“Art can, and should, be different for different people,” Regina says diplomatically. “Creating. Curating. What works for one of you might not for the other, right? If Harlow’s art scene isn’t for you, then it’s not.”
She changes the subject immediately to summer vacations, and I excuse myself to the bathroom. My coworkers must think I’m a dick, putting their careers down like that. As I wash my hands and examine my reflection, I admit I have been hard on this place. Not just the school, but Harlow. Does everyone see me like Susan and Frank do—uptight and thinking I’m better than them?
Is this how Daisy sees me?I cringe. Daisy has always seen Harlow and found beauty in it, and isn’t that the job of a curator? The last thing I want her to view me as is a stuck-up asshole who doesn’t respect her. There’s not a person I admire more, and the possibility that she could think otherwise settles heavy in my chest.
I reach for my phone to dial her up and tell her, because I should have told her this every day I’ve known her—told her how incredible and amazing and gorgeous she is. Or at least tell herI’m ready to give Harlow a real chance while I’m here, because she deserves that much from me. I don’t get past the lock screen, and after a few failed attempts to unlock my cell, the display duplicates before my eyes, my vision splitting. Frank was right—these drinksarestrong.
“Max?” Frank asks. He’s materialized behind me.
“Hey, ’m I in your way?”
“No, you’re good. But you just tried to make a call using the calculator app. You okay?”
I look back at my reflection.No,I think.But hopefully, I will be.
“How ’bout I give you a ride home?” Frank asks.
Looking down at my phone again, I see three screens instead of one. “Yeah. That’s probably a smart idea.”
“Sorry I’m late.” I sigh and collapse onto Daisy’s couch. With everything this morning—oversleeping, a brutal hangover, a shouting match with my parents—I forgot our planning session. “I feel like shit.”
Daisy pops her head out of the kitchen. “Well, you look like an angel,” she says, biting back her mirth.
“Not in the mood, Daze.” My skull pulses. I have zero energy for jokes, especially at my expense.
“Sorry.”
“I brought this upon myself with four to six tiki drinks.”
“Six?”
“We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”
Daisy laughs, and the sound resurrects me almost as much as the savory scent of sausage. She disappears into the kitchen again as my nausea transforms into a stomach-twisting pang of hunger. I close my eyes. Even Freddie pities me—he jumps onto the couch and curls into my side. The stove clicks off, the faucet runs for a second, and food gets scraped onto plates.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Daisy says, resting the cool edge of a ceramic plate by my arm. I could cry at the kindness.
Daze sits cross-legged on the floor, apron still on, and hair in a bundle on top of her head. I’d love to set my hand at the nape of her neck, pull her close, and kiss her again, but that’s just the hangover talking. As much as I want to say a billion things and do a billion more, that’s a bad idea. Anunprofessionalidea.
“Crazy night?” she asks, her eyes on her plate.
I grunt a response as I readjust some pillows, elevating myself enough to hold the food.
“Hanging out with friends?” She lifts one brow. “Hot date?”
“Teacher thing.” I take an enormous bite packed with egg, sausage, and hash browns, shoveling it into my mouth with a groan. “That’s—” I inhale my next forkful exactly half a second after swallowing the first. “Ohmygod, that’s so good.”
I release another food-induced moan, not caring that it sounds like breakfast is taking me to third base. Daisy’s focus skates up and down my body, and color rises to her cheeks.
I continue to eat in a fugue state until I clean my plate. It’s so Daisy to do this—to have a feast prepared for me and to take care of me when I need it.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asks. “You don’t have to, but—”
“They kicked me out.” I lay back on the couch, like a lion after a meal.
“What?”
“To be fair, I got their car towed.”
