Chapter 46
forty-six
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Iascend the museum steps, checking my text messages. I click on Liza’s thread. My stomach turns over as I scan the one-sided text bubbles.
KATE: Liza, I’m so sorry about what I said. It’s none of my business what you do or don’t do with Mom, Cam, or your life. Please, can we talk?
KATE: Passed Towne Theater on my way to work today and thought of you. They’re playing Flirts and Fools next week. Go with me? I’ll bring the snacks.
KATE: Amantha’s mural exhibition is next Friday. I probably know the answer to this, but will you come? I’m really proud of it, and I think you’d enjoy it.
I force the lump of emotion from my throat. I don’t know why I thought she’d respond, since she hasn’t for the last month or so. Still, the longing for my sister is raw.
I have no choice but to raise my chin.
This is a new era of Kate. One where I do not change myself to fit the mold for others to love. My confidence is no longer cheap, but a luxury item. Afford me if you can, but I will no longer be robbed of the peace I’ve fought so hard for.
Unfortunately, that rule also applies to Liza. If she chooses to forgive me, it’s going to be her decision. There’s nothing more I can do.
The tiny train on my fuchsia pink gown drags behind me as I click across the marble lobby of the museum.
The dress is indulgent, I know, but the glittering lines of beaded crystals made me feel like a princess.
The deep halter neckline suggests more vixen, but I digress.
I left my black hair sleek and long, and it brushes against my shoulder blades.
The opening gala for Amantha’s exhibition doesn’t begin for another forty minutes. The technical crew already set up the Astor Wing, but I promised to arrive early for emotional support.
I am not prepared for what I see when I finish ascending The Spiral.
Shadowed projections of textured brick cover every blank wall.
Strategic overhead lights target beams toward each framed mural.
Painted road lines mark up the black tiled floor.
Actual small-scale traffic lights hang from overhead rafters.
Sounds of traffic and recorded chatter are overlaid by upbeat music cascading from the speakers.
I stride toward my favorite heart-hand mural, one that Amantha insisted on being as large as possible so people could stand in front of it like they do on the street.
As I grow near, however, the music fades until it is only a whisper as I stand in front of it.
Experimentally, I take a few steps back, and the street noise grows.
Only then do I notice that the overhead speakers are angled, creating pockets of city sounds and silence.
“So cool,” I whisper to myself.
“Maybe I take you out to see one of these in real life sometime?”
I spin to the owner of the proposition, and a laugh puffs out of me.
Rohan stands six inches taller than me, though his spiked black dreads add a few more inches. His barista apron is replaced by a pressed charcoal suit that adds maybe a year to his appearance.
“Oh Rohan,” I chuckle. “You persistent little thing.”
He claps a hand to his chest, though his smile is anything but daunted.
“Little? That hurts. When are you gonna realize that I’m old enough for you?”
“In another five years,” I tease. “Maybe six. But I should probably tell you that Brandon and I are together now.”
His undeterred eyes brazenly dip over the halter neckline of my fuchsia dress and down to my toes. “Still worth the wait.”
Something uncomfortable squirms in my gut, but I force a smile anyway. “I need to find Amantha and see if she needs any help.”
“See you on Monday, then. I’ll be the one holding your matcha latte.” He winks and strolls off to one of the murals.
I spot Amantha’s wavy blonde hair across the room. She gestures at one of the bottle service waiters, making her loose periwinkle sleeve swirl across her wrist. Her sheer layered dress consists of layers of pleated chiffon overlapping her curvy frame.
She says something to Val, who stands beside her like a cologne model. His eyes follow her pointed finger, and he nods and heads toward the catering manager. She greets me with a huff, but her gray eyes are bright.
“You think they’d remember that I specifically said no salmon on the canapés!”
I frown. “But you love salmon.”
She tips a shoulder. “Not anymore. It’s gross.”
It takes her about a millisecond to forget the catering mishap.
Her smile is blinding. “Isn’t this phenomenal?”
“You did it.” I give her a gentle hug, making sure not to snag our dresses.
“No, we did it. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
“You could have, but thanks for letting me help anyway,” I laugh. “And where did you find mini traffic lights? These are so cool.”
“Right? They were Blythe’s idea. Apparently she knows a guy.”
We laugh, and as if on cue, Blythe shows up in a construction-neon orange pantsuit, frizzy hair and all, arm wrapped around a beautiful brunette woman with a charming smile.
Amantha and I greet Blythe and her new fiancée, Robyn, before my phone vibrates with a text. Hope soars that it might be Liza, but it turns out to be Brandon.
brANDON: Hey, I need some help with this grant application real quick before the event starts. Can you meet me in our office?
KATE: Can’t it wait until tomorrow?
brANDON: No. It’ll only take a sec.
KATE: Ok. But you are on feet-heating duty tonight. No complaints. I mean it, Brandon. ONE complaint that my toes are ice…
brANDON: I’ll heat whatever you tell me to heat. *wink
My face burns as Amantha snorts over my shoulder.
“Hey!” I exclaim, clutching my phone to my chest. “Those were private messages.”
“Private indeed,” Amantha laughs. “But go. You’re not needed here at the moment.”
I’m already striding toward the employee entrance as I call, “Be back soon!”
My stilettos spike down the curation wing as I aim for our tiny office.
Brandon stands outside our door, and I almost stumble. His broad shoulders stretch his tuxedo jacket just enough that the fit looks intentional and not due to poor seamstressing. His dimples pop as I near, and it’s so very boyish.
“You look beautiful, love,” he murmurs, taking my hand and lifting it, revolving me into a slow spin. I turn in languid steps, and I hear him suck in a breath. With a reverent hand, he traces one of the lines of crystals across my left hip, above the tattoo that marks me his.
“You…” I swallow. “Need me for a grant application?”
“Nope.” He beams at me. “I lied. I have something for you.”
Brandon leads me inside our joke of an office, flipping on the light. Everything looks normal, but then I glimpse the chair in the corner. The tetanus one is gone, replaced by a plush cream leather office chair. I can practically feel the lumbar support from here.
My gaze whips to his. “You got me a new chair?”
Brandon’s eyes twinkle as he nuzzles his nose against mine.
“Don’t be silly, tinkle monkey. That’s mine.
I got you that—” He nods toward an identical office chair behind the desk, only it’s black.
“And I also got you this—” He brandishes a shiny name plate and places it on the desk.
The engraved letters spell out “THE Kate Chen.”
“The desk is yours,” he says.
A laugh rolls across my lips. Brandon looks like a child alight with the wonders of Christmas morning as he watches me take it all in. I laugh again.
“This is incredible, thank you! I love it,” I say.
“But not as much as you love me, right?” Brandon crouches, banding his arms around the beaded waist of my dress and lifting me in a circle. “Because that would be messed up.”
I lean down and nuzzle his nose. “Don’t worry, shmooksy-poo. Of course I love you more.”
His laugh rumbles against my chest.
“This is the best gift ever,” I say. “Thank you. And I also happen to have something for you as well.” I skirt around the small office to the desk drawer. “I mean, I was gonna wait until Monday, but…”
I retrieve a burnished bronze frame and place it in Brandon’s waiting hands.
“Our boardwalk photo?” His grin stretches from ear to ear.
“Yup, I thought it deserved a permanent spot on our desk.” I peek over his shoulder at the black and white versions of us in Marisol Bay, smiling awkwardly at the camera in front of the striped awning of The Wandering Click. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
“It does. But I wouldn’t change a moment of how we got here, love.” Brandon’s lips have just met mine before his gold wristwatch beeps. I cough a laugh as he mutters, “What the hell is it with timers interrupting us?!” He sighs. “But that’s time. We’ve gotta go.”
“Time? What do you mean?”
“It’s time to head down to the lobby,” he says.
“The lobby?” I puzzle. “Why not go back to the Astor wing?”
“You’ll see.”
“What was this, a distraction or something?”
He winks. “Or something.”
We stride hand in hand toward the lobby, though we took a few pitstops along the way. One was a trip to a supply closet to see all the fuss Amantha and Val make about kissing in one, and the other a quick trip into the ladies’ room to pat down my hair and reapply my maroon lipstick.
I check the time and my heart rate spikes. “Holy crap, how long were we in there? The event starts soon! What if Amantha needed—”
“We were in there long enough.”
I stomp my next step. “Why in the world do you keep saying things like that?”
He jerks a nod toward the museum entrance with a broad smile. “See for yourself.”
I follow his line of vision to a small crowd surrounding a TV monitor and a recently set up table. The corner of my eye glimpses Julia and Mr. Sanderson, but I’m zoned in on what’s playing on the screen.
It’s me.
Or rather, the inspiring compilation video Julia made of me.
There I am again, gazing in rapture at the heart-hand mural outside of Patterson’s Market. Me laughing and soaking in the vibrance of the city.