Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,139

here for me anymore? Maybe you, if I meet all your criteria? The father who loved me is gone, and according to my mother, he’s not getting better. You have a family without me and you’re just fine with that, you’ve made that clear. My sister and mother are in a club I was never asked to join. I was recently told by my boyfriend that out of all his girlfriends, he was almost sure I was his favorite. I teach school and earn just above the poverty rate and I’m making these fucking couch paintings and somewhere along the line, I seem to have lost my soul, and then I finally get a huge, life-changing chance to show at a dream gallery, and yesterday we sleep together and you tell me you love me, but today you don’t want me. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

I sat back, panting, then drained my wine.

“You’re still with your boyfriend?”

“No! I’m leaving. I’m furious and upset, Noah. Maybe I’ll see you soon, and maybe you’ll be sticking pins in a voodoo doll of me. I have no idea and I don’t care right now. I’m going home to paint.”

“Sadie.” He stood up. “One thing. Your flower painting, the one you did for the brownstone ladies. That’s not you. That’s you pretending to be someone else. That’s a couch painting.”

“Fuck off, Noah.” I slammed the door on my way out. You know. Just in case he missed the point.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Sadie

It was here. The biggest moment of my professional life.

Hasan Sadik had greeted me, kissing me on both cheeks, told his silent and beautiful assistant to get me an espresso (I hated espresso). He had me place my paintings on the waiting easels and now was looking at them, walking slowly past each one, pausing, tilting his head, waiting for them to “talk to me and tell me their story.”

This required silence. The assistant was barefoot, lest her footfalls interrupt Hasan’s conversation with my work. I sat, pressing my knees together, pretending to sip the bitter coffee, and tried to exude confidence.

Juliet had loaned me an outfit and jewelry (she had her flaws as a sister, but staying mad wasn’t one of them). I was dressed better than I’d ever been—black tuxedo pants, red patent leather pumps with a chunky heel, a sleeveless ivory top with a slightly draped neckline, and a gray “jardigan” (new term for me, but Brianna had told me it was very on trend). Dangly gold earrings, one plain gold ring on my right forefinger.

It was how I thought a successful artist should look. Cool, simple, wealthy (thanks, Jules) and sophisticated.

Hasan, tastemaker of the New York art world, broker of some of the most lucrative deals for artists today, wore Levi’s, a white T-shirt and Converse sneakers and somehow outclassed me by a thousand points. I owned the same outfit many times over. Should’ve worn it so we could bond over our matching look.

In the week since he’d e-mailed, I’d worked twenty hours a day, making seven more flower paintings. Iris, rose, peony, carnation, tulip, poppy and maple leaves (to show my range). At six this morning, I’d finished drying the last one with my blow-dryer, put them in my portfolio, left Brianna a note about Pepper’s new propensity to eat worms, and drove down here two hours early, killing the remainder of time by sitting in my car, sweating with nerves and pressing tissues into my armpits.

I’d never been at this kind of meeting. Never been that chic woman who had something New York wanted to see. This was it. I was, as they say, having a moment.

If only my father could see me now. The thought made my throat tighten with emotion.

He wasn’t getting better. I pressed my lips together, hard. I’d think about that later. He’d want me present, to soak it all in. I wanted that, too, but somehow, I felt hollow. Maybe because he wasn’t quite here to share it. Juliet had wished me the best and hugged me, and Mom said she thought the paintings were “real pretty,” but the hollow, fake feeling remained.

After all, I wasn’t even wearing my own clothes.

I should’ve come in wearing one of my teacher dresses, which were invariably flowered or striped, because my students were little kids, after all, and loved bright colors.

I missed them. I missed St. Catherine’s and Sister Mary and Carter and the gang, but it seemed more and more that my New