Chapter 2
Chapter Two
MCARTHUR’S
Monday is going by in stops and starts, as Mondays often do.
I’d gotten sucked into a painting starting early this morning—it features a girl walking out of a swirling mist. I don’t know where the initial image came from, but I hadn’t been able to stop adding to the canvas.
I’ve been feeling creatively stifled lately, so when I was overcome with the urge to paint this girl, I focused in and blocked out everything else—even thoughts of my steadily paying job.
When I see the time, I nearly throw my paintbrushes across the studio and sprint the five blocks from the Copper Works Collective to catch the G train to Williamsburg.
Six months ago, I’d gotten a job as a social media “consultant” for an up-and-coming influencer.
Harper has wealthy parents, cash to burn and the body of a model.
She’d hired me because she wanted an “artist’s” eye and had likely found me from the little notoriety the Zenith Award had bestowed on me last year.
You’d think it would be an easy job. Unfortunately…
catering to the rich and wannabe famous has its ways of wearing you down.
By the time I finish taking pictures of her from every. possible. angle—walking down the street, the sidewalk, up the subway stairs, down strangers’ brownstone steps, even with a forkful of salad in front of her parted pink lips—it’s dusk. I take a deep breath and force a smile.
“There are definitely some gems in there!” I tell her. She looks relieved, pats my arm and kisses the side of my head.
“You’re the best, Char! 50,000 more followers by the end of November, that’s the goal!
” She trusts me so much sometimes it frightens me, so I try not to steer her wrong.
I tell her I’ll narrow down the photos to her best options and she can decide which we post tomorrow.
I’m brain-dead by the time I leave, but I also have $300 more in my bank account, so I can’t complain.
I could go home now, but the painting I'd started this morning is eating at me. I want to start adding more details to the girl in the mist. Is she confused to be leaving the enveloping cloak around her, or is she purposefully exiting it? I’m of two minds about it.
I won’t know until I start painting in her features.
Sometimes the brush has a mind of its own.
Normally at this time of night, most folks from the Collective have left for the day.
Those that remain often end up getting swept into a small crusade by our fellow studio member, Alex, to go out and grab drinks.
So, I’m not too surprised when I open the door to Copper Works and see what looks like a gathering crowd.
However, upon further inspection, the group does seem a little more enthusiastic than normal. Eyebrows raised, I meander over. Before I can get too close, a hand shoots out from the dense circle and shouts, “Ok everyone! Let’s get moving before I grow old, here! Vámonos! To McArthur’s!”
McArthur’s is a popular Irish pub a couple blocks down.
The crowd starts to move toward the door, and thus toward me.
The person who’d shot his hand up and rallied the crowd is indeed Alex, a corny yet charismatic sculptor, and the unofficial leader of Copper Works at the moment.
At least our social leader. He sees me standing to the side of the group and walks over to put his arm around me. “You coming, Charlotte?”
I hesitate and don’t take a step forward with him.
My eyes shoot over to where my canvas is still set up in my typical corner.
“Ah, you can finish mystery girl later!” he says.
“We have a special guest tonight!” He points a few folks ahead to a tall male figure with light brown hair above the corduroy collar of a jean jacket.
A girl with tumbling blonde hair is practically clinging to him on their way out the building.
Daisy. She’s a decent painter, but… she would flirt with a wall.
She keeps looking up at the guy with the corduroy collar then tossing her head back and laughing.
What could be so funny? Is he some kind of comedian?
“Come on!” Alex tugs at my arm again. “Just one pint, eh?”
Alex is from England, where pub culture is key to the daily unwind. Or so he tells everyone.
“Uh, sure,” I say. “One beer.”
When we get to the bar, we crowd into their famous ten-person booth and Alex orders a round of shots, on him.
This is my least favorite of Alex’s tricks.
Taking shots gracefully isn’t my forte. I start talking to a girl who’d just started frequenting our Collective last week, Minnie.
She’s on the edge of the booth and sitting to my right.
Whenever I turn back to the table, I can see Daisy and her blonde hair moving in an animated state at the corner of the booth nearest to me.
I can’t quite see who she’s talking to, since there are three people to my left, but I’m assuming it’s our guest. Alex is across from us and leaning forward with his elbows on the sticky wooden table.
He's trying to get everyone’s take on the newest dating app and its promotion of polyamory relationships. It’s a very Brooklyn conversation.
The bartender comes over with a black circular tray covered in small glasses, each filled with an amber-colored liquid. Likely, tequila.
“Do you have salt and limes?” Alex is quick to ask. Yup. Definitely tequila.
“Not my first rodeo,” the bartender responds as she pulls a saltshaker out of her apron and moves a cup of lime slices from her tray onto the table.
As the group passes around the necessary tequila shot props, I lean to my left and turn to Miles, the only person in Copper Works that actually works with metal.
“Miles, do you want my shot?” I yell-whisper.
“I don’t even want mine”—my shoulders slump—“but to live is to struggle,” he says as he shoots his back before everyone else, sans accoutrements. My eyes widen. That was… intense.
“Hey, wait for the cheers, mate!” Alex yells from across the booth.
I lean back farther to reach behind Miles and tap Rob, a good friend of mine who’s beside him.
“Rob!” No recognition. “ROB.” Attempt number two.
I tug on his sweater. “Please will you take my shot?” I bat my eyelashes with mock innocence.
As long as I’ve known Rob, he’s been exclusively into men, but that doesn’t stop me from trying my flirting skills on him every so often.
I’ve never had success with it.
Rob finally notices my antics in the dark bar and furrows his brow in response. He shrugs a hand behind Miles’ back, who’s clearly spotted someone across the bar that’s captured his interest.
“WHAT?” he yells back. I point to my shot and mimic drinking it, but Miles’ movements block my final charade. Rob tries to weave his head forward and back to see me over the distracted person between us.
“Who wants to give the cheers?” Alex shouts to the table, which is getting louder as everyone douses the back of their hand with salt.
“Ya’ll are taking too long!” Miles points across to Alex. “Be a man and take it straight!” Alex rolls his eyes and waves him off.
Miles puts his hand on my shoulder. “Mind if I scoot out? I see someone I would like to try a line on.” He smiles, eyes set on a curvy brunette in a trendy crop top a few yards away.
I scoot on out to let him play the field and then sit back down just in time to catch Alex’s exasperated lead-in to a cheers: “Alright, I’ll go then.
Again—” He taps his shot glass on the table then holds it up in the air.
“There are good ships and wood ships and ships that sail the sea—” he starts the speech he often falls back on.
I’m still attempting to desperately explain to Rob that I don’t want my shot and pushing it toward him on the rough wooden table when Alex’s speech is interrupted.
Someone pointedly clears their throat from the corner of the booth nearest me.
It’s loud, and too leisurely for the chaos of the moment.
The table’s volume falls to a hush to hear what our evening’s guest has to say.
“Alex, thank you.” The young man holds a palm up towards our de-facto leader.
“Thanks to all of you for having me here, not only for this night, but for the entire week.” He makes a point to look around at everyone in the outsized booth.
His gaze lands on me towards the end. One blue eye.
One green. Both piercing, even in the dark room.
My breath catches and my heart all but stops.
He must have seen the blood drain from my face, because before he pulls his eyes away, I catch a glimmer of a smirk.
Two truths and a lie... my eyes are two different colors... That doesn’t prove anything… It’ll prove something when you meet me. Variations of the words we’ve exchanged circle my head as it’s filled with buzzing thoughts that almost make me feel as if I have taken the shot in front of me.
The visitor continues, “I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you and to seeing your lovely creations. I hope I’m able to repay your hospitality.
” He holds his glass up to the center of the table, a grin on his face and a gleam in his eye.
“Cheers to Brooklyn!” And with that, he knocks back his shot.
Everyone scrambles to keep up with him and I look up at Rob pleadingly, even though my heart is still racing.
Rob, finally understanding what I want, shakes his head with an expression that I can almost hear: No girl, that’s on you.
I pinch my glass between thumb and forefinger and pull it towards me. A large and tanned hand with calloused fingertips gently grasps my wrist. I jolt, but the weight of the hand on my arm prevents me from tossing the tequila in the air.