Mia looked up at the sky. “I hate my job,” she whispered, and her hesitant tone made Rachel realize why her cousin had been trying to connect lately. She’d seen Rachel’s restlessness and it had resonated with her own.
“You should quit,” Rachel said softly. Tonight, her fragile tie to this family had grown stronger, and she wanted to settle into the feeling. She wanted to be a shield between this woman and anything that tried to hurt her.
Mia didn’t speak for a long time. “I need the money,” she said finally, with a weight that Rachel felt in her bones.
When Rachel said she wanted to keep things professional, Nathan thought he knew what that meant. It was no more late-night text messages. It was scheduled meetings instead of stopping by. They’d been working together a week and for the most part, he’d been doing okay. Daytime-only texts. Plus, that one video call to show her a messed-up Dixieland mural so they could debate whether all censorship was technically bad. But that was all work related. He really was, actually, doing fine.
But then Rachel brought him cake.
She stopped by late, after the sip and see, and the laundromat was empty. It took him a minute to spot her hovering near the door, backlit by a streetlight, and holding a small Tupperware container. The dress she wore was something out of a dream—like spun sugar, tied at the neck, and swirling around her thighs.
“Sorry to just stop by.”
“It’s okay,” he’d said quickly. “I’m, uh…” He trailed off, gesturing toward the office like that would explain that he’d been fucking around on YouTube. “It’s fine.”
“I brought you cake,” she said, and looked embarrassed. There was no way to fit this into the just-business framework she’d created.
“What kind is it?”
She smiled one of her rarest smiles. Pure joy that brightened the room. “I don’t know,” she said and laughed. “I left the party before I could try any.”
He got forks from upstairs. They ate the lemon raspberry cake slowly, leaning on their elbows at a folding table. She told him about the party, and he told her about playing LEGO with his nephew, the whole time thinking, Yes this. This is the way we should be. She smelled like expensive perfume and cigars. It made him want to press her against the table and breathe her in.
They were stretching out the time, taking smaller mouthfuls and longer pauses between bites. Once the cake was gone, he tried to think of something that would stop her from leaving. But all he said was “Thanks for stopping by,” like some clueless jackass with better things to do. For the rest of the night, Nathan picked at the scab of that moment, imagining all the ways he could have persuaded her to stay.
He was used to being alone. It was how he’d spent most of his life. But Rachel had slipped into his daily routine when he wasn’t paying attention. Now, he couldn’t go an hour without sending her a message. He was lucky that the increasing demands of the gala gave him an excuse to be in constant communication with her. The event had been sold out for weeks. Publicity requests seemed to take up more of his time than working on the art they were trying to sell. Which didn’t matter much, since so far, the only “work” he’d done was cursing himself while staring at a blank canvas and blowing off the freewriting exercises Rachel recommended to draw cheesy doodles of her name.
He was actually relieved when his mother called the next morning and asked if he’d do a last-minute photoshoot for some DC society magazine he’d never heard of. Nathan wore a white T-shirt and jeans, while Sofia posed in a fuchsia blazer with one hand on his shoulder, staring down the camera as her hair billowed in artificial wind. The photographer told Nathan to fold his arms and show his tattoos. “We like the contrast,” the jittery British man said. “Elegance meets street, or something. Maybe glare a bit more, and lift your chin so—”
“Excuse me,” Sofia said. “Could you shut up and take the picture.”
The guy clammed up after that and took a break.
“Thank you for doing this,” she said to Nathan.
“I was surprised you asked. I know you didn’t want to pick me for the gala.”
Her eyes shot to his. “Excuse me?”
“This is a big deal. You had a right to be anxious about them choosing me.”
“Because I thought they were pressuring you. Joe put you on the spot in front of all those people and I didn’t want you to feel obligated.” She paused. “Being associated with me and my work can be difficult. I’m an easy target and I didn’t want my critics aiming at you too.”