The question was cued up, ready to roll off his tongue. Do you hate me that much? Only he knew Eddy didn’t hate him. He envied him, and that was just as bad. This shop had been his older brother’s dream and he’d built it from ground up with little help from anyone. Sandro couldn’t imagine him living any other life yet the resentment was there, palpable, weaving itself within their conversations. Eddy had been fine with him being a struggling actor, waiting tables and cleaning rest rooms. Sandro was often the butt of jokes at holiday reunions. So much so that he had stopped attending. Once his career picked up, though, Eddy’s attitude changed. The entrepreneur now referred to himself as a “nobody.” Ridiculous.
Sandro turned to leave. “Good seeing you again.”
“You look good, bro!” Eddy called out. “Keep up with that keto diet!”
Thirteen
“That seems to me like an unfair cultural appropriation...”
A string bean of a man in a tweed jacket frowned at a painting of an American pop star reimagined as Ganesha. Angel bit back a smile and wandered to the next exhibit. On her half-hour break she liked to wander through the halls, soaking up as much art as possible. The next room featured a life-size glass house. The manager was on his mobile phone, hustling. “We’re everywhere. So wherever you want to be, we can get you there.”
Angel felt a tug at her heart. Was that how it felt to be celebrated, promoted and valued? That sort of overture could potentially take an artist from anonymity to hot commodity. That was the dream that she had walked away from. She had locked away those ambitions to embrace her new career path. So much so, she hadn’t even wanted Alessandro to look at her paintings. She hoped to keep her failures hidden, if only for the short while they had together. Things didn’t have to get that deep.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. Alessandro had sent her a photo, and all the overconceptualized artwork in the convention center faded to black. It was a screenshot of an Instagram post from two summers back. He was standing on a dock at Fisher Island wearing a black T-shirt and cargo shorts.
She’d saved his phone number under the name BEST MALE LEAD. The text message that followed read: I look good in shorts, too.
Angel was fully aware that she was texting and flirting like her teenaged self. That awareness didn’t prevent her from throwing herself into it.
ANGEL’S PHONE: I like you best without pants.
BEST MALE LEAD: My wicked Angel... I’ll be late for the parking garage party.
ANGEL’S PHONE: Long day in paradise?
BEST MALE LEAD: Difficult day. Won’t bore you with details.
Angel stared at her phone. She wished he would bore her with details. She wanted to know the not-so-glamorous side of him. What wore him down? What weighed on his mind?
BEST MALE LEAD: Please don’t run off with another guy.
ANGEL’S PHONE: This is a work event. I’m not going to cruise celebrities.
BEST MALE LEAD: Celebrities don’t worry me. It’s those starving artists...
ANGEL’S PHONE: Ah! The ones with goatees...
BEST MALE LEAD: I used to be a starving artist.
ANGEL’S PHONE: No goatee?
BEST MALE LEAD: Didn’t need one. It would be a crime to hide this face. May I take you home later tonight?
ANGEL’S PHONE: I’ll think about it.
BEST MALE LEAD: Think about me without pants.
Angel laughed. The real crime would be to not take this man home tonight.
1010 Alton Road resembled a cement origami structure. It cost the owner fifty million dollars to build and the average motorist thirty dollars to park. The ground floor was dedicated to retail space. But the party was held on the top floor. It was redesigned as a sculpture garden against the backdrop of unobstructed views of Miami Beach. In short, it was fabulous.
A popular DJ was spinning, so there would be no surprise live performances tonight. She was grateful; her heart couldn’t take it. But she was excited beyond reason to see Alessandro again. No matter that they’d been apart for only a few hours. She was even excited to see his crew of friends. Angel stood at the entrance and scanned the crowd composed of collectors, curators and the artists that they all coveted. A few people outside the industry caught her eye: a street-style photographer and his fashion blogger girlfriend, a famed performance artist and activist, and an art critic for the Times.
And there he was.
Another thing her heart couldn’t take? Seeing her “date” and his ex huddled up in a corner. Although the woman had her back to him, Angel recognized her right away from her famous cropped blue hair. Actress/musician Chloe London was one of Alessandro’s most famous exes.
In a stunning plot twist, after all the drama about Chris, he was the one to introduce an evil ex. Although there was no evidence that Chloe London was evil, apart from the fact that she’d starred as an evil witch in a Disney movie. But by all accounts, except maybe that of Alessandro’s publicist, the breakup had been brutal.
Angel did not know what to do with herself. Thankfully, a waiter swung by and offered her a glass of champagne, which gave her something to do with her hands. She was being ridiculous, overly dramatic and a touch possessive. In his world, where there were no rules, he could do what he wanted. There would always be something or someone more exciting to catch his attention.
Angel could map her thoughts from the dangerous turn they had taken to the ditch where they were headed. Pump the brakes! She was here for work—even if her work consisted of snapping a few photos for the gallery’s Instagram account.
And then Alessandro looked up. While nodding in agreement at whatever Chloe was saying, he scanned the entrance as if searching for someone. When his gaze settled on her, he brightened and the search appeared to be over.
Sandro hadn’t thought he’d make it back from Tampa on time, but good thing he had. He would not have wanted to miss Angel’s grand entrance. She stopped his heart in her “nothing” dress paired with tall suede boots. He stirred with impatience, eager to get away from Chloe and to get his hands on Angel. He listened as Chloe updated him on the recent shenanigans of her toy poodle. Then he begged off as tactfully as possible. He’d lost sight of Angel for a moment and when he finally spotted her, her quiet anxiety roared loud in his ears.
What was she thinking?
“Hey, you,” he greeted.
He refrained from touching her. She’d made it clear that they weren’t “out.” And he was okay with it. Really, he was. Once the press got wind of their affair, things would get complicated very quickly. Flying under the radar was likely the smartest thing to do. He only wished that she weren’t so adamant about it.
She gave him an empty smile. “Hey! You made it.”
“I couldn’t wait to see you.” Sandro hadn’t even gone back to the island to change. He’d thrown a blazer over his T-shirt and jeans and hoped his smile made up for it. “If your godmother saw you without a sweater, I’m not sure she’d approve.”
That got her laughing. And he was relieved, mainly because he had a clue as to what might have triggered her initial reaction.
“You’re not going to let this die down, will you?”
“I love your godmother.”
“You love that she loved your pants.”
“That, too.” He motioned for her to follow him. “Come with me. I found a private spot for us to talk behind that giant penis.”
Angel whimpered with suppressed laughter, her eyes bright with tears. “You’re the big penis! It’s a statue of a double helix!”
“It’s whatever you say it is. You’re the expert.”
He drew her close and hugged her, rubbing the small of her back. “Have you eaten, babe?”
“I’m sure there’s a bacon-wrapped date with my name on it somewhere.”
There was more than that. He’d checked out the sprea
d. “I’ll make sure you’re fed,” he promised. “Everything okay, otherwise.”
“Everything is fine.” She eased away from him. “And you?”
“Yeah,” he said with a shrug.
She nodded. “Cool.”
He couldn’t stand it, all the things they weren’t saying were piling up. Sandro cut through it and addressed the “ex” in the room. “That was Chloe London I was speaking with just now. We used to...” He couldn’t finish the sentence. What had he and Chloe been up to those few months they were together? Killing time?
“We don’t have to go there,” she said. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. “You’re big on rules. How about this for one? We tell each other the things that matter.” When she moved to protest, he stopped her. “Don’t tell me this doesn’t matter.”
She grabbed his hand. “I’m trying to tell you it’s not necessary. The press coverage was thorough.”
“The press?” According to the “press,” Chloe had cheated and dumped him for her ex. It was no wonder Angel didn’t want to talk about it.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read online.”
“It wasn’t online, it was in Vanities.”
Sandro stepped back. Her hand slipped from his. He was so offended that he switched to Spanish. “No me digas que crees—”
She reclaimed his hand. “I told you the sordid details about my breakup. It’s only fair that you get to share yours.”
“There was no breakup,” he said. “We were never together, not in a real way. I had time on my hands and she was on a break from Tyler. When they got back together, I was filming in Toronto.”
Angel’s expressive face went blank and he understood his mistake. “It’s nothing like us.”
“Isn’t it?” she said. “Some brokenhearted woman needs a distraction and you offer yourself up as a chew toy.” She poked him in the ribs to drive the point home. “You’re not a chew toy for the brokenhearted.”
“Is that what you are?” Sandro asked. “Brokenhearted?”
With Chloe the answer to this question didn’t bother him. She was a good person with a kind heart, but her thing with Tyler was their business. He hadn’t cared enough to get entangled in it. But with Angel, it weighed on him a little too heavily. He hated that she was still stuck on her ex. She only had to mention him and jealousy shred his insides. Plus he could not remember the last time he’d had to compete for a woman’s attention and he was clumsy at it. His flippant offers for rebound sex were nothing but a facade, a lid covering a pool of want. He wanted her. Why couldn’t he just say, “I like you”?
Sandro leaned against the penis statue, wondering when and where exactly he’d lost his balls. He missed it when Angel’s cool nonchalance turned to hot anger.
“I was never brokenhearted, you big dummy!”
He snapped to attention. “Okay...”
“Chris and I were on our last legs by the time he left. We weren’t talking. We weren’t having fun. We weren’t much involved in each other’s lives. If I’d had my act together, I would’ve left him long ago.”
He stopped her. “Angel, the look on your face when you got that alert.”
There was nothing an ex could post that could upset him if his feelings weren’t involved. He certainly wouldn’t sign up for alerts.
“I was upset, yes!” she admitted openly. “It was an intrusion. I was just getting to know you and it pulled me into the past. What bothered me, really, was the way he’d ended things. As if he were destined for greatness and I was dead weight dragging him down. It was humiliating. And I felt like...”
She struggled with the last word. Sandro said it, so she wouldn’t have to. “A failure.”
She nodded. “I’m thirty. That’s an age when you ought to have your shit together.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
She groaned. “At thirty you worked three jobs.”
“And had four roommates.”
She made a face. “That sounds terrible.”
He kissed her; it was long overdue. “It was terrible.”
“Maybe in the spirit of competition, I got obsessed with keeping score. I used Chris as a visual aid. His videos showed me how far off track I was.”
“Or you think you were,” he corrected.
She made a gesture as if to say, tomato/tomahto, it was all the same.
“Hate to say this, but Chris reminds me of this tool.” He knocked on the double helix penis and she burst out laughing. His fear that they’d taken things too far tonight gently subsided. He drew her tight and kissed her as if they were alone, back at his house or her apartment, and not at a raging party with a frenetic DJ upping the ante with every track. He wanted to get out of here, but she still had work to do. He couldn’t keep her tucked away for much longer.
Just as he was about to propose they rejoin the party, she held him tighter. “I’ve never told any of this to anyone.”
“Oh, my angel...” He felt honored, flat-out honored, that she had trusted him enough to confide in him. “I’ll keep your secrets.”
She whispered back. “And I’ll keep yours, just so you know. You can tell me anything.”
Had they just exchanged vows? Exciting...
“Listen to me.” He eased her away and gripped her shoulders. “I’ve lived in California long enough to know that we have to end this session with an affirmation.”
She laughed, all the while wiping at her eyes with the back of her hands. “Alessandro, you’re the only one who can make me laugh and cry at the same time.”
Good, he thought. It was a sign that he was getting to the heart of her. “Repeat after me. I’m not a failure.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m not a failure.”
“Good girl.”
“Not so fast! Now it’s your turn,” she said. “Repeat after me. You’re no one’s chew toy.”
Over the years, Sandro had coupled up and split up more times than he could count. His work always came first. He could always count on his friends to fill the time between jobs. His life had been a wild spin and he’d enjoyed it. Angel made him want to step off the carousel.
“I’m no one’s chew toy, except yours.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but he could tell that she loved it. “That’s progress, I guess.”
“Some might call it a major breakthrough.”
“They’d be wrong,” she said. “Now come on. You promised to feed me. Let’s go.”
She’d grabbed his hand and didn’t let go, not even after they’d emerged from their hiding place. They made a meal of the array of appetizers and, an hour later, were still holding hands when Gigi, Rose and Jenny made their grand entrance. Sandro held her purse while she went around snapping the photos for her gallery’s social media accounts. Finally, when she was done, she curled an arm around his neck and whispered, “Take me home.”
In the elevator, at his request, she raised the hem of her dress to show him how far high those sleek boots reached. He pinched her thigh. She laughed all the way down to the ground floor valet station. But Alessandro kept sinking deeper into an emotion that he was afraid to identify.
ART BASEL BABE WATCH
So far, the men have brought the heat during Basel. Top on our list is Alessandro Cardenas. Although he has not yet been spotted at the after-hour clubs with his usual crew, here he is on opening night looking like a boss in a Tom Ford suit. Next, the actor sports a more casual look, in a black shirt and trousers, while serenading some lucky girl at The High Tide. Is there nothing this man can’t do? Obviously not! We hear that there are some production delays with his next feature. Here’s hoping that he spends his free time on the beach, so we can catch a glimpse of the body under the clothes. #SandroFever
—@Sunshine&Wine_IG
COMMENTS:
> @thebitterandthesweet: Who is the basic chick he’s serenading?
Fourteen
Art Basel, closing night...
Someone ripped the banana straight off the wall, peeled it and gobbled it down to the great consternation of the crowd. There went the most photographed banana in the world. It was instantly proclaimed performance art.
Paloma sold YOLO to a young gay couple from Lisbon.
Justine was feeling well enough to attend the night’s big party, albeit with a foot in an orthopedic boot. Which meant Angel had the night off. As soon as she learned the news, she called Alessandro.
He answered on the second ring. “Tell me you were there when that guy ate the banana.”
“Ugh! I didn’t make it in time.” She’d heard the commotion, but Gallery Six’s viewing room was halfway across the convention center. “I got a picture of the duct tape on the wall. It’s posted on Instagram.”
“Good job,” he said. “So, what’s on the agenda tonight?”
“Nothing! I have the night off.”
“Angel...” he said in his teasing way. “Don’t play with my emotions.”
“I wouldn’t!”
She had made it to the break area: an indoor park complete with artificial trees and a spread of fake grass. She took a seat on a bench.
“I’m taking you out,” he said. “What would you like to do? Just tell me and I’ll make it happen.”
Angel turned the question in her mind. “There’s one thing.”
“What?”
“We’d have to move beyond Basel,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Only the top one percent of artists gets the chance to show here. For the rest, it’s every man for himself.”
“Or woman,” he said.
“No,” she said. “It’s even worse for women. Say nothing of the nonbinary! Nobody cares!”
“I care,” he said. “And I can’t go to another Basel party, I swear to God. I’m done. Let’s branch out. Want to go to Wynwood?”
She was always taken aback at how well he knew the city. She had half expected him to suggest Ocean Drive. “And Little Haiti. There’s an art scene there, too.”
What Happens In Miami... Page 10
