Margo places her small hands on my chest and pushes against me with an angry groan. I smile, letting her push me a few feet away from her even though I was having fun unnerving her a little with my close proximity. She may think she’s playing it cool, but I could feel the warmth from the rush of blood in her cheeks. I felt every sharp intake of breath against my palm and could see the curious desire in her eyes.
Shocking me, instead of arguing, Margo turns around and begins to rifle through her closet once again. Bored of just sitting on her bed and looking at work emails, I walk around her small room, itching to find out more about her just by what’s in here.
I’m busy looking at a bunch of polaroid pictures she has taped to a floor length mirror when she speaks up from behind me. “Just for the record”—she mocks the tone I just used—“I’m going to spend so much of your money on new clothes.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” I smile, reaching to grab a picture of Margo with a huge slice of pizza next to her face. The giant thin slice with large, round pepperonis is instantly recognizable as a New York style pizza. The sweatshirt she wears with large NYU letters on the front also clues me in to the fact that this must be from her college days. I pull it away from the mirror, and there’s a ripping sound as the tape comes off the glass.
Holding the picture in front of me, I let my eyes roam over her face. She looks so happy, completely carefree. Her hair seems to be a few inches shorter than it is now. It must be from her early college days. It’d been about the same length it is now when I’d first met her in The Hamptons. She stares right at the camera, her mouth slightly open like she was laughing at whatever the person behind the camera was saying.
Various sounds come from behind me as Margo continues to pack while I look around her room. I neatly stick the picture back to the mirror, moving on to look at the next thing. My feet come to a stop in front of what must be her art space. It’s tiny. A small wooden chair sits in front of a desk barely large enough to fit a sketchbook and a holder of drawing utensils.
I slide my finger underneath the cover of her sketchbook, itching to know what she’s spent countless hours drawing on the pages within. I’ve got it raised a few inches, the beginnings of a sketched hand appearing when it snaps shut.
“Those aren’t for you to look at.” Her voice is quiet, her breath quick with what might be nerves.
“Why not?” I push, my voice low. My mind flashes with a memory. To a hot summer night when the moon was high in the sky and questionable decisions were made. “I seem to vividly remember a time where you let me look at every single page of your sketchbook. At what you’d drawn. Who you’d drawn…”
The air around us becomes electrified. Her pouty lips open as she stares at me in shock. Neither one of us had ever acknowledged that summer night—until now. “That was different.”
Her gaze travels from mine to where her fingers splay across the cover of her sketchbook. I pull mine from beneath the cover and first page. My fingertip slides across the cover until it meets her finger. Lifting my hand, I put my hand over hers. The size of our hands is a stark difference. Mine dwarfs hers. I link my fingers through the empty space between hers, letting mine hook around until they rest against her palm. I lift our joined hands, removing them from the cover.
“I don’t see how,” I utter, still keeping her hand in mine as I place them on the edge of the desk. “If anything, I feel like now I’m even more entitled to know what you’ve been drawing. Tell me, is it still me you draw in there, Violet?”
She snatches her hand from mine, the moment gone between us. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snaps, stealing the sketchbook from the desk and stuffing deep into her suitcase.
Lies lies lies. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.
My lip twitches. “If you say so.”
One of these days we’re going to talk about what happened that night. But I’ll let her warm up to me more. I’m not typically a patient man, but for her, I can be. It’ll be well worth the wait once we finally acknowledge it.
Beck wasted no time getting us to New York. He essentially gave me one night and the morning to say goodbye to my friends and get my things packed before he showed up at my apartment early this afternoon, pestering me in hurrying to get ready so we could catch our flight.
I’d argued. If he owned the jet, couldn’t he technically be late?
I’ve never felt truly poor. My family did what they could to get by. My parents lived paycheck to paycheck to make things work, but we were loved and we were taken care of. I didn’t want for much of anything growing up. Sure, I wanted the three-level Barbie Dreamhouse and only got it a year after it first released and it was on clearance, but all the things I truly needed, and even most of what I wanted, I had. I was a happy kid growing up, even if my family didn’t have a ton of money.
The first few months after college could arguably be the time where I felt the most poor. I was living off ramen noodles and off-brand snacks that were on sale because they were about to expire. In the moment, it felt like the New York way to live.
At least it was my version of the New York college kid way to live.
Standing in the foyer of Beck’s penthouse high-rise apartment, it’s just now occurring to me how incredibly rich he is. My first clue should’ve been that he lived in Manhattan. One month’s rent for a teeny-tiny studio here is almost triple what we paid to live in a three-bedroom in LA. My second clue should’ve been the fact that Beck had to swipe a keycard in front of a sensor when we stepped into the elevator before he pressed a glowing button with a PH on it.
Of course he lives in a penthouse. And of course it’s the most gorgeous space I’ve ever seen.
“Are you just going to stand there and gawk?” Beck’s footsteps echo off the black marble flooring. He stops at a lavish gold entryway table, putting his wallet and keycard into a ceramic bowl.
My feet stay planted on the fancy carpet of the elevator. It dings three times before the doors close in on me. With a yelp, I squeeze between the closing doors, almost dropping my purse in the commotion.
Beck smirks from the middle of the room. His fingers wrap around the handle of my suitcase, his eyes watching me closely.
“Thanks for the help,” I say sarcastically.
“I thought you could manage on your own." Turning around, he walks past a large staircase. He turns his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s leave the gallery.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I step next to the staircase. The side is all glass, the stairs white with gold metal accents. It’s very modern and expensive looking. “I’ve never heard the word gallery used in that context.”
Beck walks past an enormous dining table, his hand still perched on the handle of my suitcase as he wheels my cheap looking suitcase next to a grand table. My old duffle bag almost slides off the top of the suitcase with his jerky movements. I gawk in awe at the table that sits next to my things. It looks to be made out of some kind of black stone that probably has some kind of fancy name. It looks incredibly heavy. I wonder how many people it took to get it up here. “Gallery…” I repeat, testing the word on my tongue. It feels odd to use it to describe a location in a home.