“Another lie?”
Luna’s accusation makes the dark pit in the base of my stomach grow bigger and deeper, and it hurts more than the routine comments my family make. I don’t know why that’s so, but the pain in her eyes is so different. It makes me want to soothe it in any way that I can.
“You’re right. I’ll tell Mrs. Cartwright that I’m not married,” I vow stiffly, knowing I’ll do no such thing. But Luna will never know one way or another, because after this, we’ll go back to seeing each other occasionally with Zack as a middle man.
The idea is oddly discomforting.
Luna smiles, but then concern mars her brow. “Wait . . . Cartwright? Not as in, Thomas Cartwright?”
“Well, as in Elena Cartwright, but yeah, her husband was Thomas Cartwright. He was the art collector and his wife is managing their portfolio.”
Luna hops from the counter and crouches down in front of me, her eyes completely wild as she plants her hands on my shoulders. “The Thomas Cartwright?” When I don’t answer, she starts mindlessly shaking me and rambling rapid-fire, “Holy shit, you should’ve led with that, man. We could’ve avoided all this mess! Isn’t the first rule of business to know what the other person values?” She pauses but doesn’t seem to want an answer, so I stay quiet, having learned my lesson about the trouble my mouth can get me into. “Let me clue you in . . . I value Thomas Cartwright’s private art collection that’s rarely been seen in decades but is reported to have pieces from all the masters. Just hanging on the walls of his house, like they’re no big deal.”
She stands, pacing in the small space as she waves her hands around. I think she’s picturing the supposed art and not trying to slap me, or at least I hope that’s the case.
“Oh, yeah, that? It’s a Degas.” Hand flap. “Have you seen my Warhol? Right over here next to the Pollock!” Double hand flap. “I’ve considered bidding on a Kara Walker, but I want to find the one that inspires me.”
That last one had a hand flip but it was more of ‘fancy braggart at a cocktail party’ type, especially given the forced tone. I’ve known more than a few of those folks. Carefully, I question, “Does that mean you’ll come with me? As my wife?”
I feel like it’s the most dangerous question I’ve ever asked, and I’m still stupidly sitting in the floor with Luna and Samantha between me and the door. There’s a distinct possibility that I might be nothing more than a chalk outline on the kitchen floor by morning.
Nah, both of them are smart enough to hide your body so they don’t get caught.
The unhelpful thought doesn’t give me any peace as I wait for one or both women to attack me for daring to ask the question. I fight the urge to cover myself and at least protect my most sensitive of parts.
Luna freezes, looking down for a long moment as if considering her answer carefully. When her eyes lift to meet mine, there’s doubt, but she nods. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this, but for someone like me, seeing those pieces is akin to a chance to hold the Holy Grail. I can’t say no.”
“Ooh, get it, girl!” Samantha squeals, now supportive of the whole lying situation if Luna’s good with it.
CHAPTER
SIX
LUNA
“I’m gonna wear the little black dress I showed you,” I tell Samantha again. She shoots me a dangerous look and I clamp my mouth shut. That lasts all of ten seconds before I remind her, “It fits, and it’s perfectly respectable.”
“You mean boring,” she corrects, and then, with a sense of finality, says, “And still, no. You’ve worn that to a funeral and two weddings.”
She leads me down the sidewalk of the fashion shopping district, stopping in front of stores that I would never give a second glance. Mostly because even the mannequins in the windows seem to be judging me with their faceless, eyeless aura of superiority. Admittedly, they’re dressed better than I am, and I pulled on non-painty, non-lounge clothes today in an attempt to rise up to Samantha’s style level.
I glance down at my black jeans, Converse, and plain green T-shirt and then over to Samantha, who’s wearing leopard print trousers, a black V-neck blouse that shows a bit of cleavage, and red peep-toe shoes.
“Hey, do you have something going on today?” I ask, realizing she looks dressed for more than a day of shopping. I hope I’m not interrupting her day, but a sizable portion of my mind is also thinking that maybe I can still get out of this expedition and just wear the black dress. “If you have a date, we can skip this.” I’m trying to be a good friend, but so is she.
Samantha and I met when she came to the museum for her Art 101 class, and she basically adopted me as her friend by force, for which I will forever be grateful. After double majoring in Psychology and Biology, she’s now well into her graduate program specializing in sex therapy and likes to make me blush by sharing too much about her studies. Through her, I know way too much about kinks for someone who doesn’t know if I even like vanilla. All jokes aside, she takes her schoolwork very seriously, saying she wants to help people live a full and fulfilling life. She leads a much more exciting life than I do for sure, dating guys of every type, which she says gives her ‘stimulating intel’ for the future. I wonder who she’s seeing today.
“Not till later. You want to come?”
“Eek!” I exclaim. “No, no, no.”
“Consent is key,” Samantha agrees sagely.
“What if I don’t consent to going into the store and trying on dresses that aren’t going to fit anyway?” I’m exposing a bit of my own insecurity with the question. Places like this store don’t dress people like me—short, curvy, and plain. They’re for people like Samantha, who truly wakes up looking like a goddess.
Samantha opens the door and nearly shoves me inside. “Nice try, but this is your best option. Let’s go.”
I stumble over my own feet and right into the saleswoman inside, who I think has been watching me try to talk my way out of this.
“Ladies.” Not exactly a friendly greeting, but before I know it, Samantha is explaining to her what I need.
“A fancy dinner?” the saleswoman repeats. She’s staring at me as though my version of ‘fancy’ and hers couldn’t possibly be the same thing. “I’m sure I can find you something.”
She gives me a shrewd look, and I feel like she’s taking my measurements as accurately as if she had a tape measure choking my curves. But despite her words, she seems less than confident about fitting me.
Now that Samantha’s gotten me in here, I’m committed to this, and I stand up as straight as I can, still only reaching the lithe blonde’s chest. “Can we skip the whole Pretty Woman moment? I have a black Amex card, courtesy of my dinner date, so if you can find something here . . .” I trail off and look around doubtfully to throw out the challenge, “I would appreciate it. Otherwise, I’m sure Samantha can find somewhere else willing to take my money.”
The saleswoman takes the rebuke congenially, her customer service mask never slipping. “No need for that. I’ll pull you some options if you’d like to look around.”