“Do I?” she says cryptically, turning away without handing either of them a glass.
I do the honors instead, shrugging at them like,that’s Sam foryou.
“That’s your roommate?” Andy asks, mystified.
“She’s unexpected, I know.”
“Don’t mess with her,” Carrie warns him. “She bites.”
For tonight’s exhibition, dozens of iPhones have beeninstalled in various corners of the room like security cameras, live-streaming footage of the gallery onto other phone screens also mounted around the space. She’s called it WATCHED/WATCHING.
At any given time, the gallery can accommodate about a dozen people—our living room is honestly bigger—so Sam is keeping a strict watch on who gets to go in when.
Optics are key. I’ve learned over the years that there must always be more people milling around the sidewalk than there are inside the gallery. How else will you attract passersby to stop and ask what the fuck we’re doing in there?
To that end, she taps Andy on the shoulder and tells him bluntly to go inside, and when he hesitates, drags him by thearm.
It’s a warm evening—sunny, pleasant, humidity still bearable. Traffic is the backing track to everything you do in New York City, and tonight is no different. Everyone chats against the sound of bikes whizzing past and the occasional blaring horn.
“Sooo,” I say to Carrie, once Sam has shoved Andy through the gallery door, “how was your lunch with Connor?”
“HA,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “I knew it. I fucking knewit!”
“Knew what?”
“That you’re hot for your boss.”
“I’m not—”
“Save it,” Carrie says. “I could just tell when you got all weird at the Lunch and Learn. Why didn’t you say anything, you dumb freak?”
I stutter, trying in vain to deny the allegations against me: that I like Connor, and that I withheld this information from Carrie.
“So, you—it wasn’t a date?”
“It was a trap,” she tells me. “I wanted to see if you’d react.”
“By asking him out?”
Carrie ignores this. “I say this as your friend, and also as an officer of the HR department. It’s absolutely against company policy to go out with your boss.”
“I’mnot—”
“That said,” she continues, cutting me off, “I got the impression there’s more than a professional interest there. He asked a lot of questions about you.”
“He did?” My voice goes so squeaky that she laughs. I cough, then say again, in a tone that I hope conveys my nonchalance, “I mean—he did?”
“Yes, you loser. But of course, none of that matters, right? Because you’re not interested.”
“Absolutely,” I say, taking a sip of warm white wine. “Not interested.”
“Mmm,” she says. “Convincing.”
Sam returns, inserting herself neatly into the space between Carrie and me. Andy, I notice, is now being entertained—or held against his will—by one of the other gallery staff.
“Your turn,” she says to Carrie.
“You could start with hello,” she replies.
