Frank lifts his head and follows me back inside, like he’s seen enough.
I close the door, heart racing, and lean my forehead against it. “Frank, that was not neighborly.”
Chapter Eight
The email pops up like a ghost, uninvited, inconvenient, impossible to ignore. I don’t even remember signing up for notifications from the Seattle Art Museum’s HR department. Probably one of those late-night impulse subscriptions, back when hope felt like a luxury I could afford.
Subject line: Now Hiring–Exhibition Curator Internship.
I stare at it. My stomach does a flip. I click it open before I can think better of it.
A paid internship opportunity with the Seattle Art Museum’s Exhibitions Department. Ideal for emerging professionals in the field of curation and art history.
Emerging professionals. That’s a polite way of saying twenty-two-year-olds who can speak fluent Excel and wear wide-legged trousers with confidence.
Still, my heart gives one pathetic little flutter.
Once upon a time, before diapers, lunchbox notes, and mortgage payments, I wanted to work there. I used to imagine myself walking through those halls in kitten heels, naming exhibitions and hanging art labels like they were tiny poems. I got my degree in art history for that girl. The one who envisioned her life would be surrounded by beauty and stories before the narrative changed.
Could I apply?
Nope. Not a chance. I haven’t written a cover letter in decades.
I slam my laptop shut. And then, two seconds later, I open it again. Not because I’m applying. The Dead Husbands Society meeting starts in two minutes, and if I’m late again, Viv will send a search party, and Marin will send a strongly worded text. Neither of which is ideal.
I hover over the email. I should delete it. Just be realistic, save myself the embarrassment of even imagining.
But instead, I flag it. Not because I’m going to apply. Simply so I don’t forget it’s there. Just in case.
Viv appears first, her camera slightly angled from above. Her background is lit by Himalayan salt lamps. “Well, I failed the challenge.” The words lag slightly behind the frame as my internet catches up, and the sound is garbled as she flops back on a cushion.
“At least you’re not trying to cover it up. Did you fail or bail?” I nestle further back into my muted blue sofa.
She scoffs. “Iattempteda solo date. I really did. Took myself to this chakra alignment thing at a healing café.”
Marin joins with a quiet “Hi,” and Viv gives her a signature smile, all sunshine and perfect teeth, before continuing. “Marin. Date challenge fail at a chakra alignment healing cafe. Now you’re caught up.”
Viv barely stops to suck down a quick sip of air before plowing forward. “And there was this man with thisincredibleaura. Looked like Jason Momoa if he worked at a co-op. Long braid. Sandals. We ended up splitting a turmeric latte and doing partner yoga. The universe clearly wanted me to realign in his arms.”
Marin blinks. “You mean your solo date turned into arealdate?”
“My chakras insisted.” Viv gives an unapologetic wave of her hand. “I’m respecting theflow of energy.”
“You’re allergic to being alone.” I make the statement with the full authority of someone who’s now watched several trending mental health videos.
“I’m allergic to ignoring divine signs. I’m basically following orders from the universe.”
“Viv.” Marin’s voice is so gentle that it almost doesn’t make it through the speaker. “Do you think maybe it’s less about energy flow and more about not wanting to sit in your own stuff?”
Viv’s smile falters for a second. “I do sit in it. Briefly. Like a cold plunge. In and out. Rejuvenating. Then I move on.”
Marin doesn’t flinch. “And why do you think that is?”
Viv looks off-screen, like she’s debating whether to bolt. “Because if I marinate in it, I might stay stuck. Or worse. What if it’s bottomless? What if I don’t come back up? What if it swallows me?”
I shift in my seat, heart tugging. “Viv…”
She waves a perfectly manicured hand. “Nope. You’re one question away from pulling out a pen and saying, ‘How does that make you feel?’ and I am not about to be the subject of tonight’s emotional excavation.”
