Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
She huffs and puffs her irritation into the phone. “Fine. But this is on a short timeline, and if nothing happens, I’m sending Paul.”
“Breezy, enough.”
There’s a small pause—just long enough for her to consider my tone of voice and the seriousness in it before moving on. “Yesterday, I had a phone call with the curator for MoMA. They want to showcase some of your pieces, but they need your permission.”
“Well, they’re not going to get it.”
“Bennett.” She sighs again. “You can’t spend the rest of your life creating art that you don’t show to anyone.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone,” she responds with a tight edge to her voice. “Every day, I’m fielding calls from people who are desperate to get a Bennett Bishop hanging on their wall, and yet I can’t sell them anything, even though our gallery represents you, because you’re on some kind of small-town sabbatical and have become absolutely impossible.”
“A sabbatical insinuates that I’m planning to come back. And I am. I just need time.”
She lets out an irritated breath. “Are you really going to sit here and tell me to tell the curator from MoMA that you refuse permission to showcase your art in one of the world’s most coveted museums?”
“Yes. Plus, I’d like to remind you they already have some of my pieces on display,” I answer. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have errands to run, shit to do.”
“This is exactly why you need an assistant.”
“Breeze, if I’m going to hire an assistant, I’m going to find someone who can challenge me. Someone who can provide an edge. Someone who can be a true asset to my creativity. Someone I can trust. What I don’t need is some gopher to get my groceries and make me coffee. I can handle that shit on my own.”
“I’m not telling the curator from MoMA no.”
“You want me to tell him?”
“No, I want you to get your head out of your ass and realize you’re being stupid.”
“Bye, Breezy.”
“Bennett! Don’t you dare—”
I hang up the phone before she can say anything else.
Though, I’m not surprised when two texts chime in a few seconds later.
Breezy: YOU ARE IMPOSSIBLE.
Breezy: And since you’re RUDE AS HELL and ended the call before I was able to tell you everything, Logan called me this morning. He was asking about you. Wondering what you’re up to and how you’re doing. He’s in New York for some kind of movie premiere.
My response is instant.
Me: You can tell Logan to fuck right off.
Breezy: Yeah, that’s pretty much how I expected you to respond.
My older brother is a self-involved, narcissistic snake. He’s also a pretty popular Hollywood actor, and the only thing we have in common is our last name and that we slept with the same woman—who just so happened to be my girlfriend at the time.
Out of nowhere, I hear the words Josie told Clay Tuesday night at the bar. “Sometimes we have to make exceptions and do things we absolutely don’t want to do because it’s for the people we love.” Words I know I need to hear myself. For Summer and for Breezy.
Before I can overthink it, I type a text onto the screen and hit send.
Me: I have a finished painting you can sell. Large. Abstract. I’ll send you a photo by the end of today. And you can tell MoMA yes.
Ready to think about something else, anything else, I shove that conversation out of my head at the same time I shove my phone into my jeans pocket and start looking inside my fridge to see what else I might need from Earl’s.
It just so happens, the front of the grocery store is where the town keeps the board for employment ads. I can get groceries and take the first step to finding someone other than fucking Paul.
Sometimes, small-town life isn’t so bad.
Norah
With guilt hanging over me like a poncho since “the incident,” I’ve been trying my best to make up for the clusterfuck of an arrival I made to Red Bridge.
I wake myself up, before Josie’s alarm even goes off, get ready for work, and pack a little snack bag for Josie along with my own every day. When we get to CAFFEINE, I try my best to watch and listen and learn everything I can, but I’m sad to report, it’s still not going well.
Wednesday, I forgot about the cookies in the oven and nearly smoked out the coffee shop. Sheriff Pete called the volunteer fire department and made us evacuate the building until they arrived.
Thursday, I tried my hand at the espresso machine, only to cause a death rattle even the manufacturer isn’t sure how to fix. It still works, technically, but it’s much slower, causing even Josie, Todd, and Camilla—who are all experienced baristas—to turn down making some drinks when customers request them.