But then I remembered that I was the one who’d wanted to take things slow in the first place. What was I even doing? I shouldn’t be thinking about anything at all right now except getting that portrait done—or killing myself trying. I shouldn’t be going around kissing people! Even for humanitarian reasons.
Screw humanity! I had work to do!
But first—today—I had a long to-do list. None of it fun. Starting with a brain scan with Dr. Estrera. Which meant I had to walk along Joe’s hallway and past his apartment to get to the elevator. Which was a full-body experience on its own.
This was his floor.
This was the spot where he’d handed me a box of tissues.
That was his apartment door.
And there was the man himself, in his pajamas—
—coming out—
—of Parker’s apartment.
Wait—what?
I darted into the stairwell before he saw me and held my breath.
Did I just see that?
It was eight in the morning. Why on earth would Joe be coming out of Parker’s apartment first thing in the morning?
Besides the obvious.
I tried to put it together. Joe. Pajamas. Parker’s apartment. Eight in the morning.
It couldn’t be what it looked like, right?
I mean, it was hard to ignore the probability that he had somehow, just hours after a fake kiss with me, added Parker to his charcuterie board of women. That he really was a mutton muncher, or whatever that old-timey insult was.
I so badly wanted there to be some other explanation.
But—what?
My mind paged frantically through the possibilities. Had she pretended to faint again? Had she begged him to come kill a cockroach? Maybe her toilet was clogged and he was helpfully plunging it for her, like a gentleman?
Ugh. Ridiculous.
I couldn’t even convince myself.
While I waited for it to make sense, Parker’s hairless cat, of all things, wandered into the stairwell, as if pets were allowed to roam the halls at will. It appraised me petulantly for a minute, and then it walked right up to me, turning as it did to back up and lift its tail. I leapt away within seconds of getting peed on.
How had it come to this?
One thing was for certain: The pleasant, Joe-infused buzz I’d been feeling all morning? It stopped buzzing.
* * *
THE DAY WAS downhill from there, if you can believe it.
I mean, by the end, this day made burned toast seem adorable.
Hiding in the stairwell made me late, so I cut it a little close with the crosswalk light. I made it across, but a guy who I inconvenienced for three seconds decided to roll down his car window, shoot the bird at me, and shout, “Fuck you!” before flooring it and tearing off.
I glared after him, like, Really, sir? Wasn’t that just a little much?
He was clearly doomed to a life of rage and disappointment.
But it still kind of smarted, I admit.
Next, I climbed into my waiting Uber and, trying to multitask, checked the comments on my Etsy shop on the ride—only to discover the hands-down meanest review of my work I’d ever beheld.
I took a screenshot for posterity:
These portraits are an insult to the art world. Banal, trite, and cheesy to the max, this is “art” I can’t unsee. Seriously. My eyes are burning. Trash like this is the reason humanity is doomed to hell.
Okay. Whoa.
You can’t please everybody. I get that. But “doomed to hell”?
I mean, ArtWeenie911 clearly had some issues. The level of his or her viciousness toward pleasant, smiling, fairly photorealistic portraits of people from all walks of life was … a bit extreme?
I tried not to take it to heart. For all I know, ArtWeenie911 was a troll bot. Sent to sow discord in … what? The barely-making-ends-meet online portrait painting community?
Maybe not.
I was two for two with random acts of douchiness today.
Not counting the Joe-in-pajamas incident. By far the douchiest of all.
On the heels of that, after spending several cold hours in a medical gown in waiting rooms and various imaging scanners, I got a totally unhelpful report that showed no reduction in the edema—and then I was told again to “just be patient.”
Which of course I would. Because what choice did I have?
But how much time and money did I waste just to be instructed to do what I was already doing? There was “no change” in my situation? I could’ve told you that.
I’d been hoping against hope for a last-minute disappearance of the swelling. A lifetime of movies with underdog champions had primed me to expect that I’d find a way to triumph just in the nick of time.
But that wasn’t happening.
Not to mention all day long I was getting stalked by Lucinda, who insisted she needed to speak with me “urgently” about “a matter of great concern.”
Texts and phone calls I ignored, of course.
Pro tip for dealing with Lucinda: If she ever says anything is urgent, just run and hide.
Add to my list of grievances: Strappy sandals that were giving me a blister. A phone with three percent battery. The moment when I forgot my purse in a waiting room and had to race back to find it. Not to mention: The art store was still out of linden-green gouache, and the grocery store was out of the only vet-recommended dog food that Peanut would eat.
By the time I limped home, the sun was setting, my Achilles tendon was stinging, and I felt like the day was positively bullying me. Somewhere along the way, I’d started keeping a mental tally of the insults and injuries—almost as if I could submit the list and demand a refund.
Even the prospect of seeing Joe that night felt like an attack. Either he wouldn’t tell me about Parker—which would be bad. Or he would tell me—which would be worse.
One thing I knew: I did not want to know.
But there was no wriggling out of any of it. The only way out of this day was through. So as I geared up for the home stretch, I stopped at Bean Street for a half-caf latte—for both comfort and caffeine.
And that’s when Parker descended upon me, just as Hazel One handed me my coffee.
“Lucinda’s been trying to reach you all day,” Parker said.
Parker. Of course. Who else would reek of Poison and know that about Lucinda?
“Yeah. Well. I’ve been kind of busy.”
“I bet you have.”
She wanted me to ask her what that was supposed to mean. So I didn’t.
She went on. “Saw you smooching the Vespa guy last night. Which of course provoked me to retaliate.”
Retaliate? What did that mean? Did that explain his morning walk of shame? Had she shown up at his door at midnight in a bustier and garters? I felt disloyal to myself admitting this, but Parker was, technically, a good-looking person. She had enough to work with in the looks department that she could have pulled off a stunt like that.
She wanted me to react to that. So I didn’t.
And then I had a freeing thought. I didn’t have to stand here.
I could just … leave.
I didn’t have to stay. I didn’t have to let her push my buttons. I didn’t want to let this escalate. I just wanted to get outside. I could see the sunshine just past the windows.
I started walking toward the exit doors. But Parker followed me. I’d just reached them when she caught up.
“You didn’t let me give you my news,” she said. “I’m coming to your show.”
And there it was. So much for just leaving. She got me. I turned back. “My what?”