Page 55 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
I burn and I seethe.
And I move.
I meet up with Josh, who’s at a dance club, of all places, since some of his NBA clients are here.
“You look like you need a drink,” he says after a cursory glance at the set of my jaw, the hardness in my eyes.
“That obvious?”
“As obvious as lipstick on a collar.”
I crack a smile. “Got lipstick on collars on your mind, cuz?”
“If it’s Haven’s, I do. That’s the only lipstick that’ll ever be on my collar,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Where is the lovely lady?”
“Wheeling and dealing, like she usually is. She’s a tiger, and I love it.” We grab a spot at the bar. “But what about you? Do you need to tie one on since your woman is a no-go?”
“That’s the thing,” I say as I order a shot of whiskey. “I’m not sure she is a no-go.”
He arches a brow. “Did something change today?”
“Let’s put it this way: things are becoming clear.”
I tell him more, but then the deejay pumps up the music, and soon the noise drowns out any hope of conversation. After another drink, I can’t take the electronic music and the crowds and the citified vibe. Presley doesn’t respond, and I’m pissed, but I know she’ll want to know what I found.
She’ll absolutely want to know.
I say goodbye to my cousin, text my mother and ask her to hold on to that extra ticket, and then I do the only thing that makes sense.
I head for Presley’s place.
23
Presley
Francesca was right. The company at the exhibit is fascinating. I talk to a goateed man in a leather jacket who restores old motorcycles and turns them into sculptures. Bender is a former juvenile delinquent, but totally reformed now, thanks to the power of art. He’s passionate and eloquent.
I chat with a woman in a dashiki who worked in Europe, and she’s intrigued by my research into art theft. We chat about the Antwerp diamond heist, amazed at how they pulled it off.
She introduces me to a man who loves to buy and sell what he calls absurdist art, and I have to admit his outfit—a green suit with illustrated playing cards on it—is equally absurd, but he calls it art too.
All of the men and women are interesting. All of them make for a fascinating night of cocktails and banter, of quintessential New York chatter among the art cognoscenti. But none of the men make my heart scurry or my skin heat up. No one even makes me want to go on a date for a cup of tea.
I’m part of this world, but I’m also inexorably drawn to a man who’s not part of it at all.
A man I can’t have.
A man who’ll go far, far away.
I wish I didn’t ache for him.
Especially since he made me feel something both tender and intense this morning. Something passionate and beautiful. Something that felt like more.
Snap out of it.
He picked up the phone after he finger-banged you.
Right. Exactly. Thank you, brain, for reminding me.
I should know better. We’re not falling in love again; we’re falling into old patterns. Sex and lust. We were good at that, great at that, and I can’t let it fool me.
When Francesca whirls by, I tap her arm and thank her for the invite. “My mind is officially twisted from the wire art.”
“And will I be knocking on your wall tonight and cheering you on?”
“Doubtful. But you gave it the old college try.”
“Not even Bender, the motorcycle artist? He seemed perfect for you.”
“He’s great. Truly, he is.”
She arches an impeccably groomed eyebrow. “But he’s not the one who makes your heart want to fling itself into his arms?”
I sigh and shake my head.
She hugs me once more. “Thanks for coming.”
Once I’m home, I kick off my high heels, slide into my jammies, pour a glass of wine, twist my hair in a bun, and spend some time online with Caribaldi, figuring the clue has to be connected to him. Digging deep into Google, I’ve come across some potential leads when my sister pings me on FaceTime.
“I just returned from my shift at the hospital, and I’m full of energy! Can you help me now?”
“Of course,” I say, then walk her through where to hang the pictures.
This is my life. Friday night, and I’m a picture-hanging consultant, all because I didn’t connect with a dude in leather or a hipster in playing cards.
When we’re done, Holly twirls a strand of her blonde hair. “What’s going on with you? Have you found some fabulous new art thief to fall for?”
I laugh, thinking of Beatrice. “What’s with the art thief obsession? My agent said the same thing.”
“They’re sexy. Like highwaymen. Like adventurers. They’re daring and dangerous. You do like adventurers. You were always saying you were going to marry a pirate.”
