Sophia
I didn’t spend as much time cringing in embarrassment before falling asleep last night as I’d thought I would. James has his own private elevator and parking area. Our paths aren’t going to cross in the hallway or in the lobby. Despite being neighbors, I had never met him until last night. I don’t think I have to worry about seeing him again.
Besides, he should be the one who’s embarrassed, bringing loud girl after loud girl home and not caring who hears him screwing at all hours of the night.
It’s not long before I’ve put it behind me. I’ve got bigger worries—it’s a Saturday morning, and I’m scheduled to work. Weekends are usually our busiest days since the gallery stopped being appointment only this last September.
It’s a cold morning after last night’s snow. I was hoping that Richard would close the gallery because of the aftermath of the storm, but no such luck. I don my big navy parka that stretches down to my shins and stop at my favorite coffee shop—Tito’s. Ironic, because I’ve come here plenty of times to revive myself after having far too much Tito’s.
That’s not the case as often anymore. I’m twenty-six and reaching the age where I’m slowing down a bit on late nights out. My brain and wallet can’t take it anymore. It’s resulted in a bit of a dry spell since I don’t like dating apps.
My last two relationships came from meeting a man while I was out on the town. But look how those ended.
Most of the year I’m content with my singledom. The one guy I clicked with, Jake Taffy, turned out to be a serial cheater. He was showing me a meme on his phone when a text came through.
You coming over tonight? Smiling devil emoji. From… Mom?
It turns out all his contact names were switched up. So his mom was in his contacts as Marissa, and Marissa was his mom. And Stacy was Dan from work. And Dan from Work was Daniel. And so on.
One big confusing cluster fuck of philandering code.
Oh, and the fun part? We dated for five years. He was cheating on me after month three.
That relationship ended almost a year ago exactly. Maybe that’s why I’ve been in such a bad mood lately.
I’m not broken-hearted about it, and I never was. I’ve been rageful and betrayed. Half a decade of the best years of my life, and all I learned from love was to adopt a gangster’s motto. “Trust no one.”
I’ve never told my parents or my best friends what really happened. They think we broke up because Jake wanted to move to LA.
But I can’t bring myself to tell others about his cheating. The sheer extent of it is what gets me. I’m embarrassed I got played so hard.
I know it’s not me. I know I’m the victim, but that’s the part that sucks. I don’t want to be the victim. I want to be the girl who can spot the cheater from a mile away.
Poor got played . That’s all anyone is going to think. They’d just pity me.
Valentine’s Day is coming up next week, and I’m thinking of the last one when I was freshly backstabbed.
I was walking around with a bottle of wine in a paper bag and scowling at happy couples. I think I told one woman on the arm of a very attractive man that “ His mom may really be his whore. You don’t know. You can’t know.”
They hurried away, disturbed, before I could explain I meant switched contact names. Not my finest moment. It was my only public intoxication moment. I think we’re all allowed one after the end of any long-term relationship.
I get an iced caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso. It’s warm in Tito’s. The gas fireplaces are running, and the big leather chairs are warm to the touch.
The fresh snow and cold has kept the weekend crowd away, and I sink into a chair in front of one of the fireplaces and sip my drink.
My thoughts are stuck on men. I can’t help but think of James in the gallery. His tall frame and face as sculpted as the statues we display. It pisses me off. He’s so obviously the non-monogamous type.
The thing is, even after my heart was steamrolled by Jake, I still think true love exists. It’s why I was mad at couples on Valentine’s Day. They got what I didn’t—real relationships with commitment.
Those exist. I’m still a believer. But I have been left with a new disdain for men who go through women like tissue paper.
James Callaway. I remember his full name from Hailee talking about him.
I can’t resist. I Google him for the first time.
CEO of Aquarius Systems. Net worth estimated around one billion. I look for an interview, video or print, but find neither.
Mysterious. Private. His wiki page is suspiciously empty, too. It didn’t even have a picture of him.
This guy is probably a criminal. His big black Benz is evidence enough. But yes, I admit while looking at a professional headshot of him in Google images, he’s a hot criminal.
His green eyes look edited. Same goes for his jawline. He could just as easily be a model for Brooks Brothers as a rich chief executive. The bastard.
Although it was very nice of him to give me a ride home in the snow. Although yes, he probably felt like he didn’t have a choice.
My coffee is only half done, but I’m at risk of running late to work. I usually show up five minutes early to everything, but I can’t bring myself to stand. I’m locked into this deep leather chair, overheating in my parka that I still haven’t shrugged off.
Everyone thinks my life is great. I seemingly landed my dream job years ago. I’m freshly single, ready to hit the market again. But it’s all a lie. I’m the put-together girl on the surface, but deep down, everything feels like it’s falling apart.
I pull myself out of my hot chair, my cheeks flushed from the fire and the caffeine, and step back out into the cold.
I arrive at the gallery at ten a.m., sharp. I’m about to open the glass door, when I suddenly stop. My hand grips the handle, but I don’t open it.
I’m staring at a man in a brown suit. He’s pointing at a few sculptures with one hand while his other is tucked into his pocket. He turns, and I catch the sharp contour of this man’s jaw.
It’s James.
So, this is what he meant by see you tomorrow .
He’s picking up his painting in person.
I open the door and keep my eyes on the floor as I go towards the back office to deposit my parka. I don’t want him seeing me like this. My earmuffs and mittens are comically large, and I can feel my nose running.
I glance up. James holds a thin overcoat over his arm. I watch him turn to look at me, and I avoid his eyes at all costs. I look dead ahead as I disappear into the back offices.
“You’re late,” I hear immediately upon entering.
Richard is standing in a gray three-piece suit. He’s dressed up today and looks like the Monopoly man. All he’s missing is the monocle.
I look at the clock on the wall. The second hand is just gliding past twelve at the top. It’s exactly ten. “It’s not a minute past ten,” I argue.
“You’ve been getting here five to ten minutes early for years. Therefore, you’re late. When you build expectations, , people can make of it what they will when you break them.”
“Okay,” I relent, not wanting to piss him off and make my life harder. “Won’t happen again.”
“We’re not opening at ten today. Change of plans.”
“What?” I ask.
Richard is already walking past me out of the room. He leans his head back in for a moment. “Daniel McMurphy is here. There’s a meeting until eleven. We open then.”
“Okay.”
He widens his eyes and looks over my coat, mittens, and earmuffs as if it’s not ten degrees out and I’m dressed ridiculously. “Don’t be late.”
Richard doesn’t pay much attention to the weather because he can afford an Uber every day. I can’t.
I’m thinking of ditching and leaving out the delivery door again. Not seriously. I’m too much of a coward for that. I go to the bathroom to tame my hair and warm up my nose so I don’t walk into the meeting looking like Rudolph.
It’s hot in the gallery, and I can’t take my sweater off. I only have a T-shirt underneath. Some days you’re just supposed to suffer.
I hear the door to the back offices open, and I listen to the group head to the conference room. I squint at my reflection in the mirror. Did I hear James’s voice, too?
I’m sure I did. It’s far more recognizable than the others. Dark velvet. Deep and confident.
I wash my hands and follow. Everyone is taking their seats at the conference table as I enter, and James, to my surprise, is sitting at one head while Daniel McMurphy sits at the other. The Beaumont in the company’s namesake died years ago.
What the hell is going on? Suddenly my guts tighten. I feel my breath stop and linger in my lungs. I could implode with anxiety.
This must be about last night. Making fun of the modern painting. I’m about to get fired.
The thoughts last for several seconds before I decide McMurphy wouldn’t be here if I was getting fired. He’s too important.
But I’m still stricken with a feeling I haven’t had for years. It’s like I’ve been called to the principal’s office, and I don’t know why.
“And this is , our first-year assistant gallerist,” Richard says.
Second, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. I give a little wave, and others nod in acknowledgement as I sit in an open chair.
Everyone the gallery employs is here. There’s Tim, our curator. Megan, our chief of marketing. And Jessica, a fourth-year assistant gallerist who views me as competition and does a much better job kissing Richard’s ass than I do.
But I’m not looking at any of my coworkers. My eyes are on James. He wears a green tie that matches his eyes, and his golden-brown hair rests in a perfect wave. I could study him as thoroughly as one of our sculptures, but he must sense my gaze, and I tear my eyes away at lightspeed just before he catches me looking.
What is he doing here? He bought an expensive piece, sure, but we don’t bring buyers into the conference room, period.
“Alright. Let’s get down to it.” Daniel McMurphy takes over. He’s a pudgy man in his late sixties. He wears horn-rimmed glasses and a cardigan. An artist’s style, but his family comes from old finance money.
“Not all of you have been aware of the work we’ve been doing behind the scenes. We’d hate to distract, especially when the results have very little effect on your careers.”
A few of us stir and look at each other, confused. Richard looks at his nails with boredom. Apparently, he knows what’s going on.
McMurphy continues. “The gallery has been sold.”
Several of the staff stand straight and stiff, and McMurphy holds out his hand in a calming gesture. “And before there is any worry, I’d like you all to know that there will be no restructuring. First and foremost, everyone is keeping their jobs.”
My coworkers relax, but I never went stiff. I wouldn’t mind a severance package. I can’t afford to just up and quit.
“The gallery will continue to bear the name McMurphy, since it’s built a reputation, and your jobs and responsibilities will continue the same as before…” He keeps talking, but I’ve glanced back to James.
I know where this is going. My mouth is open slightly in confusion.
“I’d like to introduce the new owner,” McMurphy says. “James Callaway.”
James nods. All heads turn to him. “Thank you, Daniel.” He commands the room in a way McMurphy doesn’t. He sits not so seriously, with one of his arms resting on the table and a pen twirling through his fingers.
He oozes confidence as he rubs his stubble with a thumb and outlines what his ownership means for us, the employees. I hope it’ll also be in an email, because I’m not listening. I’m quietly fuming.
At least Daniel McMurphy was a wannabe artist. He had great respect for the sculptures and artifacts that came through our doors. I shared with him my dream of one day doing real archaeology. Egypt. Greece. Looking for lost Spanish gold in the Amazon.
James isn’t a patron of the arts. All this is to him is an addition to his portfolio. He’s an art investor . An oxymoron if you ask me. It’s a smart move. Running a high-end gallery is a good way to get a first look at the best pieces hitting the market.
But all he’ll do with what comes through here is keep them in storage in New Jersey while they appreciate.
I don’t know if it’s because the heat is cranked up or I was in my parka for too long, but I’m burning with anger. James makes eye contact with everyone while he speaks. His eyes travel from one person to the next, making everyone feel like this speech is a personal conversation about his commitment to art, history, and the preservation of both. But he doesn’t mention what we sell at all. I notice that much.
It’s all numbers and expansion plans and an assurance that our jobs won’t be altered by this change.
Those emeralds land on me, and I realize I’m not shying away this time. I glare back at him. James stops speaking. He purses his lips a little and narrows his eyes at me dangerously .
I believe the statistic that claims eighty percent of human communication is done via body language, because I know what the slight question on his face is asking me— are you going to be a problem?
I’m the first to look away. I act like there’s something on my sweater sleeve and pluck the invisible fluff off. My heart has begun to drum.
I don’t want to work for this asshole. Yes, there’s a problem. You’re the antithesis of what art and history should stand for. It’s not supposed to be hoarded and speculated on for wealth.
I can’t listen to James speak for many reasons, but the one climbing to the top is that this sweater is too damn hot. I rub a sheen of sweat from my forehead as James talks business—KPIs and current CLV. I’m hit by the brutal fact that there is no such thing as a dream job.
I should’ve known that sooner. It’s in the name, for God’s sake.
James wraps up his speech. I haven’t been following and feel caught off guard. I immediately start clapping. Everyone just looks at me before giving a halfhearted clap or two themselves.
I’m not embarrassed for looking weird. I’m feeling a little dangerous myself. I don’t care about this job anymore. I might as well have fun with it. Plus, this meeting needs to end ASAP because I’m roasting alive.
But it doesn’t end. There’s a half hour of questions, where everyone asks a couple questions except for me, and then the meeting is adjourned.
I turn to the door but notice that everyone has queued up to shake James’s hand. Shit. My hand is about as warm and clammy as a toddler’s. I try to wipe it on my pants, but it’s little use.
When it’s my turn to shake hands, we lock eyes. I don’t have anything to say to him. I just hate how my heart and breath both flutter nervously.
James speaks first. “I look forward to working with you, ,” he says, very businesslike.
“Thanks,” I mumble and turn before I say something stupid. Then I’m out of the conference room door and racing to take off this sweater. I don’t want to go to the bathroom. It’s just as hot there. I won’t be able to properly cool off before starting my shift.
I go to the delivery door again. It’s in a small garage that is already thirty degrees colder than the office. We’re not taking deliveries today, and I figure the piece James bought last night will remain in the gallery since he owns the building now, too.
There’s nothing here but tools and some sculptures that need restoring, currently covered in tarps.
I strip my sweater off.
I have boob sweat. And I don’t have a lot of boob. It usually takes an August day of being stuck in the sun for that. I look over my shoulder at the door.
I doubt I’ll have company. Plus, I don’t care if Richard catches me. If he fires me for airing out my breasts, I’ll take it to the Supreme Court.
Where yes, I’ll lose. But whatever. I unlatch my bra, sling it like a black bat over a tarped sculpture, and sigh in relief.
I lift my breasts and then stretch my arms to the ceiling to let the cold air hit my pits. I stay like this until my nipples start to swell and point from the cold. When I get my first shiver, I reach for my sweater, but at the same time, the door handle behind me turns.
I don’t freeze. I dart into a crouch like a big stupid spider behind a wall of sheeted sculptures.
“Yes. Smooth as can be.” I hear a man’s voice. James’s voice. He’s talking on the phone.
I close my eyes. Fuck.
“I don’t think any of the employees will be a problem.”
I suddenly go from naked and afraid to curious. He wouldn’t have come back here if he didn’t want somewhere private for this call.
“Let’s give it a few weeks. Months, even,” says James. “We don’t want swift action raising any eyebrows. Let it correspond to the marketing push and my connections. It’ll be easy.”
James is quiet for a minute as the person on the other line talks. I can hear their voice like a faint static, but I can’t pick any words out of it. I lean closer to try to hear better.
I’m so close to making out what they’re saying.
I think the man on the phone just said something about trees. Or maybe it was the bees? I can’t see James from behind the sculptures. I close my eyes and put my ear out just a little more.
Then my eyes go wide. The sheet that’s hiding me is moving. I think for a fatal second that James is pulling it, but then I realize the sculpture I’m leaning against is falling.
“No!” I say aloud. I dive and hug the statue. I can’t keep it from falling, too, but I can protect it from the concrete floor.
We both hit the ground with a dull thud, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with the shined black leather of James’s dress shoes.
“I’ll call you back,” he says calmly, like me falling out of the woodwork wasn’t completely unexpected.
I can’t bring myself to move. I’m naked from the waist up. My boobs are at least hidden, as they’re pressed into the sheet.
“A little privacy, please,” I finally manage to say. I look up at him. He looks even taller when I’m lying on the floor. Who woulda guessed?
His eyes travel the length of my bare torso briefly. I can feel my skin prickle where he rests his eyes. Eventually, after he’s gotten his look, he turns away.
“You’re the one snooping on me.”
“I come back here all the time. This is my chill spot,” I say like I’m a kid who found it first. I’m forgetting that James is now my boss’s boss. He’s the official owner. I can’t talk to him this way. But I can’t help it.
“So why are you naked?”
“Why are you still here?”
He bends and snatches my sweater from the floor. He hands it to me. “I’m genuinely curious.”
“It’s a million degrees in there if you haven’t noticed.”
“I did think it was a little warm.”
I throw my sweater on and stand.
James starts to lift the sculpture up. When it’s upright, he strips off the sheet. It’s an ugly bust of a bearded man with a nose that’s been broken off. I didn’t break off the nose, however. It’s not actually a classic. I know the piece. I inventoried it.
“You saved a real beauty,” he says sarcastically.
“How about thanks for being so committed to the art.”
“Thanks,” James says. “For being so committed to the art.”
I can’t stand this man. I hate that he’s so hot. That his sly grin makes it feel like I swallowed a sparkler.
Bad instincts. James Callaway is not what a woman should look for in a partner.
“I should get back to work,” I say and turn to the door.
“Okay, . But you might…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. I turn around, ready to tell him to spit it out, but to my horror, he picks my bra up off where it fell on the floor and holds it out like it might bite.
I walk forward and snatch it. A little too aggressively. “Thank you,” I say with some earnestness and leave him in the delivery garage. I walk down the hall, stuffing my bra in my pants until I can get it on.
My thoughts are already far from whatever that phone call was about. The good news is I saw the old owner, Daniel McMurphy, about twice a year.
I can only hope the same will go for James.