Page 66 of Where I Should’ve Been

On a deep breath, I tap the trackpad, and Zoom flickers to life.

A man in expensive glasses and a perfectly knotted tie appears, smiling as we make eye contact through the screen.

“Beatrice Bishop,” he says warmly. “My name is David Smith. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, David. And please, you can just call me Breezy,” I correct, plastering on my most friendly smile.

“Of course. Breezy.” He consults his notes, the glow of his screen reflecting off his frames. “Let’s get down to business and talk opportunities. I’m honestly not sure if I’ve ever had someone get so many offers at one time. Needless to say, the interest for you has been significant. MoMA is seeking a Senior Curator of Contemporary Works. Art Basel has an opening for Global Acquisitions. And a foundation in London is very interested. Excellent salary, extensive travel, and as you know, quite the prestige.”

He continues rattling off more job opportunities, and I nod in the right places, hands laced tight in my lap.

Frankly, each job should thrill me. At twenty-five, I would’ve killed for them. At thirty, I did the work of all those titles combined. But at thirty-nine, listening to him list them kind of feels like hearing the door of a prison cell slide shut.

“So…what do you think, Breezy?” David asks, steepling his hands on his desk.

“They all sound…good,” I manage, but my voice sounds flat to my own ears. I clear my throat and try to add a little pep in my step. “Great, even.”

“I thought they were all pretty great too,” he says, already typing. “How about I push your name forward, and we can arrange some conversations as soon as next week? I think that’s what will really help you figure out where you want to land.”

All I can do is nod, even though, deep down, I don’t want to bother with any of it.

When the call ends, I close the laptop harder than necessary and sit in the hush of the room. My chest feels hollow, my throat is dry, and my stomach is aching with nausea. Not to mention, my head is spinning like a top.

I’m not so sure diving back into the art world is where I want to be.

Not so sure? Feels like the nausea is a pretty telltale sign of your true feelings.

I grab my phone to take it off silent and see if Tad sent me any texts, but I find three missed calls from Logan. They’re stacked on the screen like bricks, and a new voice mail banner is highlighted at the top.

I stare at it for a long moment before I press play.

“Breeze, it’s me. Logan. You know, the brother you hate and refuse to talk to.” His voice is raw and stressed in a way I’m not used to hearing. “Look, I… This is bad. I’m drowning here. The board’s on me, the attorneys won’t stop calling, I don’t even know half the fucking curators’ names. All I know is they’re not happy at all. They don’t want to work for me. They want to work for you. I’m supposed to be on location in Santa Fe in three months, and there is no fucking way I can keep up with this. I’ve already had to cancel photo shoots and press junkets and a million other fucking things. Please. Help me.”

The message ends abruptly, as if Logan were in the middle of cursing at someone before he had the sense to hang up.

After all the years I needed someone and did it alone, and now someone needs me?

After I’ve been kicked out of my own life, out of the empire that I was holding up for the past twenty years, now someone acknowledges what I achieved?

Not to mention, I had to hear about all the shit he’s had to sacrifice for galleries that should be mine.

Anger bubbles up from my belly and makes my throat burn.

Because, fuck you, Logan. Fucking fuck you.

But something heavier edges in behind the rage. It’s not exactly sympathy, but a tired ache where love and family used to sit. As pathetic as it is for me to feel this, I don’t get satisfaction in hearing Logan suffer. I don’t get any sort of vindication in hearing that everything I built up with my bare fucking hands is slowly crumbling into chaos.

I set my phone facedown on the comforter of my bed like I can smother the sound of his now-nonexistent voice with cotton.

Outside my bedroom window, a drift slumps off the porch rail in a soft, collapsing sigh. And I let the hush swallow me for a full minute before swiping Logan’s voice mail into the trash.

Not today. Not now. And maybe not ever.

I pull on a hoodie I stole from Tad the other day—warm from the radiator and faintly smelling like him—and head for the kitchen. I need coffee. I need air. I need something that isn’t a title or a plea.

Later, maybe, I’ll figure out what I want. For now, I want the world to stop asking.

For now, I want to distract myself, and I know two little lambs by the names of Tom and Betsy that always bring a smile to my face.