His lips crawl up the side of his profile. He turns his head toward me and our mouths are so close, my breath hitches. We’ve kissed twice and both times left me wanting more, making me forget my name, and left the feel of his lips imprinted on mine for days. However, the close proximity of right now is enough to do me in. “Oops. But I had a good time tonight.”
If his eyes drop to my mouth, it’ll be game over. “Me too.” Two words. That’s all I can manage to get out.
“I got a voicemail from Aaron tonight.”
“Your agent.” This sounds important, and I want to talk about it when he’s a safe distance away from me and I can think straight. Right now, I want to kiss.
It appears for a brief second I’m going to get my wish. His heavy gaze finds my lips and my head goes fuzzy in anticipation. With a sharp inhale, pulls back and says, “I’m flying out tomorrow morning to meet with a manager—some big, fancy dinner wine-and-dine type of thing—and then flying home again Sunday.”
Just like that, the moment’s gone. The lies born by the atmosphere and too many romcom movies erased. He wasn’t really experiencing the same fuzzy head and desire for contactI was. Dumb, dumb, Nola. I clear my throat and recalibrate. “Oh that’s great news. Which team is asking for you?”
“I can’t say yet.”
“Would it make you happy?”
“Can’t say yet.” He smirks.
I bump his shoulder and let out a scoff. “I think you’re allowed to tell your wife.” The word wife shoots embarrassment straight through me. I overthink it and while I meant it in jest, I worry I come across as reading more into our situation than I should.
Does he see me as some doe-eyed high school girl caught up in the world of make believe? Do I come across as that desperate? We lightly joke about our marriage regularly, but after the familiarity of the evening, from the teasing and decorating as a family unit to sitting here like this right now, I can’t deny the seeds of feelings have been planted, watered, and are in process of sprouting.
I watch him swallow hard, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “I have a good feeling about this.” He stands and kisses the top of my head. “I think good things are in store for both of us. Sleep tight, Nola.”
With my brain in overdrive and my feelings a mess, there definitely won’t be any sleep for me tonight.
16
NOLA
My dining table is lost somewhere under my art supplies. On the bar my laptop sits open to my calendar, and I place a glass dish of diced fruit next to it as Callie walks in the front door for our weekly Monday meeting. As I’ve known her, she’s only worn pantsuits in my presence and always lets her long hair be naturally wavy. She’s a decade younger than me and while I’ve encouraged her to do something else with her life—supported the idea that young adults try out different jobs—I suspect she likes the free hotel stays I pass along and my general lack of neediness.
Last year she told me the amount of free time in her schedule allowed her to become a foodie and launch a social media account dedicated to eating her way through the Treasure Valley. Last time I checked, she had a very healthy number of followers. If there was something she would change about our working together, it would be my ever-dying devotion to paper planners.
“Good morning!” She helps herself to a bowl from the cupboard and sits on a barstool, serving up berries,pineapples, and apple chunks. I love that we’ve worked together long enough that we have this rhythm and no pretenses. We don’t small talk before diving right into things. “Jaqueline called me a few minutes ago,” she begins, stirring the fruit with her fork. “Stella said she’d like her first sitting to be this afternoon.”
There’s a hint of smirk to her voice that I ignore. I add this to the paper calendar next to my laptop and she adds it to the shared digital one, saying, “Sounds about right. That’s okay, I have a few ideas I’ve started that I can show her.” I’m surprised she’s let us go this long without officially beginning.
“Doesn’t it bother you that you’ve been handed this without fighting for it?” she says. Asked the same thing two months ago, I would’ve said yes. Handouts don’t do anybody any favors, and I’m an artist—I’ve always had a need to feel like the praise for my work was earned. But the tide turned in my favor and if my ultimate goal is a showing at the MoMA, I can’t bite the hand that feeds me.
When Stella gifted me the commission as a wedding present, I reminded myself this is, unfortunately, how business is done. Nothing changes with my commitment to doing the best job I can. I’ll still create a piece worthy of Stella’s praise and that of my peers. The bonus is, her connections of friends who serve on the boards of many art museums, and all it will take is one quick phone call to make all my dreams come true. I’ve resigned myself to being okay that connections are how anybody makes it in the world anymore.
“Does it make me a bad person if I say no?” I scoop my own bowl of fruit and avoid eye contact. “My career has flatlined to lakescapes and snow-capped mountains. There’s no challenge anymore. If this is my chance to get back in withthe Art Bouncers, who am I to think I’m better off not playing the cards I’ve been graciously dealt?” It kills me inside that three individuals—who I’ve given the aptly called nickname—have determined they single-handedly hold the keys to who is worthy of the accolades, who is up-and-coming, and who to continue celebrating. Those three have buoyed my career to its heights and have turned their backs on me in my darkest moments. With Stella in my corner, I have a shot at making it again without their opinions.
When I dare to look at Callie, she’s holding back a smile. “I can get behind that.” She takes a bite of her fruit salad and holds her fork out at me like a sword. “What I really want to know is what it’s like being married toMaxHutchings?”
“It’s a business deal, Callie. You know that.” I pop a berry into my mouth, hoping that’s enough of an answer for her.
“Sure it is.” Just like everybody else, she doesn’t believe me in the slightest. “You’re both living in this house together, and what? You do your thing and he does his and that’s it?”
My eyes slip to the floor in front of the couch where we sat Friday night. Thinking about how close we were, how his lips were right there and the sizzle in the room, coming from more than the fireplace, is going to make me blush all over again. As hot as that moment was—that was it. The next morning, he drove himself to the airport while Emma and I were gone for the STEM Robot Showcase, and he didn’t get home until late last night. It’s not like we text and keep each other up to date with what’s going on.
I’d heard him come in the front door when I was almost asleep and forced myself to not leave my bedroom and barrage him with a million questions. I figured I’d run into him this morning in the kitchen before he left for school but he wasout the door extra early. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, but again, it’s none of my business.
“Yep.” I take a bite of apple and she stares me down. “That’s it.”
“You’re a liar, but I’ll let you simmer in that lie for now. You just keep your eye on the prize, boss.”
A cornerof the rec room at the assisted living facility has been transformed. Stark white sheets hang on the walls and lie on the floor; tables have been moved out of the way. In the center of the space is a plum velvet armchair. Stella stands in a long quilted robe, her hair professionally set and makeup immaculate. I am tickled to see her Tiffany’s & Co. set on her ears and wrist. She forgoes greetings to inform me the lighting is best in this space starting at two in the afternoon. She continues by telling me she will not let me take any photos—all painting must be done live. This gives us an hour each session before I need to clean up and get Emma and Reese from school.
