Chapter 13
thirteen
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Panic sloshes over me like a bucket of ice water. Each text “Hopefully Yours” has ever sent pinballs through my brain, crashing each assumption I had into smithereens. Levi couldn’t have sent that last text. I was holding his freaking phone when H.Y. texted me, for goodness sake.
But if not Levi, then who?
My brain racks itself like an old purse, littered with crusty change and gum wrappers. I shake each memory free, picking through the lint to see who I’ve given my number to since I dropped my phone off the pier last year.
I grimace.
There have been a lot.
In the past, Liza liked to accuse me of handing out my number to hot men like Halloween candy, and now I want to kick myself.
I scroll through each text H.Y. has sent.
UNKNOWN: Hey. I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you how beautiful you are today. Can’t wait to meet up sometime. -Hopefully Yours.
UNKNOWN: Hope your holidays are as beautiful as you. -Hopefully Yours.
UNKNOWN: You’ll make one lucky guy extremely happy one day. Still hoping it’ll be me. -Hopefully Yours
UNKNOWN: I’d love to take you to Navy Pier at sunset sometime. It’s beautiful, but not as beautiful as you. -Hopefully Yours
My eyebrows cinch until they ache.
They’re all from different numbers.
I scroll through my contact list and discover that each of the numbers did save, each beneath the heading “Levi.” I never thought to check my contact list, only assuming the water damage was at fault.
There are three “Levi’s” already in my phone, and none of them are him. What, does the creep own four different phones? Some crazy texting software?
Nothing makes sense, and I’m at a loss.
I’m still dumbfounded two days later as I stand in front of a Pulse Fitness dressing room mirror.
It’s Monday morning, and my hot yoga class ran late.
I showered and french-braided my hair into two heavy plaits in record time, because in addition to being mega creeped out over H.Y.
, I refuse to watch from that crusty chair as Brandon gloats all over the nice desk.
I scurry to the Pulse Fitness door in my work slacks and cream overcoat, making sure my pepper spray is accessible from the front pocket of my duffel bag.
As if my best friend somehow senses my frantic energy, I get a text from her.
AMANTHA: Val just told me Brandon isn’t coming in to work today. Did you punch him again?!
AMANTHA: Never mind. Val just told me he’s sick. But still, you should try to stop punching people.
KATE: It was a BOXING lesson. I was supposed to punch him!
AMANTHA: Fair.
I chew my lip, wondering if I should tell Amantha about H.Y. I don’t want to freak her out when she has so much going on, but I’m also mildly terrified and would really like some support.
I step outside with a heavy sigh, and the shining sun tries to lift my spirits. My long cream overcoat swishes against my black pantsuit as I walk in my pointed boots. The winter air is still biting, but it’s bearable. I decide to walk the twenty minutes to the museum.
At least I won’t have to race Brandon to the good chair in our office if he’s out sick.
I wonder what he has. Probably just a cold or something, but a teensy, tiny, totally-unreasonable-and-unwarranted part of me worries if it’s something more.
Surely he’s got people to take care of him.
Doesn’t he? Although I can’t quite picture Tucker knowing how to make soup.
Rolling my eyes, I remind myself that Brandon is a big boy. He can take care of himself and will likely be back to work and annoying me in no time.
I take a shortcut through the winding sidewalks of Jackson Park, my eyes skipping over the skeletal cherry blossom trees.
I catch a glimpse of a guy with a black beanie and sunglasses strolling along behind me.
A prickle of paranoia in my gut spreads like thick oil, coating my rational thinking.
I pick up the pace, trying to appear nonchalant.
I don’t check to see if his steps follow suit.
Rounding the corner, I curse as I almost collide with a metal scaffolding pole. The man in the beanie strolls around me with casual strides, and his thick mustache is evidence enough that he’s a perfect stranger.
Clutching a hand to my chest, I look up at the metal scaffolding to find a person so bundled in layers that I can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man.
I take a few steps back and take in the mural the artist is working on.
It’s a technicolor face of a lion, and it’s stunning. Even incomplete, it’s giving me chills.
The lion’s bright yellow mane is streaked with magenta, lime green, and orange. Its jaws are open, exposing razor sharp canines and a hot pink tongue. Beady eyes glitter like night as the fierce lion glares over the city.
Street art is part of why I adore urban living. Expression is everywhere, from the fashion people wear to the sidewalks and skyscrapers.
This epic display of color is enough to steady my breathing and relax my fists.
I call up to the puffy-clad human, “That looks incredible!”
The pom-pom on the top of their beanie flops over as they turn their head. A white-bearded man breaks into a huge, lopsided grin.
“Well thank ya, pretty lady. If you like this one, you should see the one I did on West Belmont!”
An idea begins to percolate in the back of my mind. “Do you sell the rights to your murals?”
I think he shrugs, but it’s hard to tell with all the layers he’s wearing.
“Depends. Some building managers buy ‘em, and others just want a pretty picture to get people in their store. Either way, I get to do this.” He sloshes a can of neon orange paint onto the bricks, letting it artistically drip over the lion’s chest.
My chuckle puffs into a white cloud, but my wheels are spinning. “Do you mind if I take a picture?”
“Snap away, pretty lady.” The eccentric man salutes my phone while I click a picture.
“Where can I find you online?”
“Gregory Dickerson. I’m on the Google.”
I yell my thanks as I take off down the sidewalk, H.Y. the furthest thing from my mind.
Fifteen minutes and two phone calls later, I burst into Amantha’s office with a side cramp and slap my phone onto her desk. She looks up from her wedding magazine. Her gray eyes widen as I buckle over with my hands on my knees. I point at the picture I took.
“Gregory,” I pant, “Dickerson.”
She tucks back her chin and frowns. “Gregory who?”
I collapse into the chair and wriggle out of my cream overcoat. “He’s a street artist, Amantha. Street art.” I flip each long french braid over my shoulder. “There are countless murals all over the city right now.”
“Okay?”
“Building managers commission them, and most own the reproduction rights. I made a few calls on my way here and asked what they would charge for a reproduction of their murals. Amantha. It would cost pennies compared to what you would need to pay to ship the Amsterdam pieces. One even offered to donate his reproduction for free.”
Lines crease her forehead. “You want to transport murals for my exhibition?”
“Not transport. Photograph. We could print reproductions of the murals all over the city, almost like a contemporary street art tour of Chicago in one place. As long as we contact whoever owns the rights and settle on a price, the exhibition costs would really come down to materials and marketing.”
Amantha’s eyes grow big. “Kate. Kaaaaaate.” She stands and paces the tiny office in two steps. Her gray sweater is rumpled, her ponytail messy like she overslept her alarm. “This could be Stirling 2.0! Fresh and trendy. Do you think Kendra will go for it?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I say.
We beeline to Kendra, who is wrapping up a call at her desk. Her face-lift bun is especially tight today, and the crisp, jeweled collar of her white shirt looks every bit as stiff.
“Amantha, Kate. What can I do for you?”
Amantha bites her lip and twists tiny pinches of her skirt between her fingers. “Kate had an idea for my exhibition. It’s cost effective and may just fit within the budget cuts. It would also attract the same younger demographic we networked with Stirling last year.”
She tells Kendra the gist of the plan, and it’s like Kendra’s dark eyes glaze over with dollar signs.
“Do you think you can have a rough sketch of what you’ll need in a week? We are on a tight deadline as it is, and if you overhaul your previous plans…” Kendra tsks. “The latest I could push the exhibition date would be April.”
Amantha shoots me a worried look but nods. “It’s close to the wedding, but I can make that work. Hopefully we can get materials to marketing sooner than—”
“About that.” Kendra looks miffed. “We’ve had to pinch pennies in marketing as well, so we’re going to need a more cost-effective way to spread word about your exhibition.”
Amantha’s shoulders fall. “Marketing too?”
“I…” My mind scrambles almost as fast as my fingers for my phone. “I may have an idea.”
Amantha gawks while I pull up Autumn & June’s social media feed that Julia showed me at the gym a few days ago. I turn over my phone to Kendra, who flicks through the video posts.
“A girl I know owns a boutique and does killer social media marketing for it. I’ve never seen anything like it. Maybe I could price out some options for her to help by making some promo videos?” I say.
Kendra’s impassive face gives nothing away, but she says, “I’m more than impressed, Kate. This may just work.”
Amantha pipes up. “And I happen to know of a great photographer that will be able to take the mural photos for free.” Amantha pokes me in the stomach. “It’s Kate. I’ve seen her college portfolio and what she can do with a camera. She’s more than capable.”
Kendra looks dubious, but Amantha tilts her head close to mine and mutters out the side of her mouth, “Give me your phone.”
I turn it over. Amantha fails to unlock the device, huffs, then holds it up to me until the facial recognition software lets her in.
Amantha says, “Granted, this is on her phone, but you should see what Kate can do with a real camera.”
Kendra studies the technicolor lion photo.
I bite my lip. “Amantha, are you sure? I mean, I totally can, but this is your—”
Amantha throws an annoyed hand over her shoulder to shut me up. “I’m sure,” she says. “If you’re alright with it, Kendra?”
Kendra graces us with a brisk lip twitch. “I trust your judgment, Amantha. Proceed with Kate taking the photos. But I’ll need rough numbers emailed to me by Friday. And Kate, even though you’ll be taking the photos, you’ll still need to coordinate with Brandon over the list of donor prospects.”
I respond with a begrudging nod.
We turn to leave. Amantha’s gray eyes are bright, her tone animated as she suggests idea after idea.
I smile, happy to bask in her energy. She’s been so stressed between wedding planning and exhibition suggestions.
We part ways as she reaches her office. She waves Val inside before shutting the door, bursting to tell him everything.
I stall outside the glass wall, smiling as Val lights up right alongside her. I turn to leave right as my phone buzzes with a text coming in from an unknown number.
My stomach jumps into my throat.
I forgot about telling Amantha about H.Y., and a desperate need for my friend tugs me back toward the closed door.
But I can’t get myself to open it.
The enrapture behind the glass is too hard-earned for me to disrupt. Too beautiful for me to drag them both back down with worry. Their wedding deserves to be the shining finish line of their tumultuous journey to find each other.
I’m a big girl. I’ll handle H.Y. on my own.
So I roll my shoulders, turn away, and shut myself in my office. Only then do I dare to open the text.
UNKNOWN: Hey, I hope it’s okay your mom gave me your number. Our first date was a bust, and I’d like to make it up to you. Are you free tomorrow? This is Tanner Evans, by the way.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, but my relief gives way to sharp irritation.
Tanner must be high on glue if he thinks I’d be remotely interested after that nightmare of a first…
I can’t even call it a date. Encounter? A life implosion during which my sister got ripped away from me?
Fine. I’m being a bit dramatic, but I don’t have the space to think about Tanner Snoozefest Evans right now.
I shake off the thought as I sink onto the nice office chair. Pulling up the list of donors on my computer, I get to work.
An hour later, my email pings with the beginnings of an updated exhibition plan from Amantha. My stomach flip flops with excited nerves.
Amantha is entrusting me with so much. Jobs could depend on this exhibition. My job. I cringe just imagining the victory phone call from my parents if I fail. My eyes narrow, and I shove myself out of my chair. I stand tall, all five-foot-four inches of me.
I won’t fail.
And if I can get Julia on board to help with marketing, our new idea might single handedly turn the museum’s luck around. Plus, if Brandon and I can lock down Mr. Winthrop’s donation? Even better.
If I don’t lose my job, my parents won’t be able to say, “I told you so.”
Not about this, anyway.