Why? Elliott’s a great guy. 10/10.
Cameron Davies
Oh, fuck yourself, Clark. You know what I mean.
Jake Reid
Don’t tempt him. He definitely would if it were anatomically possible.
Cole. Our flight’s in less than an hour. Wake the fuck up.
Turns out I had the best night’s sleep because I slept three hours past my alarm.Shit.
CHAPTER FIVE
maya
“Is that…”Kennedy’s voice trails off as she takes a step closer to the sculpture in front of us.
“A woman’s reproductive system that doubles as a gumball machine?” I supply, biting back a smile. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Okay, cool. Just making sure.”
She circles the piece of artwork, as if that will help it make sense.
Good luck. The exhibit we’re at is calledThe Politics of Rubbish: Figuring the Avant-Garde. I have zero idea what the hell that means. When Sophie invited me to the opening of her friend’s art gallery, I accepted easily, brushing off her warning about thedisruptiveandparadoxicalnature of the art. But now that I’ve seen a gumball-producing uterus sculpture, it’s starting to make sense.
Kennedy and I move on from the female anatomy and meander around the space. The gallery is set up like a living room, with couches scattered throughout. The side tables adorned with lamps and books help make it feel as though we’re at home with all the art. And it works. This place is surprisingly homey for a gallery displaying pieces in the six-figure range.
Side by side, we inspect an oil painting of some European king withFuck the Patriarchyspray-painted over it.
“Now this one I can get behind.” My best friend nods resolutely, then snags some type of fried appetizer from a passing waiter. When she pops it into her mouth, she groans like a porn star. “This mac and cheese ball just gave me a better orgasm than any man ever has.”
As I sample one of the orgasmic treats for myself, I realize I can’t even call her dramatic. They’re that delicious. We continue our self-led tour around the studio, switching off between making keen artistic observations and gushing over the food.
The woman in that painting looks like she just found out her husband of ten years is cheating on her with her Pilates instructor.
This zucchini fritter is better than being accepted as an ARC reader for a new fantasy series.
Holy shit, is that a mouse trap made of condoms and flowers?
I think I’m going to hire this chef for my wedding. And my funeral.
We’re considering whether the artist who created the piece in front of us is extremely passionate or off their rocker when I finally spot Sophie. She’s in a sage green satin slip dress paired with strappy heels, making her look every bit the ethereal fairy I described her as when I talked Kennedy into accompanying me tonight.
Her eyes light up when she spots me. “You came.”
There’s real surprise in her voice, even though I texted her to confirm the address a few hours ago. I introduce her to Kennedy, and within minutes, they’re chattering like old friends. If I’m the moon, content to disappear into stories and imagined worlds, Kennedy’s the sun, radiating warmth with a charm so effortless it pulls people into her orbit instantly.
“Maya says you’re an artist, too.” Kennedy waves a hand, gesturing to a nearby piece. The little tag below it saysInquire about price, which means it’s way out of my range. Though that’s not a surprise. The only thing here I can afford is the free catering.
Pink patches bloom across Sophie’s cheeks. “Oh. Sort of. Nowhere near this caliber.”
Kennedy scrunches her nose up. “You and Maya with your technicalities. If you create, you’re an artist. If you write, you’re a writer. Doesn’t matter if you’re in a gallery or not, or if you’re published or not.”
Sophie’s eyes widen in surprise. “You write?”
“Hardly.” Now I’m the one who turns shades of strawberry.
