order the desserts from the bakery. I called. I even got prices. But I didn’t exactly follow through. Whoops.
I make a mental note to actually call the bakery later today and put in the order, and I take a page out of Luke’s book and send Callie a short email back that consists of one thumbs-up emoji.
When I check my text messages, I’m blessed—not really—to find that my mom and aunts are up to their usual pestering business.
Mom: It’s been FOUR days since you told me you have a boyfriend, and you’ve yet to tell me ANYTHING about him. I don’t even know his freaking name!
Aunt Poppy: What’s the story, Ava?
Aunt Lily: Ava has a boyfriend??? Oh my goodness, if this isn’t the best news I’ve heard all week!!!!
Sweet Lucifer.
Technically, I never told her I had a boyfriend. I just never told her I didn’t.
But now you can actually say Luke is your boyfriend…
A deep sigh escapes my lungs as I think about the consequences of dropping that fictional bomb. Obviously, they’re going to find out soon, you know, when you bring him with you to Vermont…
My fate decided, I hesitantly type out a response.
Me: You actually already know him.
Mom: Who????
Mom: Oh, wait…don’t tell me. ARE YOU DATING LUKE????
Aunt Poppy: Oh, please say it’s true! Say you’re dating that sexy pilot! Say you’re dating that hot-piece-of-pilot-ass, and you’ll make me the happiest old woman on this side of the Mississippi!
Aunt Lil: I’m on pins and needles over here, Ava! Tell us already!
“God help us all,” I mutter to myself as I type out my next response.
Me: I am, in fact, dating Luke.
Mom: YES! YES! YES! FINALLY, YOU TWO REALIZED YOU’RE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER!
Wait…what? What in the hell is she talking about?
Aunt Poppy: !!!!!!!!!!
Aunt Lil: I FEEL LIKE CHRISTMAS CAME EARLY!
Aunt Poppy: BECAUSE IT DID, LIL!
Mom: OH MY GOODNESS, I AM SO EXCITED, AVA!
Holy caps lock.
With my phone vibrating like it’s turned into a freaking sex toy, I click out of the chat and drop the device back onto my desk with a soft thud. They are insanely excited, and it only makes me feel guilt. And shame.
Ugh.
I just hope it all turns out to be worth it in the end.
“Knock, knock.” My boss Daphne peeks her head into my office, and I smile up at her, but also tilt my head to the side in confusion as I slip my phone into my pocket.
“I thought you had a meeting over at MoMA?”
“I do, but I wanted to let you know the newest Darrin Seals piece is up in the West Wing.”
My eyes light up like Christmas. “It is?”
Darrin Seals was a famous artist who died a few years back. His impressive fifty-year career ensured that his pieces don’t sell for less than seven figures.
Yes, seven figures.
The price of art can be truly mind-boggling. Especially after you’re dead.
And needless to say, it took a lot of wheeling and dealing for me to get one of his pieces in our museum. I’m talking nearly a full year of work.
“It is.” She nods, shrugs on her cream fake-fur jacket, and slips her black Chanel purse over her shoulder. “Ava, darling, you did good with this one,” she adds with a wink. “It’s absolutely fantastic, and I demand you see it before you leave today.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” I answer and hit save on my Excel spreadsheet, a long, dull list of prospected investment pieces for the Met. “In fact, I can take a break from boring numbers and go look now.”
“Enjoy.” Daphne grins and offers a little wave before turning on her heel and walking down the long hallway that leads to the elevators.
Without delay, I stand up from my chair, smooth down the wrinkles of my pale pink pencil skirt, retuck in my cream silk blouse, and head out of my office and toward the West Wing of the museum where my latest curation hangs proudly on the wall.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of it, staring up at the massive work in awe.
This artist, Darrin Seals, even after his untimely death, is considered one of the most prominent artists in the world. His take on surrealism is unsurpassed.
Damn, there’s just something about art like this that makes all the blood, sweat, tears, and money worth it.
It just…touches you.
My eyes scan the incredibly large canvas, taking in every minute detail.
A painting of a ballerina inside a clock, one hand reaching toward the twelve and one toe pointed