21 Roxie
Roxie
The gallery was unusually silent. I should have relished the peace, but instead it made my skin itch.
The minimalist landscapes I sold yesterday to a collector who had hesitated for weeks were spotlighted by the overhead lights.
Although I was due a large paycheck, I felt detached and unreal, like I had been since the gallery event a couple of weeks earlier.
I found it hard to stop thinking about the man with dark hair and green eyes.
Despite my attempts to resist, he overwhelmed my thoughts, lingering in my mind all day.
It felt as though I was revisiting all my childhood memories with Sebastian, knowing he was probably out of my life permanently.
The good, the bad, the ugly.
I was grieving somebody, even though they were still very much alive. I was mourning a fabricated version of a person, and the second chance we could have had was an idealized image that never existed. It’d been totally draining me for weeks.
Just as I mustered the nerve to do something useful, the unwelcome sound of Martin’s footsteps on the concrete floor made me freeze.
“Roxanne,” he said in that clipped, precise tone he reserved for when he wanted to remind me of the hierarchy here. I had to bite down on my tongue to keep from reminding him that only my parents still called me Roxanne.
And Sebastian, a voice in my head reminded me.
“I’ll need you to forward the buyer’s paperwork from the sale yesterday to me,” Martin went on.
I turned, schooling my face into polite professionalism.
There was once a time that I had been so excited to work here.
Having just left college, I was eager to get involved in the art world, get established, and network for my career.
But I had almost nothing to show for it, nearly five years later.
“Of course. I’ll send you the details so accounting can process my commission.”
Martin’s lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder. My breath caught at the sight, knowing whatever came next was not about to be good. “I’ll be taking this one on my account.”
The air became noticeably cooler.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, thinking I’d misheard him.
“The collector’s a long-standing client of mine,” he said smoothly, like this was simply a matter of policy. “It’s better for the gallery if the relationship is tied to me.”
It was a pathetic excuse, and judging by the smug look on his face, he knew it, but there was nothing I could do about it. Martin ran this gallery, and there was no one else to take up a complaint about him with. I was unfortunately just out of luck.
My fingers curled against my palm. “With respect, Martin, you haven’t spoken to him once this entire process. He came into the store, and I was the one emailing, arranging the private viewings, and helping him map out how these pieces could fit into his collection to close the sale—”
He lifted a hand, cutting me off. “It’s not personal, Roxanne. Just business. You’re on salary. Your quarterly review is coming up. Best not make this difficult.”
That word—difficult—slid under my skin like a splinter.
The last time I’d been called that was by my grandfather, when he asked me why I had to be so difficult and choose NYU and the future I wanted for myself over the future he’d laid out for me at Harvard.
He didn’t understand why I loved photography or the thrill I got from capturing the perfect shot.
To him, it wasn’t prestigious enough. It wasn’t worthy of the King name.
Now I had another man calling me difficult, all because I was standing up for myself.
My jaw clenched. I thought of the endless late nights I’d stayed to rearrange displays, the times I’d worked unpaid hours to keep a buyer happy, the way I’d swallowed snide comments from pretentious clients because I knew the sale mattered.
That sale was the difference between my ability to help pay my half of the rent and bills or not.
And now? On top of the raw, unhealed mess in my chest where Sebastian had been just weeks ago, this was what I got.
I forced my voice steady. “Right. Not personal.”
Martin had already moved on, his gaze flicking over the wall as if I’d vanished from the room. And that was when I knew—I couldn’t do this anymore.
I walked to my small desk in the back corner, my heels striking the floor in sharp, decisive beats. I picked up my mug, my notebook, the pen set my brother had given me when I’d first landed this job. Each item went into my bag with a finality I could feel deep in my bones.
It wasn’t until I was halfway to the door that Martin noticed. “What are you doing?”
I looked at him, letting every bit of exhaustion and clarity show on my face. “I’m making this personal.”
His brows drew together. “Roxanne—”
“First of all, it’s Roxie. You don’t get to call me by the name only my family uses when you’ve never even tried to get to know me as a person. Second, I quit.” The words came out clean, no frustration, no chance for him to smooth-talk me into staying.
I was done.
I loved this job, but it was clearly time for me to leave.
He blinked. Maybe he expected me to crumble, to apologize, to take it back. But I’d already stepped through the glass doors and into the late summer day before he could say another word.
The city hummed with energy, its relentless pulse unconcerned by my life crumbling around me. I had no job. I was still getting over the Sebastian situation. But for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t standing still.
I didn’t have a destination in mind, just the need to move.
My heels clicked along the sidewalk. I was surrounded by the chatter of shoppers stepping out of boutiques, the occasional bark of a dog straining against its leash, and the honk of taxis as they fought their way through the gridlock in the streets.
The Upper East Side was already in that golden-hour phase where the air was warm but carried a tease of the cooler night to come.
The light caught on limestone facades and wrought-iron balconies, glinting off glass storefronts and the chrome trim of cars stuck in the slow-moving traffic.
Everything looked curated, and expensive.
I passed a wine shop where the staff were stacking bottles, a florist trimming stems from a bucket of dahlias the color of old brick, and a bakery giving off the scent of butter and sugar.
Normally, I’d stop, maybe buy a pastry just to photograph it in the sunlight.
Today, I kept going, the city pulling me forward like a current.
That’s when I saw it.
Wedged between a chic home goods store that sold an elevated version of what you could find in a cheap department store for ten times the price, and a boutique that sold nothing but cashmere was a new restaurant.
The facade was all glass, floor to ceiling, giving passersby an unfiltered view of pale oak tables set with handcrafted plates and beautiful floral centerpieces.
A row of velvet banquettes in deep fig hugged one wall, and a mirrored bar gleamed at the back, daring me to come take a closer look.
The signage wasn’t up yet, only a sleek poster announcing that the place would be coming soon, but the place was alive inside. Servers were busy cleaning glassware, and a chef was moving swiftly and purposefully around his team in the visible kitchen.
I pulled out my smaller camera, which I always kept in my purse, almost without thinking, framing shots through the glass.
One angle to catch the curve of the banquette and the warm spill of light over it.
Another to capture the reflection in the mirror, doubling the glow.
I crouched slightly, adjusting until the row of wineglasses lined up like crystal soldiers.
And just like that, Sebastian was there, completely uninvited, in my head.
Teasing me for crouching on a public sidewalk for “the shot,” then leaning over my shoulder to point out a detail I’d missed.
Exactly what he used to do when the two of us would take the train into the city on the weekend.
The memory was so vivid it winded me, and for a moment my hands went cold around my camera.
I was sliding it back into my bag when the restaurant door swung open. A man in a crisp white shirt and rolled-up sleeves stepped out, the scent of rosemary and something buttery following him. He glanced at me, then at the glass where I’d been aiming my lens.
“Hi there,” he said, with a smile. “This is my place. Are you a photographer?” he asked, with friendly curiosity in his voice.
I straightened, tucking hair behind my ear. “Umm, yeah. Kind of. Well, not … professionally. But yeah.” Not yet anyway.
“Can I see the photos you took?” he asked, and for some reason, I obliged, turning my camera screen toward him and scrolling through the photos I’d just taken. He nodded as we wheeled through.
“Well, you might not be a professional just yet, but it looks like you have an eye for it,” he said, smiling.
“We open next month. It’s modern Mediterranean, with a focus on seasonal ingredients.
Trying to bring farm-to-table to the city.
The chef’s from Barcelona. We’re looking to build our website and need someone to capture the space, the food, and the whole vibe. ”
His words landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through me. “A website?” I repeated, feeling like I was following three steps behind him in this conversation.
“Yeah. We’ve been talking to some agencies, but honestly, I think a smaller, more personal touch would work better. This might sound crazy, but I’ve just got this weird feeling you get our vibe. And I’m the kind of guy that follows his feelings. Would you be interested in taking the photos?”
My mind flickered instantly to Hallie—her writing skills, my photography.
All those late-night conversations about going out on our own, the lists we’d made, the ideas we’d scribbled on our dream board that was still sitting propped in the corner of our living room, forgotten under the importance of our “real” jobs.
Maybe the timing hadn’t been wrong before.
Maybe we had just been too afraid to start.
“I might be, and I might know someone who could do a write up, too,” I said slowly. “Can I get your card?”
He handed it over, and I held onto it like it was a ticket to something bigger than either of us knew yet. “We’re going for something coastal to match the food,” he added, almost reading my mind.
“I can do coastal,” I said with a small smile.
When he went back inside, I stared at the card for a long moment before pulling out my phone and hitting Hallie’s name. She answered on the second ring.
“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.
I had barely stepped into the crosswalk after the “walk” signal illuminated when a taxi blared its horn, eager to make the turn. “I have the walk sign, asshole!” I shouted over my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Hallie tried again after I left the chaos of the intersection behind me.
“Why would you assume something’s wrong?” I asked, weaving between a woman with a stroller and a man walking three miniature poodles.
“Because you never call me in the middle of the day. You reserve that for emergencies only.”
“We should really fix that, but you’re right,” I replied. “This is one of those times.”
She sucked in a breath. “Okay … hit me.”
“I quit the art gallery.” The words tasted even better out loud the second time. I could hear my own footsteps, the hum of the city, and beneath it an electric current running through me.
“You quit?” she asked, incredulous.
“Where are you?” I said, ignoring her panic. “I have so much to tell you. I think I could go for a drink, maybe five. Who’s to say? Wow, I had no idea the kind of weight quitting would lift off my shoulders. I’ve got so much energy and have no idea what to do with it all.”
“I’m at lunch with James,” she said cautiously. “Can we walk it back to when you said you quit?”
“Send me the address. I’ll meet you there.” Then I hung up, a grin tugging at my mouth as I kept walking. The card the man gave me still clutched in my hand.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this crazy idea could crash and burn. But I had done more insane things in my life. I had taken bigger leaps of faith. The hardest part was always taking the first step.
But right now? This ending had the feeling of a new beginning.