Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
maya
“Is that…” Kennedy’s voice trails off as she takes a step closer to the sculpture in front of us.
“A woman’s reproductive system that doubles as a gumball machine?” I supply, biting back a smile. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Okay, cool. Just making sure.”
She circles the piece of artwork, as if that will help it make sense.
Good luck. The exhibit we’re at is called The Politics of Rubbish: Figuring the Avant-Garde.
I have zero idea what the hell that means.
When Sophie invited me to the opening of her friend’s art gallery, I accepted easily, brushing off her warning about the disruptive and paradoxical nature of the art.
But now that I’ve seen a gumball-producing uterus sculpture, it’s starting to make sense.
Kennedy and I move on from the female anatomy and meander around the space.
The gallery is set up like a living room, with couches scattered throughout.
The side tables adorned with lamps and books help make it feel as though we’re at home with all the art.
And it works. This place is surprisingly homey for a gallery displaying pieces in the six-figure range.
Side by side, we inspect an oil painting of some European king with Fuck the Patriarchy spray-painted over it.
“Now this one I can get behind.” My best friend nods resolutely, then snags some type of fried appetizer from a passing waiter. When she pops it into her mouth, she groans like a porn star. “This mac and cheese ball just gave me a better orgasm than any man ever has.”
As I sample one of the orgasmic treats for myself, I realize I can’t even call her dramatic. They’re that delicious. We continue our self-led tour around the studio, switching off between making keen artistic observations and gushing over the food.
The woman in that painting looks like she just found out her husband of ten years is cheating on her with her Pilates instructor.
This zucchini fritter is better than being accepted as an ARC reader for a new fantasy series.
Holy shit, is that a mouse trap made of condoms and flowers?
I think I’m going to hire this chef for my wedding. And my funeral.
We’re considering whether the artist who created the piece in front of us is extremely passionate or off their rocker when I finally spot Sophie.
She’s in a sage green satin slip dress paired with strappy heels, making her look every bit the ethereal fairy I described her as when I talked Kennedy into accompanying me tonight.
Her eyes light up when she spots me. “You came.”
There’s real surprise in her voice, even though I texted her to confirm the address a few hours ago.
I introduce her to Kennedy, and within minutes, they’re chattering like old friends.
If I’m the moon, content to disappear into stories and imagined worlds, Kennedy’s the sun, radiating warmth with a charm so effortless it pulls people into her orbit instantly.
“Maya says you’re an artist, too.” Kennedy waves a hand, gesturing to a nearby piece. The little tag below it says Inquire about price, which means it’s way out of my range. Though that’s not a surprise. The only thing here I can afford is the free catering.
Pink patches bloom across Sophie’s cheeks. “Oh. Sort of. Nowhere near this caliber.”
Kennedy scrunches her nose up. “You and Maya with your technicalities. If you create, you’re an artist. If you write, you’re a writer. Doesn’t matter if you’re in a gallery or not, or if you’re published or not.”
Sophie’s eyes widen in surprise. “You write?”
“Hardly.” Now I’m the one who turns shades of strawberry.
“Liar,” Kennedy snaps.
Discomfort creeps down my spine. “Am not.”
“Are, too. I read the Valentine’s Day poem you wrote to Johnny L. in second grade and—”
My stomach sinks. “It wasn’t a love poem! Oh my God.”
I cringe at the memory of the cheesy card I wrote him: Roses are red, violets are blue. Puppies are cute, and so are you.
Kennedy smirks. “Seemed romantic to me.”
With a huff, I snap, “You haven’t read anything I’ve written.”
“A-ha.” She pumps her fist in the air. “So you admit you write.”
Eyes narrowed, I give her a look that I hope will shut her up. I should know better. So I abandon the effort and turn back to Sophie. “It’s more of a hobby than anything. And not one I’ve participated in in a long time.”
Kennedy may roll her eyes at my self-deprecation, but it’s true. No one’s ever read my writing, so who is she to say it’s more interesting as an Ikea instruction manual? And I haven’t written much of anything since I graduated from college over six years ago.
“I’m sure your writing’s great,” Sophie reassures me with a warm smile. “Want me to give you guys a tour?”
“Yes,” I nearly shout, desperate to change the subject. “I need to know the inspiration behind that cyclops statue.”
Sophie leads us around the space, pointing at some of her favorite pieces and sharing tidbits of juicy gossip about the artists.
Van Gogh’s removal of his own ear has nothing on the guy who made the marble statue of Cupid on one side of the gallery.
The cherubic angel is wearing a bandit’s mask and holding a bomb instead of a bow and arrow.
It’s all very representative of the artist’s “love me or die” motto, considering that, according to rumors, he was stamped with a few stalking charges and still wears his ex’s hair around his wrist like a bracelet.
“I need to say hi to a few more people, but then I can leave. Do you guys want to stick around for a few? If so, we can grab a drink after.” Sophie smiles, her blue eyes full of hope.
“Absolutely,” Kennedy answers before I can object. Coming out on a Tuesday was wild enough for me. Adding drinks on top of that is really going to push my social battery to its limits.
Sophie claps, bouncing on her toes, her contagious smile making it difficult to wish I could head home now and curl up with a book.
Once she’s out of sight, Kennedy turns to me with a twinkle in her eye. “You made a friend.”
I meet her expression with a glare. “I’m not incompetent. I know how to make friends.”
“You just choose not to,” she points out, chin lifted.
“There’s nothing wrong with choosing quality over quantity.”
I can count on one hand the number of people I trust enough to have ingratiated into my everyday life.
“No, there’s not, but it’ll be good for us to branch out,” she replies with a look that dares me to disagree. “It can hardly be considered a girls’ night out with just two of us, you know.”
When I don’t respond, she sighs and flings her arm around me.
“All I’m saying is that putting yourself out there is a good thing.”
We both know she’s right. With the way my mom has always disappeared and then suddenly reappeared just to stir things up, I’ve grown uneasy with change.
I can admit that my hyper-independence means being alone is my default.
I tend to assume that the people I meet will all become footnotes or short chapters in the story of my life rather than reoccurring characters.
“Yeah, yeah.” I grab a fried mac and cheese ball from a passing waiter and shove it into my mouth to discourage further conversation.
Thirty minutes later, the three of us are huddled at a high top at a nearby wine bar with a carafe of their house wine, chatting as if we do this every week.
Our conversation flows easily, moving from funny stories about bad hookups to tales about a Facebook Marketplace meetup gone wrong.
We spend far too much time guessing who Pete Davidson will date next, which somehow leads to a conversation about how Kennedy’s parents named her and all of her siblings after presidents.
“Have you talked to Cole lately?” Sophie asks with a tipsy giggle. Her question lacks even a hint of subtleness, which I blame on the wine. “You guys seemed to hit it off.”
I take a sip of my drink, having known this would come up at some point tonight. “We haven’t talked since the game.”
She waves her hand as if it’s no big deal. “I wouldn’t worry too much. My brother goes MIA when the team travels. Their schedule’s insane.”
It’s been over two weeks since the Bobcats game and the Kiss.
Kiss with a capital K because it was so damn good that it deserves the recognition and respect a capital letter brings.
But Cole hasn’t reached out since, and I haven’t yet decided how I feel about that.
So, as usual, I’ve tucked thoughts of him away and focused on other things.
It’s not like I’m looking for anything from him anyway.
He seems like a genuinely great guy, the kind of guy I tend to stay far away from.
Why? Because they want things I can’t offer.
But I also wouldn’t say no to the chance to trace his abs with my tongue.
And when my phone buzzes in my pocket, a small, radicalized group of butterflies in my stomach annoyingly hope it’s Cole. Assholes.
Deirdre Silver
Keith and I are going on a cruise and won’t be back until after Thanksgiving. Will you tell Elliott and Ava for me? Xx
I truly wish I could say I was surprised by, or even sad about, my mom’s text.
But it’s so typical of her that the only feeling I can muster up in response is relief.
I haven’t seen her in months—she didn’t fly back for Elliott’s graduation or to spend time with Ava before she left for school—so what’s a few more weeks?
And God forbid she bite the bullet and tell my siblings themselves.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I pick up the wine carafe and fill my glass nearly to the rim. “Guess who’s bailing on Thanksgiving? Again.”
Kennedy grabs my phone from the table and reads the text aloud. “God, your mom is the fucking worst.”
“I’m sorry,” Sophie says. A tight frown furrows her features. “That’s really shitty.”
I shrug and pick up my drink. I’m used to the constant disappointment otherwise known as my mother. “One would think a woman so uninterested in kids would’ve invested in better contraception.”
A surprised laugh escapes Sophie, making wine spray out of her nose. “Is she really that bad?”
“Yep,” Kennedy confirms, straightening in her seat. “Maya missed prom because her sister had the flu, and Deirdre was out of town and wasn’t picking up the phone.”
I snort. “When is my mother not out of town?”
“Speaking of out of town,” Sophie says in the world’s worst segue. “The team will be home tomorrow. I think you should text Cole. Make the first move. Or second move, I guess.”
I twirl the stem of my glass between my thumb and pointer finger, willing my nerves to remain settled. Before I can look too hard into why I’m even considering this, I ask, “What would I even say?”
Kennedy refills her glass and Sophie’s. “You could try something like ‘Hey, Cole. My vibrator ran out of battery. You around to make me come instead?’”
It takes more effort than I’d like to admit to keep a straight face, because that’s scarily accurate.
Sophie leans forward, her face alight. “You should go with a hockey pun. Want to Zam-boney?”
“Oh, I’ve got one,” Kennedy shouts, making the people seated around us glance over. “You might not like tie games, but what about tying me up instead?”
“What’s the difference between me and a hockey fight?” Sophie continues with a shy smile. “They may not like getting nailed, but I sure as hell do.”
I slap my hands over my face, half in laughter, half in mortification. “How about puck no?”