36. I’m Not a Taco

36

I’M NOT A TACO

Maeve

“It’s the woman of the hour.”

Those are Angelina’s words when I stride over to a corner table at The Spotted Zebra, her favorite watering hole in Hayes Valley.

She opens her arms and gives me a warm hug. She’s from Guatemala and has a big sister vibe about her, where she’s always looking out for me. It’s everything I could want in an agent, and I take the hug, though I’m not letting myself believe her words mean something special.

“You’re the woman of the hour,” I say, deflecting as we let go.

She flubs her lips—actually flubs them—and waves me off. “Please.” She pats the zebra-print stool next to her. “You are, darling.” She says “darling” in an exaggerated, snooty tone.

I laugh and sit down. “Darling? Are we doing that now? ”

“Seems fitting.” She gives me a playful smirk.

“All right. Darling,” I say, leaning into her vibe.

As I settle on the stool, Angelina looks me up and down, as if she’s assessing my light blue T-shirt with orange piping that says, I Can’t Make Everyone Happy—I’m Not a Taco, and my flowing black-and-white polka-dot skirt.

“Is this what you wore on camera? It’s so cute. Screams artist .”

I pluck at the shirt. “Does it?”

“Who else could rock mismatched styles and still look this good? You’ve got creative energy, and it shows.”

I lean in, whispering, “I wore it just for you.”

Well, she deserves to feel special too.

“Oh, baby, you sure know how to make an agent feel good.” She laughs, lifting her martini glass. “Now, let’s get you a drink so we can toast to all the good things.”

All the good things sure sound good to me, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself, so I simply ask for a white wine when the bartender swings by. A fancy cocktail feels too presumptuous, and besides, Asher wouldn’t want me to tempt luck. That thought hits me— did I just adopt one of my husband’s luck mantras without realizing it ?

Maybe I did. He’d get a kick out of hearing that. I should tell him. I picture the mirror he hung last night, and my stomach does a little flip. That was such a nice touch.

Then I catch myself when I realize what I’m doing—acting like all these moments are real. Don’t get ahead of yourself, girl. This is a pretend marriage only. Sure, your temporary husband wants to sleep with you, but that is all. At least, I’m pretty sure he does. If buying you five toys doesn’t say “I want to bang you into next Tuesday,” then what even does ?

I lift my wineglass and clink it against Angelina’s chocolate martini. Her rule to live by— don’t skimp on chocolate or art —is one I can get behind.

“To all the good things,” I say, but I’m measured, careful in my tone.

“And there are many coming your way. I’m thrilled about the opportunities I see happening,” Angelina says, her bracelets jingling on her arms as she talks animatedly with her hands.

“More live-painting parties?” I ask, guessing that’s what she means.

She snorts—and, oh my god, did her martini just come out of her nose? I don’t even bother to stifle a laugh, nor does she.

“Excuse me,” she says, dabbing at her face with a napkin. “If anyone asked me the most ridiculous thing a client ever said, it’d be when Maeve Hartley asked if her next opportunity was painting parties .”

Excitement sparks through me, but I hold it down. I don’t want to hope too much. “I actually like the painting parties,” I say with a happy shrug. “They keep me on my toes.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “That’s good, and we’ll still have plenty of those. But I also had a call with California Style. You know them?”

Of course I do—it’s an online style magazine. But why would they want to talk to me ? “Sure,” I say, tentatively.

“They want to include you in a photo spread,” Angelina says, then lifts her hand and counts off on her fingers. “You working on the mural. We’ll need team approval on that, but I’m sure it’ll be no problem. Then you in your studio, then a shot of your home with some of your art, and even one of your live-painting events. I already spoke to Mr. Vincenzo about using a photo from his party three weeks ago, so we’re covered there. And getting one at the arena should be easy. But they’d love some shots of your new home too. They like to showcase homes of artists, designers, architects,” she adds.

“Wait, what?” I stammer. “You mean athletes, right? They do features on athletes?”

Angelina shakes her head, laughing. “Oh, sweet summer child. I meant artists . You do know the Sea Dogs commission is a big deal, right? They’re excited about it, Maeve. You’re making waves. This is a spread on rising star artists.”

My heart stops because that is too good to be true.

I don’t know what to say. The world feels like it’s spinning. “But…we’re not really…” I start, before quickly clamping my mouth shut. Angelina doesn’t know that this is a marriage of convenience. She probably believes the story we spun for the Greers—that Asher and I started dating before the auction and eloped in Vegas because we knew it was right. I guess in a way, she’s always seen me as someone who’d make bold moves like that. She’s been telling me to trust my instincts for as long as I’ve known her.

I clear my throat. “We’re not really moved in yet.”

Angelina gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Of course. It’s all happening fast. But don’t worry—you’ll be settled soon. And there are so many exciting opportunities ahead this season.”

This season.

The weight of it lands all at once, heavy and unavoidable. This isn’t just a fake marriage for a day or two, like we first thought. Then for a few weeks, like we figured after that. We have the picnic and the mural, and now the media features are rolling out. California Style wants a photo spread, and the world wants to know more about us as a picture of us kissing, somehow, incomprehensibly, has led to thousands of dollars in charitable donations.

Angelina talks excitedly about my rising profile, but I’m barely hearing her. It’s all surreal. Maeve the caterer, Maeve the broke artist, Maeve the wild one who struggled to get commissions is now suddenly getting attention because she’s Mrs. Callahan. My new profile thanks to a man doesn’t sit entirely well with me, but I’m not stupid enough to turn away from the opportunities.

The problem is, I can’t invite lifestyle editors to my tiny apartment with a couch best known for its broken spring, pigeons fornicating on the windowsill, and a bathroom where the toilet faces the wall.

It’s not that my place is small or humble—that wouldn’t matter. I’m an artist. Almost all of us start like that. But I can’t do it because the world believes I live with my husband . And I don’t. Not really.

And then, a terrifying thought takes hold. If I ask Asher if I can stay a little longer—to keep this going—I’ll be the clingy one. My stomach twists into knots. I hate the idea of asking that.

Since I’m always the one asking for more.