Chapter 1
?
Twelve weeks later
The smell of rain drifts through the open windows in my apartment and I breathe in the scent, excited for spring to finally take hold of the city. I stand at my kitchen sink washing paintbrushes, the warm water lapping at my wrists as I look around my apartment, noticing all the paint on the floor I’ll need to scrub off before it dries and becomes impossible to remove.
Despite the mess, my chest swells with pride as I look at the apartment I’ve worked hard to afford, refusing my parents’ help in finding me somewhere to live. I remember trying to explain my reasoning to them a few years ago as we sat around their extravagant dining room table, practically strangers living under the same roof. They scoffed at me, rolling their eyes as I tried to explain that I wanted—needed—some independence in my life and that my own apartment would be a step in the right direction. They wouldn’t listen as I tried to make my argument for finding my own place; I was already going to the university they wanted me to, for the program they wanted me to, and I just wanted to have some sense of choice, I was turning nineteen at the time after all. They didn’t hold back as they explained how unhappy they were with my newfound independence—or rebellion, as they saw it—but every time I look around my apartment, I smile to myself, proud of how I held my ground against them and did something for me. Even though it was three years ago that I had that conversation with them and moved into this place, it feels both like a lifetime ago and like yesterday all at once.
I shake my head, trying to get rid of the thought of my family as I lift the paintbrushes from the sink, laying them out to dry before washing my hands and wiping them on my jeans. I walk over to the painting I just finished—the bright colors and abstract subject stand out against the brick wall it’s propped against. The pride in my chest is quickly replaced by self-doubt as I look at all the other finished pieces littering the floor of my apartment, having sold nothing since I dropped out of school. The city has an abundance of art galleries, but apparently, none that want to display my work.
I sigh heavily, racking my brain for any idea that could help sell my paintings. I swear I have walked the entire city twice over, carrying different pieces to various galleries, pitching myself and my work to anyone who would listen. While some showed interest, my walks quickly became lessons in rejection, as apparently, no one wants to back an unknown artist whose work might sit unsold for months or years.
I move to a stack of dried paintings, flipping through them to see if anything catches my eye, wondering what it will take to make it in this industry and if I will ever start to feel as though I’m not in way over my head.
This is what I wanted, I remind myself silently. The independence, the choice, the space from my parents. But despite knowing that this is the path I chose for myself, I wonder how much easier life would be right now with my parents’ connections. After all, while my parents don’t create art, they certainly collect it. When I decided to choose my own apartment to live in, it was a small act of rebellion in their eyes. But when I decided to drop out of law school and pursue art instead, it was an act of treason.
My phone dings and the noise startles me from my thoughts. For a brief second, hope sparks within me as I read the email I just received. It’s the owner of a local gallery, and while he wouldn’t accept my artwork, he did tell me they had an opening for a receptionist. I applied on a whim, hoping that I could find something that would help me pay my bills. My bank account was drying up quickly, and I was starting to feel desperate for some sort of income.
Hello Evi,
Thank you for your interest in working at our gallery. Unfortunately, we have decided to go in a different direction. Should you pursue a degree in art, please let us know. We would be happy to revisit your application in the future.
Sincerely,
Martin Van Woodsen
Van Woodsen Art Gallery
“Fuck,” I say loudly, the sound echoing off the brick walls.
I scroll through the rest of my emails, through dozens and dozens of unsuccessful job applications. I realize now that I made a mistake; I waited too late in the season to apply for jobs, with most of the university students securing all the decent summer work way back in January, leaving me waitressing the breakfast shift at a run-down diner. The only thing that is keeping me going, keeping me applying to job after job, is the need to prove my parents wrong. To show them that I can be successful in a world without our family name paving the way for me. I want them to see what I can make of myself, and maybe, just maybe, they will be proud of who I am, even if I’ll never fit their idea of success.
My phone buzzes again, and I cock an eyebrow in confusion at the email staring back at me.
Dear Evi Westwood,
Thank you so much for your interest in bartending at Poison Ivy. We are currently hiring and based on your glowing reference from Samantha Lockwood, we would be interested in having you attend an interview tomorrow, Tuesday the 11th, at 3pm. We are located at 246 Ivy Lane. Please ask for Mike when you arrive. If you have any questions between now and then please don’t hesitate to reach out.
Take care,
The Poison Ivy Team
“Oh, I have questions, alright,” I say under my breath.
I call Sam immediately, and she picks up on the first ring, her cheerful voice greeting me.
“You’ll never guess who I just had an email from—offering me a job that I never applied to,” I start, skipping the small talk.
“Poison Ivy wants to interview you?!” She practically yells into the phone, the excitement in her voice palpable.
“They do,” I start, smiling at her enthusiasm, “but how is it that I’ve been offered a job somewhere that I’ve never heard of, let alone applied to work at?” I ask incredulously.
“Well, you’re struggling for money, right? I was out partying with Lockwood and his friends a couple of weeks ago, and I ended up at Poison Ivy afterward with one of the guys. I overheard the bartender complaining about how short-staffed they are, so the next day, I took it upon myself to apply on your behalf. I think a ‘thank you’ is in order,” she says, the smile in her voice audible. She continues to talk as my thoughts begin to wander.
In all the years I’ve known Sam, I have never heard her call her brother by anything except their last name, Lockwood, and she has never hung out with him outside of family dinners. All I know about their relationship is that they’ve never been close and he’s living the life I was supposed to be, climbing his way up the ladder at a prestigious law firm in the city. While Sam is usually an open book, her relationship with her siblings—her older sister and brother—is never something she talks about, and I have a feeling her family might be as complicated as mine.
I snap my attention back to what she’s telling me about the job interview, making a mental note to ask about her partying with her brother later.
A grin spreads across my face as I realize—not for the first time—that she always has a tendency to show up for me in the most unexpected ways, and her unwavering support has been obvious throughout our friendship. She was the only person to buy a piece of my artwork, the first person to pop a bottle of bubbly when I got the keys to my own apartment, and has treated me like family since my own cut me off. On top of all of this, she’s trying to help me find a job.
“I really appreciate it Sam, truly.”
“You’ll rock this interview! When I was there I could totally picture you behind the bar. It seems like a cool place to work, but…” She trails off.
“But what?” I question suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Oh, nothing.” She chips in quickly. “This calls for a celebratory drink, let’s go to Heat tonight!”
“It’s Monday, Sam.” I laugh. “Why don’t you just come over and we can have a drink here or order pizza?”
I know what she’s going to say before she does.
“Sitting on your couch isn’t a celebration, Evi. Come on, it’s been ages since you came out with me. I feel like I haven’t seen much of you since you started dating Rhett.” She whines into the phone. “We need a girls’ night—it will be so much fun!”
I pause for a second, realizing she has a point. Since meeting Rhett at the diner almost two months ago, I’ve been rather distracted by his Southern charm and delectable good looks. When he isn’t taking me out to dinner at his Yacht club, he’s sitting at a booth in the diner, sipping bitter coffee and waiting for my shift to end. But lately, our thing has been watching movies together and, more often than not, ending up naked before the credits roll.
“Fine, fine,” I concede, sitting down on my couch in defeat. “A girls’ night it is!” A tentative smile crosses my lips.
“Okay, I’ll meet you at Heat at ten?” she suggests.
“P.m.?!” I ask incredulously.
“Yes, you hermit!” She laughs. “That’s when it’s just starting to pick up.”
“You sure you don’t want to watch a movie instead?”
“See you at Heat, Evi.” She laughs, and the phone goes quiet as she hangs up.
I throw myself back on the couch, feeling the cool material against my skin. I send Rhett a quick message, letting him know about my plans before I look at the time, silently calculating when I’ll start getting ready, and knowing exactly which outfit I’ll wear.