27
The next few days are so busy that I barely have time to ponder this strange new existence or why I’m here.
Liam is usually gone by the time I wake up. I’m starting to understand that with my hectic schedule and his prep for the book
tour, we are like two ships passing in the night. This isn’t the life I imagined for the two of us in my former daydreams,
but at the same time, I know that getting to the top of any career always comes at a cost.
At lunch, Rita takes me to a nearby restaurant, but she is all business. I find myself nervous around her, as if I’m still
that young artist trying to prove herself. Once the server has taken our order, she folds her bony hands on top of each other
and studies me over her cat-eye frames. I can’t get over how much older she seems, how fatigued. None of the fire I once recognized
in her from a decade ago is present. She seems wrung out from the inside. Maybe that heart attack she mentioned?
“Harper, we need to talk.”
I pause with my water glass near my lips. The phrase “we need to talk” rarely leads to anything good, but I nod. “Okay.”
She sighs and smooths her napkin in her lap. “We have to close.”
I rack my brain for what she could be talking about, but I can’t play along. “Close what?”
“The gallery, Harper. What else?” She rubs her napkin along the edge of her water glass, buffing out a stain.
I try to remember any emails concerning feedback around finances. I don’t think I’ve seen anything, but I’ve been in this
fake version of my life for exactly 2.5seconds, so I know I don’t have a grasp on the entire picture. “But why?”
She looks at me again, head cocked, as if I’m a stranger. “Harper, we are hemorrhaging money and have been for years. You
know this. It’s why I brought you in in the first place. To do whatever it is someone your age was supposed to do.” Rita waves
her hand in a dismissive motion and stares sharply to the left. “It’s not all your fault, of course. No one is buying art
like they used to. It’s all about NFTs and TikTok and god-awful influencers and pay-to-play and blah, blah, blah.” She rolls
her eyes and visibly shudders. “True art is a dying breed.”
Just ten years ago she created influencers before that was even a thing. She was ahead of her time, pushing boundaries, forging
the way. When had that fire gone out? I try to make sense of all of this, but I can only offer a simple retort. “But we seem
so busy. I seem so busy.”
“Well, you are. And I have no doubt you’ll be fine, no matter what happens with the gallery. But do you really think those of us on the board aren’t paying attention to the numbers? Me, of all people? The books are the books, and we can all see that the gallery’s days are numbered.” She whips off her glasses, and they bounce against her concave bosom, dangling from her signature expensive gold chain. Pinching her nose between her two fingers, she begins to cry. Never, in my real life or any imagined scenario, has there ever been a reality where Rita Clementine cries.
I move from my chair to comfort her, but she shrugs me off. “These aren’t sad tears, Harper, they’re angry tears. I never should have handed my gallery over. My legacy is dying.” She balls the napkin in her hand and tosses it on the table. Her
fist quakes with rage, the blue veins swollen beneath her thin, milky skin.
I feel stung. I remember that night, ten years ago, when she told me she’d be in touch. I remember the way she’d dismissively
flicked her eyes over me, as if I was beneath her. I’d worked hard on that piece, bent over backward to make something she
wanted to see. Yes, I was creating from a sense of urgency, from needing to please someone else, but I’d also really loved
what I created. I was proud of it and what I’d achieved.
I stand on shaky legs. I never said what I wanted to say then because I was intimidated by Rita Clementine, by her success,
by what she could make me. But I am a grown woman now, and this is not then, or my real life. I clear my throat, and she looks
up, startled.
“I’ve worked very hard to uphold your legacy,” I say, even though I have no way of knowing that’s true, other than what I
intuitively feel. “I can’t control what people are or are not buying, but I do know that the gallery needs an infusion, something
ahead of its time, which you have always done so well. Perhaps it’s time to bring some fresh ideas to the table.”
She sniffs and stares at me warily. “Like what?”
“Honestly? I don’t know yet. I need some time to think.”
She nods, pushes her chair back, and stands. “You have until the end of the week.” She walks away, leaving me with literal
whiplash. There’s no way I can handle being in an alternate reality and helping a practical stranger save her gallery. Or technically, my gallery. It’s all too much. I close my eyes, thinking again about Ben. I miss him to the very depths of my being. Taking a breath, I send Wren a quick text.
Find any loopholes yet?
She replies almost immediately.
I haven’t, Harper. I’m sorry. Still looking. Meanwhile, enjoy your hot man and life as an artist! Embrace it, sister. You
deserve it.
The knot in my belly grows. I don’t deserve anything. And there’s nothing to embrace! This version of Wren doesn’t know me,
doesn’t know Ben or what’s at stake. As I toss money on the table and stand on shaky legs, I think of Ben again. I have to
find him. Instead of going back to the gallery, I decide to take a walk to clear my mind. I’m shuttled back to that week with
Liam, how he would get me out of my head and onto the street, pointing out some of his favorite places. Most of them have
been replaced, though when I come up to the movie theater, I see it’s still there. I smile, remembering the night we watched
The Princess Bride together after we’d first made love. That was one of the happiest nights of my life.
Everything seemed so simple then. No dying husbands. No dashed dreams. No time-traveling portals. Just a girl falling in love
with a boy and wanting her career to work out. Where did it all go so wrong? And why—and how—am I back here now?
I walk until my feet hurt, because apparently this Harper owns no sneakers, only heels. When I’m back in front of the gallery,
I stare up at it again, wondering what idea I can possibly come up with to save this esteemed gallery.
I think of Wren and how many cool ideas she’s come up with over the years. As I try to conjure something amazing, my brain
vetoes everything. I feel like I’m wading through mud.
As I’m standing there, the gallery doors burst open and a few people trickle out, lost in animated conversation. One woman stops, then turns and trots up to me with enthusiasm.
“Hi! Are you Harper Swanson?” She is young, tattooed, and looks like an artist herself.
“I am,” I say.
“Oh my God, I just have to say, you are my hero,” she gushes, glancing at her friend. “Your collection last year on impoverished
Jewish communities was one of the most touching tributes I’ve seen in a while.” She goes on and on, talking about work I didn’t
create and can’t possibly take credit for. I nod and thank her before dipping back inside.
The air is arctic, and a moment of dizziness consumes me so abruptly, I rush to the window and sit down on its ledge. This
all feels like too much. Too much change. Too much that doesn’t make sense. Too much at risk.
Too much to lose.