Chapter 12
SARAH
The Bainbridge Studio is closed to the public on Fridays, so I start my day without any idea of how I’d like to spend it. I could go downstairs to paint, but I need a minute away from my canvas before I fixate so much on changing it that I wind up ruining it instead.
At this point in the process, tiny changes can make a huge impact for good or bad. So I have to tread carefully. The best way to do that is to give myself some breathing room and not try to force it.
At least, if Carter’s advice holds any weight.
Carter. Thinking of him stirs up all kinds of uncomfortable feelings. I’m well aware that my tiny freakout after our last phone call was unreasonable.
Too aware.
But I couldn’t help it.
First, he walked me through a stunning house because for some ridiculous—possibly chivalrous—reason, he thinks he needs my approval to buy it.
Then he showed me the most incredible studio space I’ve ever seen and talked about it like he’d already given serious thought to how I might use it effectively.
It was amazing. Generous, thoughtful—as kind as I have grown to expect Carter to be.
And then, we were back downstairs and I was face-to-face with his very beautiful realtor, and suddenly and completely irrationally, I wanted to jab my fingernails directly into her perfectly made-up eyeballs.
The jealousy that welled up inside me as soon as Shelby’s face filled my phone screen was sudden and fierce, and I really did not like the way it made me feel. Mostly because it came completely out of the blue.
My phone buzzes from my nightstand and I reach for it, somehow hoping it both is and is not Carter at the same time.
It isn’t Carter—the disappointment swirling in my gut makes my true feelings clear—but it is Emerson, my closest friend from SCAD, which is an unexpected surprise.
Emerson
SARAH. You’re in New York right now.
Sarah
Yes? Why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong?
Emerson
You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just stalking your Instagram. Your account AND the Bainbridge account. LOOK AT YOU GO.
Sarah
Aww. Thanks. It’s been an amazing experience so far.
Emerson
I’m glad, but that’s not why I texted you. I texted to say…
I AM ALSO IN NEW YORK RIGHT NOW.
Sarah
Shut up. You are? Why?
Emerson
Does anyone truly need a reason to be in New York?
Sarah
In February? Yes. Yes, they do.
Emerson
Fine. True. Do you remember me mentioning Jeremy?
Sarah
The violinist?
Emerson
That’s him. He’s from Long Island. We’re here for the weekend to meet his family.
Instead of responding to Emerson’s message, I immediately call him.
He answers on the first ring.
“Um, we’re just working that into a random text message like it’s no big deal? You’re meeting his family?”
“Do you like how I did that?” Emerson says.
“So this is pretty serious between you two,” I say, sitting up and tugging my comforter around my shoulders. My temporary apartment is nice, but I’ve had the toughest time keeping it warm. Which is odd because it shouldn’t be difficult to heat two hundred square feet.
“Yeah, it really is,” he says. “Not that I have any desire to talk about me. I told you I’ve seen your Instagram, woman. You have a lot to tell me.”
I’ve been posting pictures of my residency all week, so I’m not surprised Emerson wants all the details, and he’s exactly the friend I would love to share them with.
“Where are you?” I say. “Want to meet for coffee?”
“I was hoping you’d ask that,” Emerson says. “Because I’m actually outside the Bainbridge and I already have coffee.”
I practically squeal as I jump out of my bed.
“Shut up! Are you serious? I’m coming down right now.
” I toss on a hoodie and fly down the stairway that leads into the studio.
There’s a side door into a narrow alley, and I prop it open with a loose brick that’s left on the stoop for precisely this purpose and run up to the sidewalk to look for Emerson.
It’s absolutely frigid outside, so I’d better not have to look long. Thankfully, he’s only a few yards away.
“Emerson!” I call, and he spins around. I haven’t seen him in almost a month, and the sight of his lanky frame makes me so incredibly happy. He has a little more facial hair than he did the last time I saw him, but everything else is just the same.
“Have you lost your mind?” he asks as he walks toward me, two coffee cups in his hands. “Your feet are bare.”
I reach up to give him a hug which he only partially returns because of his full hands.
“Please don’t make me spill,” he says as I squeeze his neck. “These lattes were ten dollars apiece.”
“Are they dusted with gold?” I ask, dancing back and forth to keep my toes from freezing to the sidewalk. “Come on. Let’s get back inside.”
Once we’re back in my tiny accommodations, I grab a pair of socks from my suitcase and a blanket from the bed. Emerson unwinds his scarf from around his neck, but I stop him.
“You should probably keep it on,” I say. “I think my heat is broken.”
“Your heat?” he says, lifting his thick black eyebrows. “That sounds like a Bainbridge problem. If you’re cold, call them.”
I wave a hand away. “They’re letting me stay here for free. It’s not a big deal.”
“You aren’t staying for free. You’re painting. Bringing in patrons. This is a residency. Not a hostel.”
“It’s fine. I only have a few more days. It’s really not a big deal.”
He rolls his eyes. “Must you be so long-suffering? Complain a little! Make demands!”
I toss the blanket at him. “Stop it and give me my coffee.”
We settle onto the couch with coffee and a couple of croissants Emerson miraculously pulls from his inside coat pocket. They are a tiny bit smushed, but they are no less delicious for it, so I cannot complain.
“This is the best surprise ever,” I say as I take another bite of the buttery croissant. “How did you know I was here?”
“I told you. Instagram,” he says.
“No, I know. But here here. Did you know the Bainbridge has living quarters attached?”
“I didn’t. I actually thought I’d find you working. Is the studio closed today?”
“It’s always closed on Fridays,” I say.
“Then all of this makes more sense,” he says, motioning to my pajama-clad self. “So how has it been? Amazing? I’m sure it’s been amazing.”
I can’t help but smile. “It totally has been. Everyone has been so supportive, and I’ve met some incredible artists. I’ve loved every second of it.”
“Was I correct in thinking I saw a photo of you with Calista Reinhart? Isn’t she the gallerist from the Rooke?”
“She is, and I absolutely freaked out when she stopped by. She wants me to come by the gallery on Sunday morning for tea.”
“Shut up. Is she going to offer you a show?”
“I have no idea. I really don’t want to get my hopes up, but she had great things to say about the piece I was working on, and…I don’t know. It was really good talking to her.”
“You know she’s from Georgia, right?” Emerson says. “She went to SCAD.”
“She told me.”
“I went to a guest lecture she did my freshman year—it was brilliant.” Emerson studied interior design at SCAD, but it’s totally like him to attend all the guest lectures no matter the department.
“Anyway, I’m super excited that might happen for you, but that’s not what I want to talk about right now. ”
“Right!” I quickly say. “You and Jeremy! I want to hear all about it.”
Emerson stares at me like I’ve grown a third eyeball in the middle of my forehead. “Are you serious right now?”
“Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Sarah. We are not talking about my very boring, very normal relationship when you are dating a professional hockey player.”
I press my lips together. Of course he wants to talk about Carter, but I’m not actually sure I can without telling Emerson the whole entire truth. That’s the kind of friendship we have.
When Carter and I hashed out details of how this would work with Anna and Miles, we came up with a list of insiders who would know the actual truth about our relationship. I didn’t put Emerson on it, but I should have. Now that we’re together in person, lying to him feels impossible.
“Right,” I say. “I guess you would want to know about that.”
“You think?” he says. “Spill it. I need all the details.”
I bite my lip, considering my options. I want to tell Emerson, but I can’t do that unless I clear it with Carter first. We agreed on the list, and I won’t violate his trust.
“Hang on one second,” I say to Emerson. Then I reach for my phone and squeeze myself into my very tiny bathroom.
Carter answers almost immediately.
“Hey,” he says, and I close my eyes, the sound of his voice already making me feel better. Steadier somehow.
“Hi. How are you?”
“At the airport about to take off,” he says.
“Right. You play in Montreal tonight.”
“And New York tomorrow.” He pauses for a beat before adding, “I can’t wait to see you.”
I can tell by the sounds around him that he isn’t alone. He’s probably with teammates, so I shouldn’t put any stock in his words. But it still feels good to hear them.
“Yeah. Me too,” I say. “So, listen, I just ran into a friend in the city. An old friend from SCAD, and we’re catching up and having coffee and I think…I’d like to tell him the truth.” I pause and take a breath. “About us.”
Carter is silent for a long moment before saying, “Okay. Do you…” He pauses and clears his throat. “Do you mind if I ask why?” His voice is almost strangled, like he’s fighting really hard to get the words out.
“Um, I guess just because we’re really close and it feels wrong not to be honest?”
He scoffs. “Hang on. Let me get somewhere private.” I hear some shuffling, then a creaking door, then stillness.
I’m struck by the image of him trying to cram his six-foot-four frame into an airplane bathroom just so he can talk to me, and I smile as I picture it, even if I am struggling to understand why he sounds upset.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I guess I just want to know what you mean by close. How close?”