Authors: Bella Cruise
We speed through the evening traffic, and I pull out my phone to call
Lexi. Theo stops me. “She’s not answering,” he
says. “I just hope she hasn’t thrown herself off the pier
before we get there.”
“It’s more likely to be a construction guy taking a dip,”
I look out of the window, relieved to see the park come into view.
“Come on, we can make it faster on foot from here.”
I pay the cab and get out, hurrying along a side path to reach the
Boathouse. I’m expecting noise and construction, and a
bride-to-be in full meltdown, but when I round the corner, it’s
quiet – and there’s no scaffolding or trucks to be seen.
The Boathouse is beautiful: tiny lights are strung up along the
terrace, reflecting with the city lights off the dark water. There
are flowers strung along the railings, and—is that music?
I look around, confused. Theo is hanging back by the path, with Pixie
beside him. They’re both beaming. “What’s going
on?” I ask.
Theo nods back towards the lake. I turn, and see someone step out of
the shadows on the dock.
Luke.
My heart stops. I don’t understand.
“Go on,” Pixie hisses. “Go to him!”
I move closer, in a daze. But it’s really him: looking
devastatingly handsome in a formal suit, cleanly shaven, with a
nervous smile on his face.
“I… what are you doing here?” I stammer as I reach
him. “I thought… You said…”
“I know. I’m sorry, Ginny. I’m so, so sorry.”
Luke takes my hands, and just his touch sends a wave of emotion
straight through me. I can’t believe he’s really here,
standing in front of me.
Looking at me like that.
“I was stupid,” he says, swallowing. I can see his
expression is uncertain, and full of regret. “I was so scared
of getting my heart broken all over again, I pushed you away. I
didn’t give us a chance, I didn’t even tell you…”
He stops.
“Tell me what?” I whisper, hope blossoming in my chest.
This is the moment I didn’t even dare to dream about. A real
second shot with him. A chance to say once and for all what’s
in our hearts, and make it real. A future together.
“That I love you.” Luke says. “It’s always
been you, Ginny. I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried.”
“So don’t,” I manage to say, through the tears
already streaming down my cheeks. “Don’t ever try. I love
you too, more than you’ll ever know. It’s my biggest
regret, walking out on you all those years ago. All I’ve ever
wanted is to make it up to you.”
“I know.” He smiles. “I saw what you said to
Pixie.”
“When?” I frown.
“The final episode,” he explains.
“But that’s airing right now.”
“Marcie sent me a copy,” he says, with a wry smile. “I
guess she’s not such a cynic after all.” He pauses. “I
saw what you said to her, about being brave enough to trust your
heart. I want us to be together, Ginny. I don’t care how. All
that matters is that it’s you and me. I’ve never found
anyone like you, and something tells me I never will.”
There’s a sudden explosion of light and color in the dark sky.
“Are those fireworks?” I ask, looking up. “Or am I
just so happy I’m hallucinating right now?”
Luke chuckles. “Those are really fireworks,” he says,
gently putting his arm around me. “I think your friends managed
to put us on a show.”
I make a mental note to give Theo a raise, but then Luke is pulling
me closer against him, and the real world disappears again.
“Be mine?” he murmurs, tilting my head up towards him.
“I always have been,” I whisper back.
He pulls something from his shirt pocket, glinting gold in the
lights. The ring I left him, the matching pair to my own. Luke gently
takes my hand and slides it on my left hand. “Right where it
belongs.”
He kisses me under the fireworks, as the night explodes with joy. And
I know this is forever.
THE END
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My mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep
your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she
said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright
colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city
streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and
head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s
hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally
standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.
“Um, excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the
immobile taxi cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his
seat. He ignores me.
I check my watch again: 8:41 am.
Crap!
I bite my lip to keep
from yelling.
Crapcrapcrap.
I’m supposed to be at
Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make that
eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m
spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this
smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business
outfit.
After a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners
and museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job
in the art world until last week when the best auction house in San
Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after
and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French
Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head
masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the
masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late
to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months
might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at
my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too
old to remember the specials.
“Sir?” This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass
separating me from the driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror.
“I’m super late. Is there a short cut or something you
could use?”
The minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again
and we’ve gone less than a block.
Why aren’t we
moving?!
As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my
window, honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on
their way into the financial district’s high rise office
buildings.
The driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”
I think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s
the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How
much further is Gold Street?”
The cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.
“Is it close enough to walk?” I press him.
“Sure,” he says. “Everywhere is close enough to
walk to eventually.”
Screw this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool
and collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already
looks like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some
stupid traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say,
tossing a pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door.
“I’ll take my chances.”
The cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he
says. I inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on
my shoulder, and start jogging.
Immediately, my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my
toes. My feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s
hard to run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully
blow-dried hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are
sticking to the sweat beading on my forehead.
“Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s
like running an obstacle course in heels.
I dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and
sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force
myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the
tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected
and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San
Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.
One. More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and
scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold
Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular
chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.
I shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like
he’s a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can
be. He holds his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see
the brown liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.
“Oh my God!” I grab some clean tissues out of my bag.
“Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for his tie, but
he’s already shaking it out. Luckily, most of the drink seems
to be splattered on the concrete.
“It’s fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There
was too much sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our
fingers touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van
Gogh’s night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them,
but then I remember my priorities.
“I’m sorry about the spill, but I really have to go.”
I check my watch. “I’m running late for an important
meeting.” I start to turn away, feeling guilty, but his voice
stops me.
“So this is a run-by coffee-ing, then?” He has an
accent. British. Sexy.
I turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a
mouth that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped
lips that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted
as the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a
museum.
Whoa, there.
“Should I call the police?”
he asks.
I smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry
red. I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but
there’s no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If
you give me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill,
but I really do have to run.”
He falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh,
no,” he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint.
“Don’t you worry about this old thing. I’ve been
meaning to donate it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed
down the sidewalk and I can’t help but notice the triangle of
smooth chest showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.
“It mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public
tends to frown on shirtless businessmen.”
I imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.
“That was a joke,” he says, smiling.
Over the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh,
soapy clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a
pothole, and thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”
“This meeting must be a big deal,” he says. “If
you’re too distracted to converse with a handsome man.”
“It really is,” I say, separating from him just long
enough to weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing
actually. It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”
“Ouch,” he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock
anguish. “Not going to bite on the handsome line?”
“Oh!” Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the
cool air. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—”
“So you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”
“I admit nothing,” I say, laughing.
He grins. “My kind of girl.”
I stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous façade
of the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell
to Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little
disappointed to see him go.
He smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples.
“Good luck with the interview.”
“Thanks,” I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last
time. It’s 8:54.
“You’ll knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod,
trying to paste a confident smile on my face.
I face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last
week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel
hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit
together so I can show these people what I’m made of.
One last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that
tie I ruined?”
“Tell you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll
swing by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a
coffee.”
Because he’s gorgeous and he made me feel better and I’ll
probably never see him again, I’m suddenly brave. I say, “Off
the record, I would definitely call you handsome.” I wink at
him and enjoy the surprise on his so-totally-more-than-handsome face
as I stride away from him and toward my waiting future.
Inside, my bravery falters: this place is seriously impressive. A
huge lobby with a polished marble floor, white marble columns
reaching to the ceiling, and holy crap, an actual Rodin sculpture in
the middle of the room. I stare at it, awed, until I notice a short,
brisk-looking woman holding a clipboard. I nervously approach. “Hi,
I’m Grace—”
“Bennett? You’re the last to arrive.” She guides me
out of the lobby and pulls me toward the main auction hall as I
fiddle with my skirt and make sure my blazer is on straight.
“Do I look okay?” I ask but she ignores me and opens the
doors.
She shoos me inside where a woman in a sharp black two-piece business
suit is speaking to the dozens of men and women my age already
standing behind tables stacked with papers and glossy photo spreads.
She stops and glares at me as I make my way to the only empty table,
closest to her.
I whisper, “Sorry,” but she ignores me. The Armani-clad
dude next to me who has enough gel in his hair to grease a wheel
rolls his eyes.