“If it’s so unfortunate, why don’t you go and entertain your bimbo of a date instead of bothering me?” I walk off, leaving him alone on the balcony. I force a smile onto my face and I walk back through the party, re-claiming my spot in the kitchen.
I try to calm down, but the more I think about it, the more questions that pop in my head. How much do they hang out? I also wonder why Eric’s never told me about Dean. Even though Eric and I haven’t talked as much as we used to over the past few years, we’ve still talked regularly. But then again, he never told me his business was doing so well either.
Dean returns to his date, his white V-neck t-shirt is damp and clinging to his abs, and his date clearly approves. I watch as she traces her fingers along every muscle in his chest, and as she playfully tosses her brown, wavy hair against him. I can’t help but wonder how long they have been together and if they’re serious.
I notice a ring on her finger, and I immediately look for one on his—thinking I’ve missed it somehow, but there isn’t one.
I’m not sure if the sigh I let out is out of relief or pain.
Chapter 14
MIA
A full two weeks go by without me or Dean addressing one another. I’ve learned that he works between the hours of six and four—Where? I don’t know—so I do my best to set my alarm for eight. At two, I make sure I’m on my way to a café or a park to fill out a job application, and I try not to come home until nine so I can sleep until eight and do it all over again.
The few times that we’ve run into each other in the kitchen or the living room, we’re avoiding looking directly at each other, and whenever we cook, we don’t share. Unlike Eric who cooks enough for all three of us whenever he makes a meal, when I cook, it’s just for me (I do take some to Eric at Sea of Ink on his lunch break) and when Dean cooks, it’s just for him.
I’m hoping to make it through this arrangement until I get a job and save up enough money so I can move out. And from the prices I’ve seen on condos and houses here, it would take double what I currently have in my savings to get someplace decent, so it may take me quite a while to get to that point.
When my alarm goes off on Wednesday morning, I quickly fill out my final online application for an art gallery and decide to attempt a more personal approach for the day.
Armed with a map of the entertainment district and a few printouts of my resume, I slip into the city and pull out the list of galleries that didn’t have applications directly on their website.
I walk half a mile to the first gallery—Le Soire Le Blanc, and tuck my map into my purse. I take a deep breath and smile as I open the door.
“May I help you with something, Miss?" A woman dressed in black, immediately greets me from behind a podium.
"Yes, I'm Mia Gray." I extend my hand. “I was hoping to see the lead collector. I have a few questions.”
She doesn't make a move to shake my hand at all. Her eyes travel up and down my body, making me question whether I made the right decision in wearing black slacks, a pink button down and blazer, and matching ballet flats.
“You were saying, Miss?” She purses her lips. “We don't entertain or allow solicitors here, if that’s what you’re here for.”
I square my shoulders under her disdainful stare and keep my smile on full display. "I’m not selling anything," I say, trying to keep my resolve. "I'm actually new to the city and I’m searching for some place to further my art career. I’m wondering if you all were looking for a curator, or an intern? I’m open to anything."
She blinks.
"I have my resume here, if you want to take a look." I pull it out of my bag and hold it out for her, but she doesn't take it.
Instead, she calls over her shoulder. "Mr. Shaw! Mr. Shaw, can you come down here, please?"
Within seconds, a grey haired man in an impeccable blue suit descends the spiral staircase, looking back and forth between us both.
"Yes, Miss Lockwood?"
"This..." She shakes her head and points at me. "This person came wandering in from the street, asking about a job. Do we have a 'Now Hiring' sign on our front window that I don't know about?"
"Not that I know of.” He smiles. “No, we don't."
"Do we have a Job Listing Page on our website with open positions? And if we do, does it say, ‘Feel free to come on in wearing department store clothing, and thrusting your ineptitude upon us in the middle of our lunch?"
"No." He smirks, crossing his arms. "We don't have that either."
"So..." She narrows her eyes at me and taps her lip, stepping toward the door. "What do you think we would tell someone who just wandered in from the street with an outdated and unimpressive resume? Do you think we should tell her to come back when we're actually hiring? When she's done her research? Or do you think we should just say nothing and simply hold the door for her to figure it out?"