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She grumbles, loud enough for us to hear her slew of curses.
"And I better see roses in the West Gallery!"
Angie practically kicks open the door to the museum's East Wing, its weight crashing shut louder than the first.
"Fucking undergrads," Mei mumbles below her breath.
I stifle a laugh, diving back into my code.
"What's so funny?"
Darn it. "Nothing, nothing… Just that you're running this gallery like a no-nonsense hall monitor. Seems you're taking a liking to management."
"Ohhhh, no. I know what you're implying. Before you start comparing me to Meghan, I'll have you know I've been busting my butt since six a.m. Arranging transportation. Vetting caterers. Polishing frames and all the bulbs in their overhanging spotlights. Making sure the moving crew was on their A game. Assigning deinstallation duties…"
From the corner of my eye, Mei counts on her fingers, emphasizing each task. Not that she needs to. I know this showcase is just as important to her as it is to me. Not only is tonight her first time flying solo since taking her new job, but she's still in the midst of completing her PhD. Apparently, this will look good on her—already sparkling—resume before graduation.
"Hey now." I cut her rambles short. "I've helped my fair share. Maybe I'm not the one who waltzed in here at the crack of dawn, but I scrubbed those floors, didn't I? And cleaned the windows out front?" Mei's smirk widens, realizing my point. "You're not Meghan. Not even close. Anyone could—and will—see how much effort you put into preparing the showcase."
Her shoulders relax. "Thank you, Juliana. I really needed to hear that. My new boss may be an improvement over our old one, but she's still type A. She'll notice any slip-up."
"Well, there aren't any," I say truthfully, noticing her fingers tapping along her clipboard, itching to skim through her checklist for the fifteenth time. I touch her arm to calm her nervous twitching. "Seriously, I mean that. Your preparation was obvious the entire time I helped—which I would continue to do until the doors open, but my stomach took over. I'm starving."
Her eyes meet my empty sandwich wrapper at the same time mine do. "Uhh, I mean, I was hungry," I correct, letting my laptop steal my focus yet again. "And work was calling me—specifically, this feature."
Mei smiles, looking over my shoulder. "Which is…?"
"The whisker whirlwind."
She snickers. Not how most people do, but in a way that says God, I love your brain. She's asked me before how I think of the feature names. My answer is always the same—I have no idea. They just come to me, usually at night while I'm trying my hardest to fall asleep. How pesky, right?
Plus, if truth be told, I'm not even that familiar with cats. We had one growing up, for a short time, while my grandparents were moving in-between apartments. His name was Ruffus, a big orange tabby who took great pleasure in shredding your toes at night if they poked out from the comforter. But that purring menace aside… my feline history is fleeting, so I'm unsure where to credit my source of clever kitty lingo.
Though, that doesn't mean I haven't thought of adopting a cat. I would've years ago, if my old apartment wasn't too cramped and didn't allow pets, and as for my new apartment, well… let's just say, it's not the monthly pet fee holding me back, rather that the adoptions would be a couple's decision and our kitty would be destined to be a pampered, penthouse pet, because…
I don't really sleep at my apartment much. Or at all.
Turns out, when it comes to Hayden, I'm terrible at taking things slow—to which he has zero complaints. I lasted maybe a month in my own apartment. Two weeks into my lease, I slept over at his place, then again, a couple of nights later… then I left my toothbrush in his bathroom and my hairbrush… then my groceries were "accidentally" delivered to his address instead of mine…
And the rest is history.
A scalding, sizzling-hot history.
It's something I can't afford to think about right now—especially the other night—not with my best friend standing beside me, who can read the naughty thoughts in my eyes like some scandalous gypsy mixed with a gossiping hairdresser. It doesn't matter if she slipped on that modest dress, she's still the same old Mei. Hungry for all the details.
"It's alright." She balls up my sandwich wrapper, swishing it into a nearby trash can. "You've helped plenty, trust me, especially last night with the movers. Honestly, I know you insisted, but you shouldn't have lifted a finger today. Tonight is your boyfriend's showcase, after all."
I smile, pride blooming from my center, as I recall the museum's art technicians sweeping across the penthouse last night, bubble wrapping and hauling Hayden's paintings and pastels with meticulous care. They gathered most pieces from the studio, plucking others straight off the apartment walls, amassing a collection that's as impressive as it is massive. To the extent that I haven't even seen every piece yet, and they'll fill all three of the museum's galleries.
Unlike Hayden, there's no doubt in my mind bidders will be in a frenzy over his artwork. In their eyes, he's a debut artist with a never-before-seen collection. That makes every piece even more valuable, once they're received well—which is a given.
Tonight—Hayden's night—he doesn't need to charm any critics. His talent will speak for him, starting in… I glance at the clock in the corner of my monitor. Twenty minutes, until the doors open.
Nerves crackle beneath my skin.
Gosh, I can't imagine how Hayden feels. I'd be with him now, if it weren't for his weekly dinner with his brother falling on today, a mere hour before the showcase. I would've urged him to cancel, but I know how important their recent bonding is to Hayden… And how much my boyfriend loves to be fashionably late.
Avoiding the daunting gaze of the clock, I submerge myself in work, click-clacking away. "I'm almost done with this feature," I tell Mei. "Don't worry, I won't miss a thing, not for the world. I'll be in that gallery from the second the doors open until they close."
