28
At the one-week mark, I owe Rita Clementine an idea.
I’ve been staying up late most nights, attempting to come up with something brilliant that will impress her, but most ideas
have been juvenile or too far-fetched or completely out of line with what she’d want. Finally, after an all-night ideating
session, I think I’ve got something.
During this week, I have also managed to avoid all physical contact with Liam, who unfortunately doesn’t have a clue as to
why his supposed girlfriend won’t touch him. It has caused a serious rift between us, as I’ve been treating him like a chummy
pal instead of a romantic partner of ten years. I know I can’t get away with this behavior much longer unless I fake some
sort of virus.
And even though I’ve been keeping my distance, I can tell there are deeper cracks between us, silent wounds that go way back.
But I’ve been too absorbed with trying to save this gallery to give it much more thought, because after a month, it won’t
really matter, will it? And neither will this gallery , I suddenly realize.
Once inside, I knock lightly on Rita’s office door and she barks to come in. When she sees me, she folds her arms and sits back. “What have you got?”
No hello or casual niceties. I don’t even bother sitting down. “Well, good morning to you too.”
“Good lord, Harper. Always so sensitive. Good morning! Did you sleep well? How’s Liam? Yada, yada.” She narrows her eyes.
“Now, what have you got?”
Despite her rudeness, I laugh. Early this morning, a kernel of an idea began to pop. As I find a sketch pad and begin to draw
my idea for her, my whole body ignites. This is what I have always imagined. This moment, right here. Not being told what
to do. Not running around Brooklyn with my head craned over a phone, hopping from meeting to meeting. Not owning a gallery.
Just the well of fresh ideas tumbling from an inspired place. This is what I have forgotten how to do in my life with Ben.
I feel a stirring in my belly I haven’t felt in a long time, not even while contemplating a possible solo show. Up until this
point in my real life, I’ve always created from a sense of needing to prove myself: I need to prove I can make it. I need
to prove I belong in the art world. I need to impress Wren. But what if I allowed myself to create from a different place? A place where the wild lives? After all, in this
life I’m not some novice artist who needs to prove her worth. I’ve done that already, and that’s what I need to channel for
Rita now.
I pause for a moment, pen in the air, suddenly struck by a sobering realization. Part of me has been blaming Ben’s diagnosis for the reason why I haven’t taken my art more seriously. Or that I have a day job. There’s always an excuse as to why I don’t have time to pursue my passion. Instead of using the pain, agony, fear, and grief, I’ve been hiding, insisting it’s a terrible time. I flip to a fresh page on the notepad and begin to scribble down new notes.
Rita doesn’t say a word, but when I finally look up, she has a twinkle in her eye that I remember from ten years ago.
“There she is,” she finally says, clutching one of my hands in her own. “I’ve missed you.”
I am so excited that she likes this idea, I forget this is not real. Instead, I lap up the praise I never received from her
then and lean into it like an affection-starved dog. I know I’m not really a gallery owner and have no gallery to save. But
I do have a good idea, and I can see that Rita thinks so too. This is a small victory I will take.
“You approve?” I place the cap on the pen and stare down at the loose structure of the show.
“I approve. Get everyone on board. We have about three weeks to get this off the ground.” She flips through her digital calendar
on her phone and spits out a date.
My body tingles as she says it, just as it did the night of the ritual. Three weeks from now, on the date she just chose,
will be the next full moon. That can’t be a coincidence. “On it,” I manage to say before leaving her office, my body trembling
from the obvious synchronicity.
I tuck away this tidbit of serendipity and breeze through the rest of the day, updating the staff on what we are going to
attempt to do by the end of the month. When it’s dark, I’m practically vibrating as I let myself into a loft I do not own,
coming home to a man who is not really mine. But Liam’s not here. I find a handwritten note taped to the fridge.
My editor wanted to meet. He’s got news. Hope you had a great day. See you soon.
Though I have been keeping my distance, the intensity of my feelings for this man are not lost on me. All this time I have carried a flame for someone I spent just a week with. I told myself that I romanticized it. But I haven’t. I didn’t. I know, when I get back to my other life, that I have to tell Ben about who Liam really is to me. It’s only fair.
My phone dings, and I check it, hoping it’s Liam with an update on when he will be done. It’s Wren.
Just wanted to make sure that I didn’t have some sort of ethereal hallucination where someone named Harper jumped time lines
and blamed it all on me.
I laugh.
Who is this? I respond back, then hurriedly type, Just kidding. Wren sends a sweating GIF and then, to my surprise, she calls me. I love that about Wren. She’s never much liked texting,
always preferring to hear someone’s voice over digital communication. She’s like Ben in that way.
“So I was thinking,” she says, launching into the conversation. No hello. No small talk. “According to all of my research
on the deep, dark web, you can’t just complete the ritual. You actually do have to, you know, learn a lesson.”
I groan and collapse onto the bed. “I was afraid of that.” I twirl a piece of hair around my finger and roll onto my stomach,
pressing the speaker and plopping the phone beside me. “Any chance you know what that lesson is?”
“Negative,” she says.
I fill her in on the date of the gallery show, and she gives a little squeak. “That’s it. That’s the night of the next full
moon. Something big is going to happen. We just don’t know what yet.”
“World peace?” All jokes aside, I’m too afraid to ask what I really want to know: What if I can’t get back? What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t learn whatever lesson I’m here to learn? What if I’m stuck here forever?
My phone dings. It’s a text from Rita, and it’s three paragraphs long with to-dos for this next week. I copy and paste it
and send it to one of my assistants and then startle as I hear Liam coming through the door.
“Hey, Wren. I’ve got to go.”
“Hang in there,” she says.
“I’ll try.” I disconnect the call, stand, and nervously smooth my clothes as I move toward Liam. “Hey, you.”
He bounds to the kitchen, pulls down two wine glasses, and pours each nearly to the brim before offering me one with a crooked
smile on his face.
“I’m assuming it was a good meeting?” We head onto the balcony and sit, even though it’s steamy.
He collapses in his chair, a bewildered look on his face. “The book just got picked up for Good Morning America ’s book club.” He’s dazed as he says it. “They’re sending me out on a bigger tour, Harper. Three months.”
I practically choke on my own wine. “Three months? Aren’t book tours usually, like, two weeks?”
“Apparently preorders have been through the roof and they want to ride this wave.” He drags a shaky hand across his face.
“It’s happening. It’s all really happening.”
My brain works to catch up. “When do you leave?”
“At the end of the month. They want me to do some pre-tour stuff to bump up sales for the first book. They hope to hit all
the bestseller lists.”
“Wow, Liam. This is huge.” I reach across and squeeze his arm, but the irony is not lost on me that he will be leaving right when I hopefully will too. “I’m so happy for you.”
He turns, and there are tears in his eyes. “I wanted this, but I thought it would never happen. All the authors I know say
it’s just luck or timing or whatever when they hit it big. But I felt it with this book. I knew it was special when I was writing it.” He sets the wine on the table and leans toward me. “Come
with me.”
My first thought is, Who, me? but I know I can’t say that. Even in this imaginary place, I know going anywhere in the future isn’t possible. In the immediate
sense, I have a gallery to save, my own work to consider, a lesson to learn, and a hot man to stay as far away from as humanly
possible. “Liam, this is such great news, but I have an insane deadline at the gallery for this upcoming show.”
“Yeah, right. It’s always about the gallery. I get it.” He leans back in his chair, his eyes dull and flat.
I bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you remember that day ten years ago? After you brought your piece to Rita and then LaTasha showed up?”
“I remember.” That night changed my entire life.
“You almost walked away, but you didn’t. Do you remember what you said to me?”
I swallow, hoping he will fill in the gaps.
“You told me that you didn’t care what happened in my past, or what Rita Clementine thought of your work. All you cared about
was not letting what we experienced together that week slip away. You said you’d risk anything to keep it, anything to keep
me.”
I’d said that? I nod, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Well, you said those words, Harper, but ever since, it hasn’t really been about me, or us. And I’ve been okay with that, mostly. Instead,
it’s been about your career. Your climb to the top. Your art. Rita. Your followers. Your gallery. I’ve been over here, supporting
you and trying to make something of myself too, because I love you more than anything in this entire world, but you’ve never
really extended me the same courtesy. There’s always been room for just one true success in our relationship.” He turns to
look at me, his eyes a bit softer, pleading almost. “But now it’s my turn, and I’d like you to support me the same way I’ve
always supported you. So please come with me.”
I don’t know what to say, I’m so stunned. Is this true? Have I put my career above our relationship? I think about my marriage
to Ben, how much I’ve sacrificed for the two of us, how much I’ve put our marriage and his health first. Some would say at
the expense of my own dreams.
It seems in both realities I’ve never quite found the balance of prioritizing myself, my career, and my relationship. Is this the lesson I’m supposed to learn here? I fumble for words and land on an apology. “I’m so sorry
you feel that way, Liam. I value you more than you can possibly know. And I fully support your dreams.” I choose my next words
carefully. “But I also care about saving the gallery. I’m going to lose it unless I can figure something out in the next three
weeks. But once I do, I’d love to join you on some of the tour dates.” I hear myself making an empty promise, and I hate myself
a little for it. “Maybe not the whole time, but some of the time? Would that be a fair compromise?”
He blinks at me as if I am speaking another language, then finally nods. “Thank you. Yes.” He deflates, closes his eyes, and sighs. Finally, he opens them and looks at me. “I guess a little time apart might be good for us.”
My heart suddenly slams in my chest. “Good how?”
He swirls his wine around and around, staring into it. “I appreciate you being willing to compromise now, Harper, but, I mean,
come on.” He offers me a sad smile. “It’s been ten years.” His voice is a whisper. “I’m tired of feeling like you’re just
out of reach, like I can’t connect with you no matter how hard I try. I want a little part of you. A part that’s reserved
just for me. For us. But every time I get too close, you pull away, especially this last week. You’ve been treating me like
a stranger.” He stares deeply into his wine. “I feel like you’re missing something, and I can’t fill in the gaps no matter
how hard I try.”
Ben flashes through my mind again, so clearly that I nearly fall off my chair. Is this about Ben, or is this about me?
“I’m so sorry you feel that way.” I grip his hand, but it’s cool and loose in mine. It feels like whatever this fictitious
world is that’s been built between us is slipping away, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Perhaps my dream life is not such a dream after all... and if I want it to be different, then I have to fight for what
matters, even if I lose it all in the end.