Dirty Diana

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

—

Out the windshield, the desert sky is bruised purple and pink, and I lean back against my headrest as if I have all the time in the world. I want to get so stoned tonight that my worries soften into clouds, my head fills with loose tufts of cotton candy, and I forget that it’s my birthday.

“You feel anything? I don’t feel anything.” In the passenger seat, Alicia blinks at me from under a curtain of thick black bangs. “Sorry, Diana. I think I bought you dirt weed.” Her eyes are so red and glassy she could play the stoner in an after-school special.

“You’re baked,” I assure her.

“I’m completely freakin’ sober.”

I take the joint from her fingers. She has painstakingly written Happy 25th Bday! on the rolling paper in tiny cursive letters. I suck gently and watch the writing disappear, then snuff the joint in the car’s ashtray.

“Whoa—hang on.”

“We’re late.” I angle the rearview mirror and fuss with my hair—last night, in a moment of prebirthday impulsivity, I cut my blondish-brown waves into a choppy bob, using kitchen scissors. Now the hair stops just below my ears in frizzy layers. Alicia watches me, then digs through her bottomless tote bag. She pulls out a small glass bottle and rubs a few drops of oil between her fingers, then runs them through my hair. The oil smells of magnolias and honey. My hair calms down and looks almost as shiny as hers.

“My dad’s new lady friend sent it to me. I’m sure she got it for free.”

My car’s passenger-side door has rusted shut, so Alicia follows me out by gracefully unfolding two long khaki-clad legs over the driver’s seat and hopping onto the pavement. I zip my hoodie to my chin and jump up and down to stay warm. The air smells of burning cedar. Across the parking lot, the art gallery glows warmly. At my side, Alicia does a chicken dance, like a hippie at a Grateful Dead concert.

“You’re definitely sober,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Could I do this if I were stoned?” She playfully humps the bumper of my Toyota Tercel. The rusted bumper heaves once, then falls to the ground. This sends us both into hysterics.

Alicia and I met in an Intro to Screenwriting course our first year of college. She used to sleep through class with a bundled-up Patagonia fleece under her cheek while the rest of us tried to give constructive feedback about one another’s writing without hurting anyone’s feelings. One day a classmate named Ross, who had annoyed most of us by always talking like he already knew everything, started in on my scene. “I don’t buy it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “A woman would never say that.” I sat up a little straighter in my chair and tried not to blush.

Alicia chimed in without lifting her head. “We should be careful not to get warped by our own jealousy when critiquing,” she warned.

“Sorry?” Ross snipped. “Did I wake you?”

Alicia propped her chin on her hand and stared at him. “Diana’s pages are easily the best we’ve read so far. And whether or not a woman would ever say that…” She sighed. “Of course a woman would say that. Maybe you just haven’t been listening to many women. Not to be petty.”

After that, and for the rest of the semester, no one listened when Ross said anything.

“Seriously?” Alicia straightens up now and peers across the parking lot. On the other side of the lot, Barry slides the door of his catering van shut. Alicia and I warned him recently that his white van looked a lot like a kidnapper’s vehicle, and today we see he has painted it purple with Barry’s Eats stenciled across the side in friendly bubble letters. Alicia whistles. “Hot damn, Barry. Now you’re just a stone-cold fox.”

Barry laughs. He is one of the nicest humans we know, and by far the best boss we’ll ever have. He knows how broke we are, and he tries to hire us every time he books a job, and to save the more lucrative weekend shifts for us. He didn’t even make us buy new clothes when he hired us—one day he just pretended to find new uniforms in our sizes. He lied and told us they had been returned by former employees.

He does have one teeny management flaw, which is that he often falls in love with his employees. He has never acted on a single crush, but if you know him, you spot it instantly. He flushes, his eyes go puppy-wide, and his voice gets high when he tries to give instructions. He has fallen for Megan who only works on Thursday nights, Alexander from Taos, Alicia for sure, and most recently, Rod, who almost never says a word. “He told me he’s studying botany, ” Barry told me once about Rod, like it was the most surprisingly sexy thing he’d ever heard.

Now he speed-walks toward us in white platform sneakers and long shorts, his curly brown hair backlit by the dramatic Santa Fe sky. He’s only a few years our senior, but his stress levels make him seem much older. He folds his arms across his chest. “Is it too much to ask that you abstain for one shift?”

“Oh fuck, Barry.” Alicia widens her eyes. “Did you forget?”

Barry goes still.

“Baaaaaarrrrrryyyyyy.” She shakes her head. “It’s Diana’s birthday! You forgot?”

He looks at me so sweetly, so full of regret, as Alicia piles it on. “Diana is working on her twenty-fifth birthday! Is that even legal?”

“Happy birthday, Diana.” Barry hugs me, and I want to take a little nap on his shoulder. He’s an inch or two shorter than me and my head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck.

“If we didn’t get stoned,” Alicia insists, “I’d be the worst friend in the world and you’d be the worst boss. Like, really cruel.”

“Your friend is hilarious.” He squeezes my arm affectionately and hands me a duffel bag of aprons and Sterno cans. To Alicia he says, “Drink some coffee. And please tuck in your shirt.”

Alicia nods and does as she’s told, unzipping her khakis and pulling them down far enough to reveal the lacy top of her pink underwear. Barry looks immediately at his feet.

He notices my bumper on the ground and picks it up, leaning it against the trunk. “There’s duct tape in my van.”

“Don’t worry, Barry,” I say. “We’re on it.” It’s my voice, but it sounds like I’m in a tunnel. The weed is hitting me hard.

Alicia holds up Barry’s hand and high-fives it. “We are so pumped, Bare.”

“It’s a big night,” Barry says, and I want to hug him again. He says this at the beginning of every shift because he’s legitimately worried he’s going to fuck up, no matter how many parties he’s catered.

He slings a big bag of linens over his shoulder and heads for the gallery’s back door. “Just don’t eat all the cocktail weenies. This crowd loves them. They’re ironic hot dog eater–types!”

“You know I don’t eat weenies that small, Barry!” Alicia calls after him.

He pretends not to hear. My head is officially a cloud of pink cotton-candy dreams.

—

In the gallery’s back kitchen, I count and recount the serving trays, covering each one with a white doily, while Alicia sets up the coatracks in an office off the gallery’s main floor. Barry hurries back and forth to his van, unloading supplies and grumbling about how dirty the kitchen is. Silent Rod is here, too, tall and lanky, with a well-groomed, rust-colored beard and arms so long it looks like he’s wearing a child-size flannel shirt. He carries milk crates of alcohol into the main room and sets up the bar in a corner. I check the miniquiches in the oven, then head out to help Rod slice lime wedges. I like to imagine that the faraway look in his eye means he’s lost somewhere inside the pages of his botany textbook.

Sylvia Cross, the gallery’s formidable owner, is moving methodically through the main room, asking her assistants again and again for an opinion of where each photograph has been hung. They make several laps, then land in front of us at the bar. They decide that we’re what’s out of place. “This is all wrong here.” Sylvia waves her hands at Rod, who nods politely, unfazed, and gets to work breaking down the bar and moving it to the other side of the room.

Tonight’s show is for Jasper Green, a local photographer I’ve heard talked about more for his good looks than his work. Sylvia has left copies of Jasper’s profile in Aperture magazine—“Santa Fe’s Next Art-Throb”—all over the gallery. In the photo spread, he’s sitting in the bed of an old blue-and-white Ford 250, looking exactly like a person practicing the art of appearing laid-back: oatmeal fisherman sweater, faded Levi’s, worn-in work boots. He has a wide smile and dimples in both cheeks. His legs dangle off the back of the truck and his hands rest on his thighs. I would assume someone so good-looking takes photos of other attractive people, like naked supermodels posing in the desert, but looking around I see his photographs are mostly landscapes. Their mood is eerie and a little cold. Two images face each other in the center of the gallery: one shows a giant arched mesa dotted with snow, and the other shows a frozen lake surrounded by the desert sand, which is textured like a wind-swept toupee. The prints are massive, taller than human-size, so standing in front of them you feel overwhelmed, like you might fall into their desolation.

My buzz is giving way to sleepiness. I search the kitchen, find a jar of Nescafé, and make a coffee to share with Alicia. When Barry isn’t looking, I wrap some cocktail weenies in a napkin and shove them in my apron pocket.

The office door is closed. I rap on it. “Alicia?”

I find her asleep on top of a bed she’s made out of Barry’s duffel coat. I give her a gentle nudge. “Wake up. Guests are here. And I have weenies.”

With her eyes closed, she smiles.

—

Half an hour later, the gallery is packed with people and buzzing with conversation. “What’s that?” a young woman asks, peering indecisively at the tray I’m holding. She’s roughly my age, with long braids and wearing a silver-beaded dress that ripples over her like water.

“Cauliflower samosas lightly fried with a tamarind chutney dipping sauce.”

I recognize her from an opening I worked last spring. It was a group showing of recent Santa Fe Art Institute grads. Her pieces were all stunning, elegant cameos made from intricately cut paper. “I love your work,” I say, offering her a cocktail napkin.

“Thank you.” She takes a delicate bite. “I’m just glad it’s not my stuff tonight, I can sit back and enjoy the party, you know? No pressure.”

“Totally.” My voice comes out too chummy, like of course I can relate—me, half stoned in my dirty khakis, surviving the cutthroat career of a cater waiter. I give a peppy “Enjoy!” and leave to find Alicia.

She’s in the kitchen refilling both her serving tray and a big glass of red wine.

“Eat something,” I say, by way of warning. Red wine makes her weepy.

She stuffs an eggroll in her mouth and hands me one. “How great is this party? Ten points if you make out with someone in the coatroom.” Our sophomore year of college, Alicia went to a frat party in Albuquerque one Saturday where she overheard a bunch of guys rating the wildest places they’d had sex and assigning each other points. She’d found it disgusting, if unsurprising, and later it became a joke between us. I told her I once gave someone a hand job on a Ferris wheel, and she sighed like that was the most mundane place a person could possibly go for a hand job. For a while, I thought she forgot about the joke, but then one Christmas she hooked up with an actor dressed as an elf at the Dillard’s Santaland during business hours. They dated briefly but she grew bored and neither of us has managed to top that one, points-wise.

“Fifteen points,” I say, “if you get me Jasper’s number.” It comes tumbling out and I immediately regret it.

“Done!”

“I’m kidding. No, don’t.” I sweep the bangs away from her face. Her eyes are alight with mischief. “Seriously. Don’t”

Barry rushes in, briskly clapping his hands. “Friends! Less chatting, more serving!” Alicia takes a swig of her wine, grabs her tray, and evaporates into the crowd.

I’m searching the kitchen for the mini plastic spoons to stick in the tiny tiramisus, when Barry hisses, “Diana!”

He’s ghostly pale. An enormous cockroach is crawling near the toe of his loafer. “I felt it through my shoe. ”

“Deep breath. It’s just a bug.” It is not just a bug, it’s enormous. It parts its wings and slices two long, spindly antennae through the air. “Step on it!”

“We can’t kill it!” He hands me a plastic cup. “Just lure it in here and then take it outside.”

“ Lure it in?”

He nods.

“Barry.”

I inch toward the cockroach, slowly, the cup in one hand, a paper towel roll in the other. Barry grips my sleeve.

“Don’t miss!” he hisses.

I shake him off my shoulder and kneel on the floor, then sweep the roach into the cup and cap it with the paper towels. As I do, an antenna peeks out and Barry and I scream. He runs to open the back door and shoves me through.

In the parking lot, I crouch down and shake the cup until the roach scampers onto the asphalt. A cold wind whips through my shirt.

“That’s bighearted of you.” A man’s voice makes me jump.

He moves into the light of the streetlamp, and I immediately recognize the Art-Throb himself. He’s tall and slender, and he looks a little sheepish, like maybe I’ve caught him avoiding the party. He’s dressed in a gray suit and crisp white T-shirt, and he’s undeniably good-looking, with dark brown eyes and thick black lashes.

I straighten, dusting the gravel from my palms onto my apron. “My boss is the bighearted one. I wanted to crush it.”

“Smoke?” He holds out a battered blue tin with something hand-rolled inside. “They’re some kind of herbal thing to help me quit. They’re terrible.”

I smile. “That’s all right. I have to get back. My boss is kind of a micromanager.”

“That nice guy who lets you get stoned in your car?”

“You saw that?”

“Of course not.” He smiles—his dimples even sexier in person—and holds out his hand. “I’m Jasper.”

“Your work is beautiful. Congratulations.” Is that what you say at an opening? It sounds clumsy.

“Thank you…”

“Diana.”

“Sure you don’t want one?” He offers the tin once again and I shake my head.

“It’s a good show, they’ve done a nice job with it.”

“Are you an artist?”

“Sort of. Yes. Working on it,” I say. “I’m an assistant to an artist. Justine Loka.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I know Justine.” He laughs. “Tough job.” His warm brown eyes are kind. He seems impressed. “You’re a textile artist then?”

“No, I’m studying painting.”

His eyes are searching mine, like he cares deeply about my answers even though we’re two strangers in a cold parking lot.

“I’m working on a project where I interview different people and use what they say in my paintings, mostly in the margins.”

“Like a comic?”

“Yeah, sort of like a comic strip. But they look nothing like that, graphically. I try to render the portraits romantic and intimate, but then the words are just ordinary…or petty. Plain and direct. Sometimes it’s about that. I like the contrast.”

“What do you ask them about?”

“All sorts of things.” The streetlight flickers behind him. “I’m most interested in stories about things people find it hard to talk about. Things that make us uneasy. Like money…death, sex. Discomforting things.”

“Discomforting.” He extinguishes his cigarette with his boot. “Sounds really interesting.”

Interesting. Ugh. I’ve clearly done a rotten job of articulating this. Things that I find discomforting: explaining what I’m currently working on. Lately I’ve developed an aversion to the way some of my fellow art students are too ready to sell everybody on their topic. This is why I started interviewing people before I painted them—then I could put their words in the paintings. It means someone else is talking and I’m just painting. Makes me less suspicious of what I might be up to.

“I start with charcoal pencil. Sometimes even pen,” I throw in. He nods and I’m distracted by the way he moves—rocking from one foot to the next and never standing still. Even the simple way he hunches his shoulders against the cold is stealing my focus. “But most of the finished pieces are oil paintings—”

The door opens and I’ve never been so happy to see Silent Rod in my life.

“Um, Diana? I think we need to cut Alicia off?”

“Shit.” I turn to Jasper. “Nice to meet you.”

He raises his hand in a wave, and his smile is dazzling.

I find Alicia behind a table, serving coffee with fat tears streaming down her cheeks, flushed from too much wine. I slide in next to her. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, Diana. I just keep thinking what if this is never us?” She gestures around the gallery. “We’re getting old. What if we’re always serving cocktail weenies? I mean, what if I have to marry Barry?”

I give her a playful shove. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“You know what I mean.” She’s gulping in air. “We know he likes me and I’d be willing to invite Rod or whomever into our marriage…”

“What are you even talking about?”

A woman in sparkling jewels comes to our table, her beautiful gray hair swept high in a bun. She notices Alicia’s crying and eyes me. “Is she okay?”

“I’m fine.” Alicia sniffs. “Just old.”

I look into the woman’s much older face and smile awkwardly. As she takes her coffee and leaves, I catch Barry making a beeline for us. Alicia pours a coffee for the next guest, her eyes going wide as a cockroach crawls right out of the spigot. In one fluid movement, she chucks the cup in the trash can behind her and pours another— nothing like the way Barry and I panicked and tripped over ourselves in the kitchen.

“Hey, Barry!” He’s materialized at my side. “Everything is going great.” He ignores me, instead studying Alicia’s mascara-streaked face. “Our friend here is working through a teeny existential crisis but in a really fun way. Coffee?”

“Clean her up,” he says.

Alicia sits on the bathroom sink and I close the door behind us. She wets her apron and uses it to wipe her face. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine.”

“Birthdays make me depressed.”

“It’s my birthday. You’re still a twenty-four-year-old spring chicken!”

“Yeah, but you and me are, like, one soul, Diana.” She peers at me through wet lashes. “Twenty-five. We’re not babies anymore.”

I blot her cheeks with a paper towel. “Van Gogh didn’t start art school until he was twenty-seven…”

“Twenty-seven is, like, tomorrow for us. What if I never finish a film?”

“Judy Chicago didn’t show her work until she was thirty- nine. ”

Alicia blows her nose and shrugs, takes some solace in this one.

“Grandma Moses was eighty —”

Alicia laughs. “Okay, shut the fuck up, I get it.”

After we exit the bathroom, I’m so preoccupied watching Alicia, to make sure she hustles back to the kitchen, that I almost crash right into Jasper, who is now deep in conversation with a group of men in dark suits. He stops to look me in the eye, as if to say, Everything okay?, and I smile, my heart slamming in my chest. What just happened? I think, walking away. I feel the way I did the night a deer suddenly appeared in my headlights, and I swerved and managed to avoid it just in time.

For the rest of the evening, no matter where I am in the room, I can feel Jasper’s eyes on me. I try not to notice. I have this idea that if I acknowledge the attention, it will disappear. I’m careful to move in wide circles around him.

I have by now picked a favorite photograph and I linger in front of it. None of Jasper’s images include people, except for this one. A young girl is running along an asphalt road, looking straight past the camera. She is surrounded by the strange desert landscape, almost like an alien planet around her, the road she’s on the only trace of a human-made feature. Her legs are skinny sticks and two knobby knees.

“Do you like it?” Jasper is beside me. Standing so close that our shoulders almost touch. “I think it’s my favorite. Is that okay to say about your own stuff?”

“I love it,” I say.

He stays very close to me, and then moves even closer. I feel the entire left side of his body against mine and realize I’m holding my breath. He’s as terrifyingly beautiful as his photos, and everyone here seems to be a little in love with him.

“It’s so striking that she’s the only person in your show.”

He looks around the room, a slight blush on his cheeks, then waves at a photograph of a cow on the front porch of a house. “I guess we can’t count Junior?”

“Ah, of course,” I say. It occurs to me, a little late, how unnerving it must feel to have all your work on display like this. I regret trying to make any kind of penetrating comment. “We can’t ignore that handsome face.”

Jasper turns his body toward mine. “Want to get some fresh air?”

“Me?”

Jasper finds this funny. He reaches for my hand, resting his fingers softly on the inside of my palm. I open my hand wider and then lace my fingers through his, lightly. The feeling is electric and we hold hands like that, as if in secret, and make our way out of the party. Alicia looks up from the coffee station and her eyes go big. I stare at my checkered Vans and try not to laugh.

We’re two feet from the back door when Sylvia descends on us, the first time I’ve seen her all night without her gallery assistants flanking her. Jasper and I immediately drop hands. She takes him by the arm. “A quick hello to the Wheelers then one more lap. We’re nearly at the finish line.” Her eyes flit across my body. “I’ll take something dry, honey. The driest white you have.”

“Of course,” I say as Jasper is pulled into the thickening crowd.

For the rest of the night, it’s like we’re trying to find each other again. I circulate with trays of food and brush against his arm. When he passes me, deep in conversation with another couple, he holds out his hand so that it grazes my hip. It’s intoxicating. We’re both working, and both so aware of each other. In the kitchen, I turn on the tap and run cold water over my wrists.

When I emerge, with a trayful of mini blackberry crumbles, I spot Jasper near the office, talking to Sylvia but watching me. When she heads back into the crowd, he slouches against the closed door, keeping his eyes on mine. He’s alone in the hallway.

“Hi,” I say.

“Why are you the only person here I actually want to talk to?”

I lean against the wall next to him, close enough that my leg brushes his. Our knees touch. Then our fingers as I turn to face him. I say, “Can I?” and then I touch his lips. As my fingers drop away, we fall into a kiss.

It’s long and slow. An entire night of foreplay leading to a rush of excitement as our lips finally meet. There is no experimenting to see what the other likes, nothing tentative or unsure. He moves in front of me, his body facing mine, and presses his hands against the wall on either side of me. The sensation it creates is like being in a tunnel. We’re protected here, shielded from the party, just the two of us and the echoes of this good feeling.

He’s taller than me so when we kiss, he leans down and tilts my chin up to meet him. Then he pulls back and the corners of his mouth lift into a small smile. He runs his hands down the length of my arms and bends even lower to kiss my neck.

My senses are overwhelmed by the scent of his expensive shampoo, the sharp taste of vodka he leaves on my lips, the sting of his stubble on my cheek, and the press of his erection against my thigh. This isn’t the first time I’ve made out with a boy I’ve met at a party or shared a furtive kiss near a crowd of people. I’ve had sex on a first date. I can hold my own in a game of Never Have I Ever. But this feels different. I’m not waiting to be kissed or even wondering if I should be here at all. Everything in me wants to take the lead, and nothing is run first through the tight filter of my mind. I clasp my fingers around the back of his neck and pull him closer, turning us until his back is against the wall. I lean into his muscular frame, pressing him to the office door. Then I reach just past his hip for the doorknob.

I crack open the door and for a moment, neither of us moves. I take his face between my hands, his eyes sparkling but hard to read. “Can you leave your own party?”

He kisses me again, tugging on my bottom lip with his teeth. “Yes.”

Inside the office it is dark and cool. Standing in the middle of the room, I slide my hands under his jacket so that it falls onto the desk behind him. His T-shirt is thin and the bare skin of his arms is warm. He circles both of my wrists in one of his hands and lifts them over my head. When he lets go, I leave my arms suspended this way as he undoes the top button of my shirt. His eyes search mine, and I want to melt into him.

“Diana?” His breath is quick.

“Yeah?”

“It’s really nice to meet you.”

We both smile.

“Pretty great party,” I add.

“Pretty great.” He laughs. “Maybe the best.” He kisses me more urgently and I imagine we’re alone on an island, where we can stay like this, uninterrupted, for days.

He carefully undoes each of my buttons from top to bottom then pulls my shirt down my arms until it lands at my feet. He bites his bottom lip, studying me, and a heat spreads through my body. I watch his chest move under his shirt. I reach my hands beneath it and up his muscled back, pulling it off over his head. I touch his naked skin and his breathing gets harder. Faster. I press my mouth to his. His full mouth.

I take his hand and lay it against my chest. “Fast,” I say.

He leaves his hand there for a long, easy moment feeling my racing heartbeat. He places my hand over his own heart. “Faster,” he replies.

I run my hands through his hair as he leans back onto the desk, pulling me to him. I look into his eyes and we both smile, wondering how we got here.

“Jasper!” A hard rap on the door. A voice like daggers. “Jasper! I need you!”

He sighs.

“Jasper!” Sylvia knocks again.

“You better go,” I whisper, laughing.

“Okay,” he calls over my shoulder, still looking deep into my eyes. He sighs again. “I’m sorry.”

He kisses me quickly and smiles his dimpled smile. He pulls on his T-shirt, then his jacket, and he’s gone.

I stay alone in the office. Dressing very slowly. I should definitely get back to work, but first I slip into the bathroom where I splash my face with water. A smile breaks across my face.

Outside the bathroom, I hear a pop of a champagne bottle and loud cheering. When I come out, Jasper is standing next to Sylvia who grins from ear to ear. Silent Rod comes up next to me and whispers, “Sold every piece here. The big ones went for seven grand.” It’s the longest strand of words Rod has ever spoken to me.

Jasper raises a glass and looks at the small crowd of friends and staff who have gathered. “Thank you to everyone for being here. I was a pile of raw nerves earlier, but y’all didn’t miss a beat. I went from not wanting the night to begin to not wanting it to ever end.” He bows his head slightly. “This really has been about years of work for me and my fierce champion, Ms. Cross.” Sylvia beams like a schoolgirl, clutching her heart and mouthing thank you for the crowd to see.

Then Jasper’s eyes dance across his audience until they land on me. I can’t help casually turning my head to make sure there isn’t someone else behind me. But it’s just an empty doorway. My gaze meets his and it’s so startling that I look down and audibly exhale, as if my body is attempting to put out the fire he creates. Around me, the crowd shifts, waiting for Jasper to continue. When the silence goes on a beat too long, I lift my head and my eyes meet Jasper’s again. He smiles and continues, “The night took many unexpected turns.” Even the sound of his voice, easy and sure, turns me on. “One in particular that I haven’t quite gotten over.”

“The Desert Ten selling before we even served a single drink, maybe?” Sylvia laughs. If Jasper heard her, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead he looks directly at me and says, “Pretty great party.” My cheeks burn a deep pink. I smile and mouth, The best. Then Jasper clears his throat, releasing us both from his spell. His eyes fall away from mine and sweep the room. He showers his dazzling smile on the entire crowd. He’s not just mine anymore. But he’s still fun to watch. He lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

Sylvia raises a glass toward the back of the room. “This was you too!” she says insincerely to the staff. “This entire night was perfect!”

“Cheers,” I say quietly, suddenly realizing I don’t have a glass to raise. I wipe my sweaty hands on my apron and try not to smile toobig.

Then I watch Jasper as he’s pulled back into a web of admirers, a sticky mix of heartfelt congratulations, kisses, and jealousy. There’s no more eye contact and slowly, steadily, as the party wears on, what happened in the office seems like days not minutes ago. I have to remind myself it really happened and I didn’t just dream it up.

So that it doesn’t slip through my fingers completely, I take the feeling of being in that office with him—the surprising rush of desire and affection—and I imagine folding it neatly, like a cocktail napkin, and tucking it away. This way, I tell myself, I won’t forget the feeling. Or maybe, folded away, it won’t sting if we never return to it.

—

An hour later, after the gallery has completely emptied out, Alicia pulls out a quarter. “Heads, you take out the garbage, tails you warm up the car.” To make up for being such assholes tonight, Alicia and I told Barry to let us handle the cleanup. We’ve already swept and mopped the floors, scrubbed out the oven, and wiped down all the kitchen counters.

She flips the coin in the air, and it clatters to the gallery’s wood floor. Heads. I groan and hand her my car keys so she can warm up thecar.

I’m doing a terrible job at not being disappointed that Jasper didn’t find me in the kitchen to say good night, but staying busy helps. I roll out the big trash can for collection and throw two heavy-duty bags into the dumpster. The cold night air feels good on my face. It was just impulse, I tell myself. What really bothers me, though, is this feeling that I miss him. Is that even possible? Twenty-four hours ago, we’d never met and I hardly knew he existed.

When I get to my car, I see Barry has duct-taped my rear bumper back on. Of course he has. Alicia is curled up asleep in the back seat. I get in, and it’s freezing cold, even with the heat blasting. I look out the windshield and see that someone has left a rectangular package against the wiper. I get back out to grab it, then flip on the overhead light. There’s a note written in Magic Marker on the paper wrapping.

Diana, I think this is your car. And this definitely belongs to you.

—Jasper

P.S. If you’re not Diana, then you’re a thief and please return this to Sylvia Cross at Cross Gallery. Reward offered.

—

Jasper is long gone, I know, but I can’t shake the feeling I’ve had all night, that he’s watching me still. I carefully open the wrapping, my heartbeat picking up. And there it is, the photograph I loved so much. I’ve never been given a gift like this. I stare at it for a full minute before I grin into the rearview mirror, then I angle it down to watch Alicia breathing, fast asleep in the back seat. Nobody here but me to witness my reunion with the running girl. I set my gift on the passenger seat. Then I drive Alicia home, reaching out each time I stop to keep the photograph from sliding forward.