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“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine this morning?” he says in a playful tone. “You never answered the email I sent last week. I wasn’t sure if you forgot or were ignoring me, so I figured I’d call you on my way to work.”
“Honestly, it was a bit of both,” I confess. I have an unhealthy habit of putting off responding to texts and emails when I can’t think of a good response or if I don’t have a definitive answer to a question. I tell myself I’ll reply later, but I usually forget.
“Should I even ask how your new collection is coming along?”
Gavin’s a curator for The Artist, a renowned gallery in New York City. He sent me a DM after he stumbled across my work on social media, and after a year of exchanging messages and phone calls, he convinced me to participate in my first art exhibition. We’ve been dear friends ever since he sent me that first message. This upcoming show will be my third at his gallery and could be my last if I don’t get him these paintings ahead of schedule.
He’s been so supportive, and I don’t want to do anything to disappoint him. The idea of letting him down fills me with a sense of unease.
I chew on my lip, knowing he won’t like my answer. “Um, it’s coming?”
“Marlow, please tell me you’ve started,” he says, desperation evident in his tone. “You told me last month it’d be a breeze to complete seven paintings in time for this exhibition.”
“Relax, Gav. The show isn’t for six weeks. I have plenty of time between now and then.”
At least I hope so.
“That’s what you said the last time.”
“And you got my collection on time, did you not?”
“Sure. If you count overnighting the paintings the morning before your art exhibit.” His tone is cynical.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. “No, it was so much worse,” he states. “Do I need to remind you that there was a delay with the delivery, and I had to bribe a coordinator at the shipping company to give me the contact info for the driver? I had to meet the guy in midtown to pick up the paintings in a rented U-Haul and get them back to the gallery with only an hour to spare before the show.”
I admit I’m an unintentional expert at procrastination. With my short attention span and sudden bursts of inspiration, sticking to deadlines is like chasing a moving target. That’s why I typically turn down invitations for gallery showings—I don’t like committing to things I might not be able to deliver, especially when it could negatively affect someone I care about.
“Okay… yes, it was a disaster, but if I recall correctly, my collection sold out within an hour, did it not?”
“Yes,” Gavin says reluctantly.
“And I’m pretty sure I gave you an incredibly generous commission to compensate for the trouble I put you through.” I can’t resist provoking him.
“Yeah, you did. But I’m quite sure chasing down those paintings shaved ten years off my life that I’ll never get back,” he exaggerates in a playful manner.
“I’m starting on the first piece today. I promise you’ll have the full collection in the gallery the day ahead of the show.”
Fingers crossed I can keep my promise.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” His tone is skeptical, and I understand why. “Anything exciting happening in that small town of yours, or are you finally ready to move to New York?”
“I don’t have any plans to leave yet. I’ve made a few friends, and Waffles would be devastated if I took him away from Lola.”
I think she’d be equally as distraught, and the thought of making her sad sends an arrow through my heart.
“Marlow, don’t forget that Waffles isyour dog, which makes you the boss. Pets are adaptable, and he’ll be content wherever you go next.Not to mention, you’ve told me that Lola’s hot single dad is a total jerk and can’t wait until you no longer have to be his neighbor.”
Waffles takes that as his cue to whine at the door. I shiver as the cold breeze rushes in when I let him back in. He runs over to his dog bowl that I filled with food earlier and scarfs up his breakfast.
“In hindsight, Dylan had every right to be upset with me and Waffles,” I admit. I was hopeful his icy demeanor would thaw quickly, but it’s taken over a year to notice any signs of him warming up to me. “And to be clear, I’ve never called Dylanhot,” I correct Gavin. “I said that the day we met when I was in the heat of the moment.”
I think back to those intense, frosty eyes of his, glaring at me from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. His short, black hair was ruffled and slightly unkempt, his hands running through it in agitation as if Waffles and I were the source of all his life’s problems. But then I remember how those same brown eyes softened, his gruff tone leveling out, when he talked to his daughter.
“I looked Dylan Stafford up online. That man is a total DILF. Anyone who can pull off glasses like that deserves to be on the cover of GQ,” Gavin says.
“I’m so telling Matthew you said that,” I taunt.
“Go right ahead, babe,” he says with a chuckle. “It’s not anything he hasn’t heard me say before.” Gavin is an open book, never shying away from speaking his mind, regardless of what comes out. He pauses when someone shouts his name in the background. He must have stopped to grab his morning coffee on the way to the gallery. “When you’re ready for your next adventure and want a break from that broody neighbor, Matthew and I would be delighted to have you and Waffles come to stay with us.”
