Chapter 10
LILA
Walking to my favorite coffee shop on the corner, it would feel like any other normal spring day…
if it wasn’t for the blazing hangover I’m nursing.
Without the stomach-churning nausea, I’d almost be able to convince myself last night was just a fever dream, and I didn’t sneak Archibald Fisher through my back door earlier this morning.
“Morning, gorgeous,” Glenn greets me as I step inside the coffee shop and breathe in the heavenly scent of roasted coffee beans and sugary, freshly-baked pastries. “Medium toffee-nut latte with extra caramel drizzle?”
“Yes, please.” I smile at the barista and slide my sunglasses off. The fluorescent light above the counter is brighter than I expect, and I wince, quickly putting them back on. “Actually, better make that a large. I think I’m going to need the extra caffeine today.”
“Rough night?” He turns the card machine to face me.
“Just had a few drinks with…a friend,” I say as I add a tip and tap my card.
“A friend, or a friend? Spill the tea.”
“No tea.” Only that I got completely wasted with the billionaire whose family’s trying to destroy the firehouse last night, and then I agreed to marry him to help him commit fraud. “Just one too many Dirty Shirleys.”
Glenn laughs as he hands me my receipt, and then his gaze moves past my shoulder to the window. I glance in the same direction to see Zane and Alastair outside on the street, walking towards the coffee shop. They smile and wave in our direction.
I wave back, then hurriedly turn to Glenn, nodding at the purple mug in his hand. “Um. Maybe I’ll take that latte to go, too.”
I love my friends, but I can’t have coffee with them right now.
Not until I can think straight.
“Ahh, so that’s what happened.” Glenn smirks knowingly as he looks Zane up and down once more. He drops his voice to a theatrical whisper as he adds, “I love this for you. He’s cute.”
Ha. If Glenn thinks Zane’s cute, imagine what he’d think if he saw my future husband.
“Oh no, noth—” I start to protest.
“Don’t worry, I got you, girl,” Glenn interrupts me with a wink as he sets the mug down and grabs a large paper cup instead. I don’t bother to protest further. What he assumes went down last night is a lot more believable than what actually happened.
Glenn starts making my coffee as Zane and Alastair step inside the shop.
“Morning,” Alastair says.
Zane gives me a teasing grin as he leans against the counter. “What’s with the sunglasses inside, Li?”
“Just a headache,” I say. It’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and not a total lie.
Glenn grins at Zane over the espresso machine. “If you’re feeling similarly fragile this morning, I can put an extra espresso shot in your Americano?”
“No, just the regular is good. Please,” Zane tells him with a puzzled frown. “Did you take some painkillers?” He asks, his eyes shifting in my direction.
It takes me longer than it should to realize this question is addressed to me. “For what?”
“Your headache?”
“Oh…right. That.” I’m a deer in headlights. I don’t usually lie to my friends or keep secrets like this. Or do shady shit like agreeing to marry random men I just met.
Alastair chuckles as he waves a paint-stained hand in front of my face. “Uh oh, is Lila off in space again?”
“From what I heard, she definitely saw stars last night,” Glenn says, winking at me as he sets my finished coffee down on the counter. I’m going to kill him.
Zane’s frown deepens.
“He’s joking!” I try to laugh, but the sound that comes out of my mouth is borderline hysterical, even to my own ears.
“You’re acting really weird right now, Li,” Zane says.
Way to state the obvious.
“I’m just in a rush. Gotta go, uh…buy Tylenol. For my headache.” I wave a vague hand as I start backing up, making my way towards the front door. “Thanks for the coffee, Glenn.”
Alastair chuckles, but Zane gives me such an unnerving look, for a moment I’m worried he’s somehow aware of my and Fisher’s whole plan, and he’s about to call my bluff.
“I’ll see you later, then,” Zane finally says with a confused expression.
“Yeah, maybe. I’m kind of busy today, so, uh…” I trail off, shooting one last smile in my friends’ direction as I duck out of the shop.
“Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, baby,” Glenn calls after me, little shit stirrer that he is.
The door closes behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can only hope Zane will buy that my mind is lost in an art project, and Glenn’s mind is well…just lost in general.
Tilting my face towards the warmth of the morning sun, I take a sip of my coffee, trying to figure out what on earth to do next. I can’t go back to the firehouse, because eventually Zane and Alistair will head back there, and I don’t want to field any more questions right now.
I decide to walk over to an upscale gallery downtown where I sold a painting a couple months back. Yesterday, they left me a message saying my check is ready to be picked up. I need the money, and hopefully some fresh air and exercise will help me think.
I can’t tell my friends the truth, because they’ll all try and talk me out of it.
They’ll tell me it’s not worth it; that we’ll find a new building for our collective.
Plus, if Rebekah found out I was marrying Fisher to save the firehouse, she’d blame herself, and I don’t want her to feel guilty when none of this is her fault.
The woman already has enough on her plate.
So I either need to spin a story—lie—to everyone I know and love, or avoid them all for the next whole year.
Or maybe I just have to admit this is a terrible idea and accept defeat.
Call the whole thing off.
By the time I walk into the gallery, I’ve got a blister forming on my heel and a million more “what ifs” to back up how stupid and reckless this whole marriage plan is and why I can’t possibly go through with it.
Like what if the authorities somehow find out?
Or what if Fisher changes his mind after we say “I do” and decides he wants his inheritance for himself?
Or what if that’s secretly his plan, anyway…
“Can I help you, Miss?”
I startle as I look up to see a middle-aged gallery curator peering down his long, thin nose at me.
He’s wearing a slim-fitting tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses, and when I glance around and see how bougie this gallery is, I know his image was carefully curated to match the vibes here.
He looks like a walking stereotype of someone you’d expect to work in a fancy art gallery—well-groomed and just the right amount of snooty.
“I’m just here to pick up a check.”
His brows rise, but he doesn’t reply.
“For a painting I sold here a while back, at one of your art shows,” I add.
“Sorry, kid,” he says, sounding anything but sorry. “You must have the wrong gallery. I know all of our artists by both face and name.”
I’m not offended by his attitude. In a way, I get it.
I’m some random young girl who’s just stepped in off the street in a threadbare Grateful Dead T-shirt, last night’s whiskey still radiating from my pores.
If he’s a snobby gallery stereotype, I’m a starving artist stereotype, giving him every reason to believe there’s no way someone like me could be selling my art at a place like this.
I offer the curator what I hope is a professional-looking smile. “My name is Lila Chen, and the check I’m here to pick up is for my painting Waking Dreams.”
The man pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, blinking rapidly at me. “You’re Santi?”
“I…guess I am.” I started using the signature Santi on my paintings shortly after my mom died. It means peace, or serenity, in Thai, and it felt appropriate because painting is the one thing that’s brought me peace amidst the chaos of my life in the last year since.
“Your work is in high demand,” the curator says with a thin smile. His demeanor is friendlier now, but edged with disbelief.
I can hardly believe it either, if I’m being honest. Statistically, most artists never make real money from their art in their lifetimes, and my semi-surrealist, dreamy style of work isn’t for everyone.
I’m grateful to whoever that mysterious buyer was who scooped up my painting of Alone by the Sea last summer.
It was for sale in some random art space in Monterey that reluctantly agreed to hang it near the back of their unit, and it was clear the staff there thought nobody would ever buy it…
but somehow, someone did. The sale of Alone by the Sea generated enough buzz for more local galleries to start taking interest in displaying my pieces, and allowed me to quit my waitressing job and start making a modest living doing what I love full time.
“Let me get your check,” the curator says as he crosses over to an ornate desk at the edge of the room and retrieves a crisp white envelope from a drawer.
“Thank you.” I take the envelope from him and tuck it into my purse, and his eyes follow my motion.
“It’s more than double what you asked,” he says dryly.
Freezing in place, I’m sure I misheard. I turn to look at him to confirm.
He nods. “A young man who attended the show seemed so determined to add it to his art collection that my fellow curator, Carmila, was able to get a much higher price than expected.”
My mouth falls open.
“Like I said, you’re in high demand.” He smooths his tie. “In fact, Carmila was interested in speaking with you about featuring more of your work here; perhaps even a dedicated Santi series. She’ll be sorry she missed you today.”
“Wow. I’d love that.”
Love that is a serious understatement—it’s the chance of a lifetime. The opportunity to go from a little buzz around my name to making an actual name for myself in the art world. I can’t believe my ears.
“She was looking at penciling that in for June—we had a cancellation we still need to fill.”
“June?” I squeak. That doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough time to conceptualize and create a decent, sellable series of paintings.
“The art world is fickle, and she’ll move on to the next up-and-coming, shiny new artist on the block unless you act quickly to make a lasting name for yourself while there’s some interest in you. I recommend striking while the iron is hot, or fade into irrelevance.”
He says this like he’s speaking from experience, and my heart goes out to him while simultaneously, my desire to seize my opportunity and make it a success doubles down.
“I really appreciate the advice. I can definitely deliver in whatever timeframe she needs.”
“Good luck,” he tells me, sounding sincere. “I’ll tell Carmila you’re expecting her call.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.” My heart is buoyant, bobbing wildly in my chest as I dash out of the gallery. I rip open the envelope and almost keel over when I see the check is for five thousand dollars.
What idiot paid five thousand dollars for my interpretation of the Palace of Fine Arts at dawn? Whoever they are, I could kiss them.
I feel electric. Crackling with an energy I'm desperate to channel into creativity. I’m on the verge of running all the way back to the firehouse so I can throw myself into finishing the cherry blossom piece I’ve been working on…
and then I remember. There might not even be a firehouse to work out of soon.
And while the check I just received would cover a deposit and first month’s rent on a new place to live, it wouldn’t stretch to cover going rates for renting studio space elsewhere.
Nevermind buying all the materials I’d need to paint a whole series.
Plus I still need to eat.
I sink onto a nearby bench and bury my head in my hands.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I pull it out, blinking in surprise when I see the name Hercules on my screen before I laugh.
When we swapped numbers this morning before he left, Fisher must’ve saved his contact information as that.
But I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear from him so soon.
Hercules
Getting cold feet yet?
I stare at his message, wheels in my brain spinning. Ten minutes ago, I’d have said yes and told him I’d changed my mind.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Lila
I’d say more lukewarm than cold.
I’m on the precipice of real success with my art career.
So close, that suddenly lying to my friends seems like the least of my worries—because this isn’t only about me.
It’s a long shot to be successful in the art world to start, and without the firehouse, the shot gets impossibly longer for all of us to make.
By saving the firehouse, I’d be helping them out as much as myself.
Hercules
Does that mean we’re still doing this? Because it turns out when you tell your roommates you’re getting married, they all want to meet your future wife.
Lila
I’m not sure what’s weirder, being referred to as someone’s future wife, or marrying a man with roommates.
Hercules
Definitely the wife part. My roommates are awesome; you’ll love them.
I let out a long sigh, wondering how on earth Fisher broke this news to his roommates. If they think he’s crazy, or if they see it as one big joke. Another message comes through a second later.
Hercules
Only if you want to meet them, of course. Totally up to you.
Deep down, I know that this is my shot, and if I’m going to take it, I need to fully commit. I set my jaw as I tap out a response.
Lila
I’m in.
Hercules
Great! I’ll pick you up tonight at six?
Lila
Just send me the name of the place and I’ll meet you there.
Less pressure that way. And if I’m not relying on him for a ride, I have a better opportunity to dip out early if the dinner is too awkward to bear.
I put my phone back in my bag and stand up from the bench, telling myself it’ll be good to learn more about the man I’m going to marry.
Meet his friends. And as for my friends, I just won’t tell them anything until after the wedding.
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
In a year, once all is said and done, I can explain to them why I did what I did, and they’ll understand. We’ll still have our firehouse, and each other, and it’ll all be worth it. Something we can (or will) look back on and laugh about one day…that one time I married a billionaire.