Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“But see…the internship? It’s not my dream job.” There’s an apology in her tone.
“What?” That does not compute. “You…seemed like you really wanted it. That day when you came into my office. You said it was your birthday wish.”
A soft shrug. Almost a confession unto itself. “It was…expected of me. I knew it would make…him…happy.” Her eyes look a little guilty. “And honestly, there are probably a ton more TV and film students who’d be better at it than I am. Who deserve it more. I shouldn’t have a plum internship just because of my last name.”
I disagree. “You wouldn’t have lasted if you weren’t smart and sharp,” I point out. “Don’t discount what you brought to the table. You’re one of the best.”
“Thank you. But it’s because I’m good at school. I can learn. I can figure things out.” She reaches for her glass of iced tea, runs a finger along the condensation sliding down it.
“But what will you do for work?” I ask, though the second those words come out, something occurs to me for the first time. She’s not making much as an intern. We don’t pay a ton. No one does.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers.
God, tell me all your secrets. “Yes.”
“My apartment?”
“Yes?”
“It’s paid for. My mother’s royalties on her last Sweet Nothings made it possible.”
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, absorbing that. Her life is so different to mine. I had to fight for every cent growing up. My mom didn’t make much, and what she made went to booze, parties, and sequined dresses. I never had anything unless I worked for it. I went to college on scholarships and loans.
Harlow attended a top university…well, on her parents’ many, many dimes. She probably lives loan-free.
Nothing wrong with that. We’re just from different worlds. But that doesn’t bother me. She’s learned how to use her head, not simply her privilege. She’s sure as hell used her brain in the last few weeks at Lucky 21.
As I sort out my thoughts, untangling the practical aspects of her quitting from the emotional ones, I take a drink then ask, “What will you do? What do you want to do?”
“I have some time. But I think I’ve figured it out, Bridger,” she says, and my name comes out full of excitement. Like I’m the first one she’s wanted to share this realization with. And, hell, do I ever want to be the first one to hear it.
That’s why her decision makes me feel emotional too. Because I desperately want to be privy to her future plans. “Tell me,” I say, eagerly.
“Turns out, I do want to work in the art world after all. I just don’t want it to be theory or education or history. I want to curate things that make people think and feel,” she says, her green eyes bright, sparkling. All at once, she seems young again. Or rather, she seems her age. “Is that…silly?”
“God, no. I think it’s great. I truly do.” It’s a gift to discover your passion. To learn what excites you.
But it’s also a weight off my shoulders.
For a couple of hours there today, I’d thought she was giving up everything for me. And I didn’t know how to deal with that kind of gesture. Mostly because I don’t want her to make sacrifices for me. I want her to experience the world. To find her own way. “I guess I just thought you’d really wanted the internship,” I say, relaxed finally.
She dips her face, turns the glass around, then looks me in the eyes, a softness around her mouth. She holds my gaze as she says, “I did. I really did.”
My breath catches. My heart stutters. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know why she wanted it now.
“I’m glad you did,” I admit, quietly.
Then I check my watch. We should go, but I don’t want to. Not when we’ve escaped into this quiet corner of a bar where no one’s knocking on the door, no one’s asking where we’re going.
I nod to her hair. “That’s a new look.”
She lifts her hand, touching the silver barrette like she’s just remembered it’s there. “You noticed.”
“I notice things too.”
She smiles. “Like my barrettes?”
“Yes. Like your hair and how you style it. Like your skirts. How you’re wearing something I’ve never seen you in before. Is this Art Harlow I’m seeing tonight?”
Her cheeks flush at those last few words—seeing tonight.
Yes, they fit in the context of the question, but maybe there’s a Freudian slip in there too.
“I guess I need to look more gallery chic than office chic,” she says. “Am I pulling it off?”
“It’s a good look,” I say.
“I want to look the part,” she says, then a little breathlessly, she adds, “I’m having coffee on Saturday with the MoMA curator. I met her at the Sweet Nothings party and saw her again last night. I reached out to her this afternoon.”