"You've been working on that corner for twenty minutes," Wren says from across the shop.
"It's the last bracket. I want it level."
"It's just holding prints, not bricks, Tommy."
I press the drill trigger, sink the screw home, test the bracket with my palm. It’s solid. I stand, brushing dust off my jeans, and step back to check the alignment. The shelf runs straight along the back wall of Wren's new shop. All four brackets installed, no wobble, no gaps.
"There," I say. "Don't put anything heavier than ten pounds on it."
"You already told me that."
"I'm telling you again."
Wren sets down the box she's been unpacking and walks over, surveying the shelf with her arms crossed. "It looks good. Thanks, Tommy."
"No problem."
My phone buzzes on the floor next to my toolbox. I crouch down, pick it up, and the screen lights up with Sam's name and a photo attachment.
A pigeon. With a slice of pizza in its beak, standing on a table directly in front of a sign that reads CITY'S BEST PIZZA. I laugh out loud.
Wren glances over. "What?"
I turn the phone toward her. She squints at the screen, then grins. "Who sent you that?"
"Sam." I pocket the phone, still smiling. "She sends me a picture every morning. The most ridiculous thing she sees on her way to work."
Wren raises an eyebrow. "Every morning?"
I realize what I just admitted. I turn back to the toolbox and reorganize drill bits that are already in perfect rows. "It's a thing we do."
"A thing you do," Wren repeats.
"Don't make it weird."
"Too late."
I pick up the power drill, test the trigger even though I just used it thirty seconds ago. The motor whirs, stops. I set it back in the toolbox. "Okay. The shelf's done. You need anything else before I head out?"
Wren picks up a box labeled FLASH DESIGNS and starts unpacking prints onto the new shelf. "So I'm going to that ink collective thing next weekend. The one at the Powerhouse."
I nod, coiling the extension cord around my forearm. "The botanical blackwork artist, right?"
"Yeah. Her linework is insane. You should see her Instagram—she does these massive floral pieces that look like engravings." Wren pauses, glancing at me. "You want to come?"
"Can't. I'm busy."
"You. Busy?"
I smile. "Says the woman who just asked me to spend nine hours unpacking a tattoo shop on a Saturday."
"Fair." Wren goes back to the box, pulling out print after print—skulls, roses, geometric patterns. "So what's the job?"
"It's not a job." I drop the coiled cord into the toolbox, close the lid. "Sam and I are going to this exhibit at the Met. You know that Monet print I have? Turns out Sam saw the same exhibit years ago. Different day, same show."
Wren looks up. "Huh. Small world."
"Yeah. So there's this new thing at the Met—rooftop exhibit, urban photography at golden hour. She wanted to check it out, and I figured it'd be a good follow-up, you know, since we both—"
