23. Such a Lovely Flirt

23

SUCH A LOVELY FLIRT

Maeve

From unexpected drama while live painting at parties to disappearing into the crowd while serving canapés. All in twenty-four hours. On Sunday evening, I swing past a group of art collectors at the Julien Aldridge Gallery in the Marina District, offering a final tray of champagne before the opening night ends. One woman—a blonde with a sleek bob haircut, dressed in a pantsuit with a plunging neckline—takes a flute without glancing at me.

“Thanks, love,” she says, her voice dripping with casual indifference. She turns back to her group, her manicured hand gesturing as they discuss the thoughtful colors of the light installation on one wall. Neon blinks in and out, spelling provocative questions across the room in bold, electric letters.

What even is success?

Don’t you have enough?

But will you ever be happy ?

The words flash like a challenge. Honestly, they’re kind of rude. Like, I don’t need a light installation seeing into my soul. But then again, is it too early to hope? Too soon to think success might finally come my way once my name is out there on the Sea Dogs mural? It’s a heady thought and, frankly, one I could get lost in if I’m not careful.

So I make my final lap with the champagne before slipping into the back—the prep area, where the real work happens. Stainless steel counters hold trays of food, half-filled platters, and the last of the champagne flutes as the catering staff tidies up for the night.

“It’s almost a wrap,” Vivian says with a satisfied smile, glancing up from her tablet, her brown eyes pleased behind her red plaid glasses. It’s still jarring to look at her, even ten years after my mother died. Light brown hair, untamable waves, brown eyes—they looked so much alike they were often mistaken for twins, despite my mom being two years younger.

“You did such a wonderful job tonight, Maeve. I was impressed with how you handled the other servers.”

She’d assigned me to be the so-called lead server for the evening, and I appreciate the promotion. I want to be good at this job because it pays the bills. And I know it’d matter to my mother—to show up for family.

“Thanks,” I reply, trying to sound genuinely grateful. It is a compliment, after all, even if I don’t feel like I did anything special tonight.

Vivian adjusts her glasses, inspecting the flutes. “Marriage won’t get in the way of this, will it?” she asks suddenly, her tone light, but there’s no mistaking the worry beneath it.

Ah, there it is. The topic she’s been dying to bring up since the moment she saw me arrive tonight when her gaze swept to my ring, and she said, “I’m so thrilled for you! Tell me everything!” But as she asked when it started, how I fell for him, and how long it’s been going on, I detected a hint of nerves in her tone too.

That’s understandable. In her mind, the idea of me married to a rich man probably scares her. I suspect I seemed a more reliable option to take over her business when I was merely a single flighty artist.

Good thing I barely had the time to answer her questions when I arrived. Still, I’m not really sure what to say to her now. Because I’m barely sure of a damn thing in this brand-new marriage. I hardly know what our forty-eight-hour-old marriage means. And I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself with this bloom of hope that a mural job will vault me to name-brand artist level, like that’s even a thing. I’d just like to make art regularly, art that matters, art that makes people feel a little joy as they move through their days. A bright painting of birds perched on a playful tree’s branch on a restaurant wall that makes someone smile, a mural of ladybugs and honeybees outside a flower shop that makes people think about Mother Nature and caring for her, and of course, scenes of kisses, so many scenes of kisses, that make you feel like love is worth chasing. If I could be like Lichtenstein, like Klimt, like Hayez…

I almost, almost sigh, the happy, dreamy kind, before I steer out of the fantasies and focus on the moment, and the question—will my marriage change anything?

“Not really sure,” I say, and isn’t that the truth? I wipe off the champagne glasses and straighten a few plates on the counter to avoid looking directly at her. I don’t want to let on that Asher and I are making things up as we go along. Like, oh, say, the whole damn thing. Freaking viral photo. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

But I can’t tell her the whole truth of my marriage and how fake it is. She’s too practical. Besides, she’s my… benefactor . Aunt Vivian makes it possible for me to keep making art. She ensures I get these regular catering gigs. Though, maybe she thinks Asher is the one supporting me now. The thoughts make my head spin.

“Then let’s all get together and talk about it,” she says. “There’s so much to discuss with him in the family now. How about dinner?”

“Dinner would be great,” I say, but then pivot. “Or a hockey game.”

That’ll be easier. Less chat time and more shouting-at-the-ice time.

“Good,” she replies, smiling crisply. She does everything crisply. “Because just look at that out there.” She waves a hand subtly toward the open doorway that leads to the sleek gallery space, where the rich and beautiful continue to admire the blinking neon installations. “It’s hard to make a living as an artist, Maeve. Even if you’re married to an athlete. Besides, their careers are so unpredictable. They could end any day. And really,” she adds, lowering her voice to a whisper, “what are you going to do for work—make light installations? It’s like winning the lottery, hoping people will care about your art. But food?” She nods firmly. “Food is reliable. People always need to eat. And these days, everyone wants to be entertained with pretty food and events—especially with the way the world is going. Might as well give them what they want. Feed them as the world burns down.”

Her practicality isn’t new, but it still stings the way it always has—she doesn’t believe in me. She doesn’t believe in the dreams I have. Not like my mom did, or my dad, before his demons took over and he descended so deep into his grief that he was never coming back out of it. But, just maybe, I’ll prove my aunt wrong.

I plaster on a smile. “Thanks, Aunt Vivian. I appreciate the job.”

“I know you do, sweetie,” she says with a hopeful smile.

I don’t want to disappoint her more than I already have, so I grab a tray and head back to the gallery floor, shaking off the conversation and all its uncertainty.

As I pass through the main room, collecting half or mostly empty champagne flutes, I feel a little out of place but not entirely defeated. The crowd is elegant and polished—the kind of people who glide through life as easily as they glide through galleries like this. And then there’s me, catering instead of attending. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like someday, my paintings could hang on these walls.

The possibility makes me a little giddy, as if I have a good secret powering me on. It’s a secret I hold tight in my heart as I complete my final round. Hardly anyone pays me any mind, which is how it should be, of course. I’m not paid to stand out but to blend in.

It’s funny, though, how a mere couple of nights ago in Vegas, people noticed us. With Asher, I’m Mrs. Callahan. With Asher, I’m…someone.

But perhaps someday, I’ll be someone on my own too.

For now, I focus on finishing the job and then saying goodnight to Vivian.

On the bus home, I pull out my phone from my purse, sliding it past the copy of If Found, Please Return that lives in my bag. I want to ask Asher if he wants to get together before our brunch with the owners to hammer out some of the bajillion and one questions I have about what it means to be his someone. But when I tap my phone, I see he’s already texted me.

Asher: Hey, wife. We should probably get our story straight before brunch. Meet me Tuesday morning for coffee?

Maeve: You took the words right out of my mouth.

Asher: Such a lovely mouth too.

That giddy feeling spreads as the bus rumbles toward my tiny place in Hayes Valley. But this lightheadedness comes from the question echoing in my head.

Is my husband a flirt?

I think he is. And I think I kind of like it.

I lean into his compliment, typing a reply.

Maeve: It has many uses.

Hmm. That’s not flirty. It’s downright dirty. I erase it and try something more playful.

Maeve: Flattery will get you everywhere.

Asher: I happen to like everywhere.

Oh. That’s a little naughty from him, isn’t it? I mean, I’m everywhere , right? I glance around the bus to make sure no one is peering over my shoulder. No one is, so I write back as night falls deeper over the city.

Maeve: I’m feeling very “pet me and tell me I’m pretty” thanks to your texts.

I wince, though, as I re-read it. That’s a little clingy. Once again, I delete the message. Be flirty, but don’t be needy. I can do that. I send a reply.

Maeve: Same here, husband.

As the bus swings into the heart of Hayes Valley, the bubbles dance on my phone. I clutch it, on the literal edge of my seat.

Asher: You know what a good husband would do for his wife ?

Fuck her into next year with that big dick? But I behave. I don’t write that either.

Maeve: Dying to know.

Asher: Get you a ring, stat. I want you to wear a diamond. Something that broadcasts to the whole damn world that you’re taken. Got it?

A pulse beats between my thighs. And this time, I don’t debate the response. I write it and hit send so fast.

Maeve: Yes, please!