31. Anyone in Particular?
31
ANYONE IN PARTICULAR?
Harlow
It’s a perfect summer morning, Central Park whooshing by as I go on a bike ride with my brother.
Hunter rounds the sparkling lake ahead of me, the boathouse off in the distance presiding over the water. I’m a few paces behind him, but I’ll catch up.
It’s energizing to bike with him like we did when we were younger, chasing each other around our favorite place in the city— here .
I never beat him then. But I’m tougher and battle-scarred—literally—now.
Determined too.
I picture my ankle. The scar on it.
I pump the pedals harder and faster, and soon I’m passing Hunter, shooting him my most devilish little sister grin.
“Race you to Bethesda Terrace,” I shout.
“You’re on.”
Then, I bend low, tucked over the bike. He’s a racer, and he loves his adventure bike rides, but I’m fueled by the adrenaline of my wild life. By getting away with moments like I did last night with Bridger, from the gallery to the garden to my apartment. No idea when I’ll see him again. No clue either when I’ll hear from him again.
The uncertainty makes me push a little harder, working my muscles. Like if I ride harder, I’ll see him again sooner.
With that goal fueling me, I roar down the bike path, but when we’re fifty feet away from our destination, Hunter pulls ahead, badass that he is.
He finishes before me, panting hard, but victorious.
When I stop a second later, I faux grumble at him. “I know you had your bike turbo-charged last night,” I tease, like I did when we were kids.
“Yes, that’s it exactly, Lo. I juiced my rental bike late last night when you were sleeping,” he says drily.
“Knew it,” I say, then we lock up our bikes on a rack, and helmets in hand, we walk toward Bethesda Terrace, home of some of our most mischievous excursions years ago when Hunter spent his summers here.
We stop at the terrace overlooking a fountain made famous in movies, and I point to some trees beyond. “Remember when we tried to build a tree fort there? We bought wood at a hardware shop, tools and everything,” I say, picturing that adventurous day when we’d thought we were both explorers and builders.
He laughs. “Wherever did we come up with that mad idea?”
“In a book, I’m sure,” I say.
“And then the police came by and were basically like well, kids, you can’t very well build a tree house in Central Park ,” he says.
“But it seemed like such a good idea at the time,” I say.
“The best idea.”
I laugh at the lovely memory, then rest my elbows on the terrace, soaking in the sun. I’ll be meeting Amelie a little later, but for now, I’m gobbling up my morning with my brother, especially since he was too exhausted to hang out when he arrived last night. We both crashed hard. Maybe that was for the best, given what I’d been doing moments before he arrived.
Bridger texted me from his car last night, saying, Hunter just walked in .
I didn’t bother to say close call . We both knew it was.
I focus on my guest now. “So, tell me more about the trip to California.” He’d traveled to San Francisco for work. “How’s everything going with Webflix?”
His cheeks pinken, his dimple appearing in full force. Ohhhh. That’s quite a tell. “I guess something more interesting than work happened?” I stare at him purposefully. What are you hiding from me ?
“Why would you think something happened?” he asks ever so innocently.
“Hunter! Who did you meet in California?” I stomp a foot, exaggerating indignation.
“Nobody.” But he can’t keep the smile off his face, and he rolls his eyes. “Ah, fuck it. Somebody. Somebody totally fantastic.” He drags both hands through his thick hair. “Lo, this guy. Holy fuck. He was just…” He can barely speak, he’s so…infatuated.
I can barely do anything but shriek because I’m already infatuated with his story. “Details,” I demand.
“We went to his place, and it was amazing.”
“Did you…?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I mean, I’ve only ever kissed a man before, but we did a little more than kissing, this guy and me.”
Or maybe a lot, I wonder, reading his expression. But he’ll share when he’s ready.
He drops his voice even lower. “He’s a football player in San Francisco. And just wow. The whole thing was just…wow.”
“That’s great,” I say, giddy for my brother. He sounds all caught up in his crush. “So will you see him again?” Once I ask, I realize it’s unlikely. This guy lives in San Francisco. My brother lives in London.
“I don’t think so,” he says sadly. “What with the whole continent plus an ocean thing and all. But maybe I’ll see him next year if I go there again,” he says, with the hope that only intoxication can bring.
“Sounds like you already miss him.”
Nodding, he winces, like it hurts to acknowledge. “Weirdly, I do. It was one day, one afternoon. But we got on so well. He was sort of sexy but vulnerable, know what I mean?”
An image of Bridger from last night flashes before my eyes.
The clench in his jaw. The heat in his eyes. The restraint in his voice.
But the giving in too.
The way he wanted me with reckless abandon. Sparks rush through me as the memory turns more visceral.
Bridger is sexy but vulnerable.
“I do know,” I say as evenly as I can, hoping the heat doesn’t leak through in my voice.
Hunter arches a curious brow. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t have to say anyone in particular ?
It’s an unspoken question, but it makes me queasy.
I can’t let on about Bridger. Not even a hint.
Hunter knows Bridger. Bridger signed his paychecks for two years when Hunter worked as a junior producer on Sweet Nothings , before he joined Webflix earlier this year. But I promised Bridger I’d keep us a secret. And even though I knew I’d have to swallow the truth, it still hurts as the lie slides down my throat.
“I mean, I imagine what you mean,” I correct, saying it as breezily as I can, channeling my inner actress, the one Daddy coached for years with his lies. Then I grab the steering wheel and yank the conversation back to him. “So this guy. Are you sure you can’t see him again? Lots of love affairs have started as long-distance ones. Maybe it’s not insurmountable.”
He chuckles a resigned laugh, rather than a happy one. “Not really. I live within my means. I don’t live on Daddy’s dime.”
I straighten my spine, saying sharply, “I don’t either.”
Hunter blanches. “Oh shit. Lo, I didn’t mean anything about you,” he says, apologetic. “I know you don’t.”
“My apartment is from my mom,” I add, hurt in my voice.
“Lo, I know.”
“And I’m going to find a job,” I add, more defensive than I should be. “Maybe even today.”
He pulls me into a conciliatory hug. “I’m on your side. I understand. I wasn’t saying you’re a daddy’s girl. I’m just saying I have to live like I don’t come from Sweet Nothings. ”
Reality is, I have it easier. The apartment, after all, is a game changer. I sniffle, then pull away. “Sorry, I’m just nervous. About the interview later today,” I say.
“You’re going to do great. And I’m glad you quit Lucky 21. It wasn’t you. And I don’t want you to be so tied up with Dad. He was toxic when I worked with him.”
My stomach churns. Hunter had hinted at that, but hearing it tugs painfully on my heart. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“He was always putting me down, belittling me for not being as good as him, and at the same time trying to entice me to work in his world. It was like a hug, then a slap in the face, then another slap, then another hug. I’m happier now that I’m doing my own thing,” Hunter says, clearly relieved to be free. “That’s why you quit, right? To do your own thing?”
Once again, I wish I could be fully honest with him. I wish I could say I quit for me. I quit to follow my passion, but my passion also is our father’s business partner.
“Of course,” I say and that’s very, very close to the truth.
Back at my place, I shower and change into something business-y, but still Saturday-ish. I choose a red summery dress with the tiniest white polka dots and pair it with a short-sleeve white cardigan. It’s festive and fresh, and the dots on the dress are small enough to give a pointillism vibe. Always a plus to put on an outfit with an art reference.
Hunter and I leave together. Out on the street, I give him a kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight? We’ll do dinner?”
“We damn well better,” he says, then heads off to meet a friend for an afternoon beer while I go to a coffee shop in Gramercy Park.
It’s a little odd that we’re not meeting at or near MoMA, but then it’s a Saturday, so I suppose that makes sense.
The Lyft whisks me down to Twenty-Seventh Street, and I find the café quickly, then spot the stylish curator at a table by the window inside. After quick hellos, I sit across from her.
“Coffee, tea, LaCroix, or some shake with some mix in it that makes you feel something?” she asks archly.
I laugh at Amelie’s dry humor. “Tea is great. No shakes with things in it for me.”
After we order and return to the table with mugs, she deals me an intense stare. “You may be wondering why I didn’t ask to meet you at MoMA.”
“The thought occurred to me,” I admit.
“Look, here is the deal,” she says, glancing behind her, then around, then cutting to the chase. “I gave notice the other week. My last day is Tuesday.”
Oh, wow. That’s huge. “That’s a change.”
“MoMA is a wonderful place. I am glad to have cut my teeth there. But,” she says, in a conspiratorial tone, “Allison gave me permission to tell you this. She’s convinced me to come to Petra Gallery. They have some very exciting installations coming up, and we’re expanding the space to bring on more new artists,” she says, then rattles off details on the type of art they’re chasing—art that showcases passion, emotion, love. “We’re looking for some associates to work their way up as we build our client base.”
“Where do I sign up?” I ask, unafraid to show every ounce of enthusiasm I feel. And I feel all the ounces. All the gallons. All the drums.
“Are you sure?” she asks coyly. “I never got the impression you were that excited about theories of art.”
I roll the dice. I go out on a limb as I say, “And I have a feeling that’s why you want to hire me.”
She shrugs, but there’s a smile in it. “You’re not wrong.”
We talk more, then she tells me she’ll need to speak with Allison for final approval. “I’ll get back to you this week,” she adds.
“I look forward to it,” I say, and I leave, floating on a career high.
For the first time ever, this feeling of buoyancy is all mine. It comes from my head, and my heart, and my work. The time and energy I poured into art—when I learned what I liked and didn’t like—has almost paid off.
When she heads downtown and I head uptown, I finger the I on my necklace, then whisper, “Can I tell you a secret, Mom?”
Then I imagine telling her about the rest of today, knowing she’d be proud of me.
I gaze heavenward, then back down to earth, taking a deep, excited breath. Time to tell my friends and my brother, but first I spot a sneaker on the sidewalk, near a grate. A lone purple Converse. I snap a photo and post it, asking the question: Lost or found?
When I open my texts to share the news with my friends, there’s a new message blinking up at me.
From Bridger.
And once I read it, I hail the next cab I see.