Thirty-one
Bri
Liem is the success story I want for myself.
He has a good job, and he could get a different good job if he wanted.
If I tell him it’s okay. I know him better than that.
He wants to be close to me because he wants me to fill the void of affection he has in his life.
The same affection he let Natalie pretend to provide until she felt she was using him.
He hasn’t made friends; he hasn’t ironed anything out with his family.
Leaving them for a woman again would exacerbate all his relationship problems, not help him mend them.
I haven’t landed the job I want, gotten my own place, or paid down my debt.
We both want the Brooklyn fantasy world again, but if we go back now, just like back then, we’ll get a wakeup call eventually.
“Amber, can you grab that vase?” I ignore the voice until the manager turns to face me. “Can you grab that for me?”
Amber. That’s a new one. “Sure.”
I set the vase on the table, and the florist takes over, shoving sneeze-inducing blooms into the top. The last-minute rush is always fun to watch. There’s not much I can do other than be a pair of hands where needed, and everyone seems to need everyone else to get out of their way.
I could jump in and be proactive or something, if I could focus in this space.
This gallery’s setup is complicated for most installations, but with difficulty comes the opportunity for creativity.
The circulation feels tense and stifled. Too many accessory tables with floral arrangements that should be in the banquet space, not the art space. The statement piece peeks out from the side of the entryway in an unintentional way. The journey of discovery is choked by improper editing.
The best spaces are the ones you don’t notice around you. When everything inside feels as natural as taking shade beneath a tree. The curator seems aware of this, as they are still rearranging what should have been done before catering arrived.
Another worker drags a vase into a main walking path, and my eye twitches.
“They said those should line up against the front wall by the lights, not at pass-throughs,” I tell them.
I’m lying, but who gon’ check me, boo? They believe me, calling another worker over to remove the other offending vase, my eye calming with the path no longer obstructed. I sneak away before I get caught.
The art director stands in front of the piece, tracing her lower lip with the knuckle of her index finger, staring as if the painting is speaking to her. “I hate it. I’m not sure why,” she muses to the contractors beside her.
While the answer circles in my head, clear as day, it’s not appropriate for me to say. When has that ever stopped me?
“Excuse me.”
The director looks at me in surprise. She gives Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada vibes with her silver pixie and the frameless glasses she dangles from her grasp. She looks me up and down with the same discernment she gave the canvas. “Can I help you?”
“I was walking from the entryway, and I have some thoughts that may help you.”
“Oh, do you?” Exactly the condescension I expected.
She likely thinks a server is beneath her—an uneducated, unrefined civilian incapable of seeing a vision as grand as hers. Little does she know, the obscure degree-life combo I have is, in a rare moment, prime for this situation.
I don’t let her intimidate me. “If you look from the entrance, you’ll feel what is off. The path toward this piece is saying where it wants to be.”
Her eyes narrow for a moment, then she nods and walks with me in silence to the front. I hold on to my confidence. What’s the worst she can do? Laugh at me? Say no? Have me fired for my audacity? I don’t work for her.
I guide her into place, and her chin lifts with understanding. “It wants to be on the other wall,” she says.
“Yes.”
A nudge of her head tells me to follow her back to the painting. She frames her hands toward the wall I suggested.
I explain, “This wall is smaller and seems less important, but the discovery of it once you get here—”
“Gives it the emphasis it begs for,” she finishes my sentence.
“Exactly.”
As she directs the contractors to move the painting and adjust the lighting, my vision for the setting and her approval come to fruition.
She gestures with the glasses in her hand. “These flower vases need to go as well.”
That’s what I said! “There’s space between the light fixtures at the entrance.”
She turns to look and nods. “Perfect. You have a good eye,” she says. “What was your name?”
“Ambrielle.” Not Amber like these loons keep calling me.
“How memorable.” I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or if she’s one of those creative executives who doesn’t do compliments.
Again, she assesses me with a scrutinous gaze, making my catering uniform feel like sheer underwear.
“Thank you for your input. We both have work to finish before the doors open.”
I’m dismissed. “It was great meeting you.” I try to continue whatever relationship could come of this. I did help her fix the whole exhibit, after all.
She nods and returns to directing.
~
Liem and Keisha seem to be having fun together, even though neither of them gives a singular fuck about the exhibit.
They came for me and the food, and they haven’t gotten enough of either.
I keep weaving through the crowd in a way that will get me to them, but the last three times, my tray was empty before I made it that far.
The coordinators didn’t plan for people to come hungry, I guess.
On my next lap, I swing behind a group of patrons, pretending I don’t hear when they call to me. Keisha’s face lights up when she spots what’s on my tray.
“I love you,” she says, grabbing three of the fried mac and cheese balls.
“I know, but you’ll hate me when you find out there are spiced pear cream puffs walking around somewhere.”
Her eyes widen, then she shoves Liem’s shoulder. “Go find them!” He accepts his mission with a chuckle. When he’s two steps away, her head snaps to me. “That man loves you.”
“Stop it.”
“I won’t! All he does is brag about you like you’re his favorite person in the world.” I might be. “If you don’t take that man home and suck the life out of him, I—”
She stops when the art director from before leans into my view. “It’s Ambrielle, right?”
“Yes. Bri for short.”
Keisha takes her cue to sneak off like a patron who was berating a waiter, not my bestie bothering me when I’m getting paid to serve. “What you did tonight was very impressive. Do you have a background in art history or design?”
“A little of both, unofficially. I spent most of my free time in galleries and museums growing up, and I have a degree in industrial design.”
She nods at her inner thoughts. “If you’re interested, this is my assistant’s number.” She holds out a business card between her first two fingers. “Give her a call. I may have an opportunity for you.”
Shock steals my words for a moment. “Oh, uh, thank you. Thank you so much.”
Wordlessly, she nods and strolls away. I stare at the card in my hand, taking in the modish logo and the handwritten number scrawled on the back.
Someone takes something from my tray, and I remember that I’m supposed to be working.
Tucking the card into my pants pocket, I feel my heart race with excitement.
Good things come to those who wait, but I didn’t think that meant I literally had to be a waiter.
I go to the back to trade out my empty tray again for the next one available, then rush out to find my friends, ignoring how much more relaxed I feel when it’s Liem I spot first.
I tug his arm. “The art director of this show just gave me her assistant’s number! She wants to interview me for a gallery job or something.”
His jaw drops—the reaction I had to suppress when it happened. “Are you for real?”
“I’m so for real. Look.” I show him the number.
“That’s amazing.” He pulls me into a hug that’s tighter than expected from one arm. I rest my cheek against his chest. Even in the tightness of his grasp, I breathe easier.
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but . . . this might be my dream job.”
When he starts to say something, a voice grumbles in my ear, “Where are my cream puffs, bitch?” Keisha interrupts again.
“Right there, hormone monster.” I point to the pile of puffs in Liem’s napkin-protected hands.
“Thank. You,” she says, emphasizing both words as if they are separate sentences. She devours one, barely chewing. “Fuck, that is the best thing I’ve tasted in my life.”
While she gets off on her little bites, the manager calls for Amber. Me. I look at Liem. “You don’t have to stay. Meet you back at the apartment?”
“Sure,” he agrees. “Since you don’t get to eat, want me to make you dinner?”
Why’s he talking dirty to me in public? “Absolutely.”
~
Liem booked an apartment rental rather than a hotel, likely for the sole reason that he could cook for me.
He had all the ingredients on a list and picked them up while he was waiting for me to finish cleanup at the gallery.
Sitting on the kitchen island countertop behind him, I steal glances at Liem’s ass while he cooks.
He has a great body, naturally having the perfect frame for his lean muscle.
I can imagine him thickening up when he’s older, the lines on his face adding to his beauty.
Why I’m thinking about that, I couldn’t tell you.
My stomach growls loud enough for him to hear. “Your stomach is impatient.”
It’s past midnight, but I’m too horny to sleep and too hungry to fuck. A vicious cycle. “It smells so good in here.”
He grins at my compliment, taking something in his hand and turning back to me. “Here. To tide you over for the last five minutes.”
He holds the cube of meat out to me, floating a hand beneath it to catch any of the sauce that may drip.
Liem feeding me is sexier than it should be, though I’m so horny, if he blinks the wrong way, I fear I’ll jump him.
I take the bite with my teeth. He waits for my reaction to the saucy sunshine exploding in my mouth.
I nod while I chew, and he smiles with pride. That sexy, irresistible smile.
Before he can retreat, I take his hand in mine, cleaning the sauce from his index finger with my tongue.
I stare into his eyes, watching the grin on his face tilt with a different emotion.
Something darker, closer to mine. I switch my focus to his thumb, running my tongue along the pad then taking it into my mouth with a light suck.
The last of his smile fades, his eyes fixed on my lips while he licks his. When my mouth leaves his finger, the quietest growl rumbles from him before he replaces his finger with his mouth.
His kiss is plush, teasing, the slow suck of my lips as intoxicating as his food. He slips in his tongue, the heat blooming through me. I hold his face in my hands, the kiss deepening, our breaths heavier with each touch of our tongues.
He tugs my hips against his, and I feel the excitement in his pants. My hand goes to it, wanting to feel his desire for me in more detail. Must be so uncomfortable in there, friend. Let’s give you some air.
Just as I start to unfasten his fly, the smell hits me. “Is something burning?” I ask.
“Shit!” He turns, removing the offender from its burner.
“Sorry. I need to control myself.”
“I’d rather you not.” He tosses one last smirk over his shoulder. He knows exactly what he does to me.
To distract myself from my urge to climb him, I pull the business card out of my pocket again, holding it on my palm as if it’s a priceless historical scroll.
My first interview invitation in months, and it fell into my hands when I wasn’t even expecting it.
My thumb runs over the embossed letters of the woman’s name, Jacinda Howell, her boss lady title and company QR code below it.
I pick up my phone and scan it, planning to stalk them until dinner is done, but when I see the About page, I can’t get myself to scroll at all.
The Bay Area’s Premiere Exhibit Design Firm. This job is in San Francisco?
Stunned by this new information, I watch Liem finish up, adding garnish to our plates as if I’m not going to inhale it in two seconds flat.
As perfectly opportune as a job in that location may be, it’s not real yet.
Ink on paper, containing no more of a promise than a piece of tissue. I’ll tell him when I’m—
“Ready?” Liem completes my thought, holding a plate in each hand.
My brain short-circuits for a second. I shake it off, tucking my phone and the business card away. “For food? Always.” The rest will come later.