?” Cherith seems confused, bless her heart.
Cal talks to her like she’s an imbecile. “Yes, Beth. Beth Heaton. She works here, or at least she did when this place was still an art gallery. Are you throwing a tacky kid’s birthday party or something?”
“It’s an aesthetic,” she replies snobbily.
“Whatever that means. Can you point me to Beth? Or has she drowned in whatever that pink fluffy shit is in the corner?”
I can’t help it. I let out a snort. His grouchiness with Cherith, paired with his reaction to this confectionary travesty, has just endeared me to him more.
