Page 68 of Stay Awake
“What?”
“I’m not sure that he’s as into me. Sometimes I think that he slots me into his life when it’s convenient for him. Other times, I feel frozen out. And…”
“And? What?” Amy turns to her side, reclining on her elbow. She pushes her sunglasses onto the top of her head and stares at me, waiting for me to elaborate.
“He wanted me to get free publicity for his investor’s wife, who’s a handbag designer. The style team refused to do a write-up, and I don’t blame them. Emily is not a great designer. She’s not even a good designer. Marco was upset when I told him. He really wanted to keepDean, his investor, happy. At first I felt guilty about it, but now I’m sort of annoyed.”
“Why?”
“I’m annoyed that Marco expected me to help him in the first place. It makes me feel… used,” I tell her. “I’m seeing him this afternoon. Do you think I should say something?”
Amy slides her sunglasses off her head back onto her face, hiding the expression in her eyes. “Liv, I wasn’t going to say anything, but here goes. You’re wasting your time on Marco. That relationship will never go anywhere. Break up with him. Go meet someone new.”
“Aren’t you a little biased because you two don’t like each other?”
“I’m only biased against him because I think he’s wrong for you. You need someone stable and reliable after your messed-up gypsy childhood. All your mother’s marriages, going from having money to being dirt poor every time she had a breakup, being taken by child services when she went on drinking binges. Not to mention all the other crap that you’ve told me about. All that takes a toll.”
“What toll?”
“Well,” says Amy, choosing her words carefully. “For one thing, I don’t think you’re good at telling the good apples from the bad ones.”
“You think Marco is bad?”
“He’s an asshole. Don’t get me wrong. That’s okay. As long as a girl knows what she’s getting into. You don’t,” she says pointedly. “Look, everything with Marco is a means to an end. He’s a wheeler and dealer. That’s literally his profession; a salesman.” She pauses, seeing my hurt expression. “Liv, you deserve someone who loves you for who you are, not for what you can do for him.”
“Does such a person even exist, Amy? Because if he does, then I sure haven’t come across this paragon of virtue yet.”
“You will,” she says. “But not if you keep wasting your time on the Marcos of this world.”
“I know you only want what’s best for me, Amy. But I’m in lovewith Marco, flaws and all. He’s awesome in so many ways. I’m not going to break up with him in the hope that I’ll meet someone better.”
“Then there’s nothing more to say,” she says, before turning around and lying on her stomach. She unclips her bikini top to prevent tan lines and falls asleep.
After a while longer, I’m getting thirsty from lying in the sun. I collect my things and go down to the apartment to get ready for my cycling trip with Marco. I don’t wake Amy. She’ll come down when she’s ready. I’m halfway down the stairs when I realize I left my straw sun hat on the roof.
I go all the way back up the metal stairs and push open the rooftop door. I’m immediately hit by a sweltering blast of heat. Amy’s standing by a rooftop wall, looking at the view of the East River, her back to me as she talks on the phone. She doesn’t notice me retrieving my hat from under the ledge where I was lying earlier.
“You have to tell her.”
Amy pauses midsentence as she realizes she’s not alone. She turns around and sees me standing on the roof, holding my hat awkwardly to my stomach.
“I forgot my sun hat,” I say meekly.
My cell phone rings with a blocked number as I open the front door of our apartment.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“Your partner in crime.”
“Tell me who you are or I’m going to end this call. Now.” I’m rude for a reason. I assume the voice on the phone is the stalker that the police don’t believe exists.
“I’m Q. You were at the special advance showing of my exhibition. You asked me to contact you for an interview,” he says, amused by my hostile tone.
It’s the artist whose disturbing exhibition I went to last week. He’scaught me unprepared. I grapple around for a pen and a notebook in a kitchen drawer. I was expecting a sit-down interview at a prearranged time. Instead he’s called me unexpectedly and caught me off balance. I wonder if it was deliberate.
“Did you enjoy the performance?” he asks.
“It was certainly unique,” I respond, thinking back to the bizarre exhibit in the warehouse. “Does it have a title?” I’m standing by the kitchen sink looking into the street as I talk.
