Page 20 of The Unfluencer

Again, she’s tight-lipped, but I’m undeterred.

“Can you tell me anything about the person? Are they local? Is the name being withheld because of legal stuff or scandal? What sort of medium are we talking, acrylic, oil, sculptures, photography⁠—”

My stomach croaks loud as all get out.

“There’s a Greek place in the student union. They make a mean gyro…” Dr. Brown laughs at me, rummaging round the bottom of my purse and coming out with a fun-sized Snickers. But I’m onto her tactic.

There’s no deflecting here, ma’am.

“Listen…” I chuckle, popping it into my mouth with a soft, sated moan. “Really, don’t worry about me. I’m headed to happy hour after this at Amour Frite. I will be eating good.” But a small sigh slips out of me. “I was just hoping you’d have some intel on⁠—”

“The Great Golden Hope?”

Laughter hijacks my chewing, and I almost choke on a nougaty, chocolatey chunk.

“Something like that. Golden unicorn. And yes, I was supposed to be letting go and letting God handle it. I figured I’d just keep looking. Between online searches, the dozens of monthly submissions, and Hughes’s students, something had to give, right?”

“Of course.”

“And then this morning, I found an artist who I truly thought could be the one.” I shake my head. “I just don’t know if I’ll find my Great Golden Hopeful Unicorn. If you can’t tell me any information about this collection either, I don’t know. Maybe I just hyped it all up in my head, and I need to focus on the business end. Keep the gallery booked up, you know?”

“Always be closing?” she scoffs.

Dr. Brown doesn’t even bother hiding her skepticism. Her twisted expression screams, Ma’am, you are a lot of things, but Glengarry Glen Ross isn’t one.

But then she presses her lips together, and it’s absolutely her tell.

“What is it?” I slide my purse off my shoulder and plop it between us on the bench, meeting her gaze. “Dr. Brown, why are you holding out on me?”

Now, if she were a liar, she could’ve easily waved off my question. Improvised, tossed me a quick I was thinking about my next riveting ancient art history lecture. It’s not always about you, so relax. Please and thank you.

But she doesn’t say anything.

No, instead she focuses on her hands, refusing to look at me. And that’s how I know for certain. Not only is she holding out on the artist, but she’s got intel.

“Ms. Graves…” She ups the lip pursing another notch until her face contorts with visible discomfort.

I almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

For a beat, I sit back, unable to contain my smile. My entire chest expands with anxious excitement. Especially given her other tell: whenever she calls me Ms. Graves, it is always followed by⁠—

“Now, I’m not supposed to share this with you”—and three, two, one—“but I think you have a right to know.”

Those words are akin to Mom calling and saying, I won’t hold you, and talking for another forty-five minutes when she swore she didn’t want nothing. So, when Dr. Brown fixes her now-matte-burgundy lips after tossing back the last dregs of her probably lukewarm coffee, and tosses out that one-liner, I expect a little tea. But, like, “industry-brewed, underground art collection from an old-money Ellswoodian”-type tea. Not “the artist’s estate rep has already passed over the Artery” because my gallery exhibits mostly sculptures, ceramics, and wood pieces, and the Heartery specializes in fine art, since “they’re quieter, more exclusive, guestlist-only crowd.”

Oh.

“So, wait…” I hold up a hand, still trying to digest the fact that my curatorial skills are being reduced to a societal cliché. “I guess I’m running a loud, run-of-the-mill, everywoman establishment, then. Good to know.”

“Now listen, I know you can do it, but the estate representative felt it might not be the best fit,” Dr. Brown says, sheepishly, like I’m just supposed to ignore that she’s telling on herself. “And besides, he’s not even fielding gallery inquiries.”

“So, to be clear, you do know who the artist is.” Who he is. I let out a humorless laugh.

She deepens her stare. “Whitney Graves.”

“Dr. Brown.” I match her disappointed tone, feeling salty.