So Much for Boundaries (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective Book 3)

by Brooke St. James

  I figured applying might be a little bit of a process, so I had the addresses of a few cheap hotels to hold me over until I got things figured out. It was currently 6pm, and I was scheduled to arrive in New York at 7am the following morning.

  I was on a two-hour layover in North Carolina when I met a lady who was extremely sweet and easy to talk to. I told her my story, and when I got to the part about not yet hearing from the artist collective, she willingly offered to let me use her phone so I could call them. She even googled it for me and found some alternate number I hadn't tried before.

  I dialed that new number assuming no one would pick up and I'd just leave a message, but that wasn't the case. I smiled when I heard someone answer. Cindy gave me a thumbs-up when she saw me light up, and I held up a finger, letting her know I'd be right back with her phone. She smiled and waved at me as I went to stand outside where I could hear the person on the other end.

  "Hello?" he repeated.

  "Hello, I'm here," I said as I walked. I was nervous about talking to an actual human in the first place, and then I went and added walking to the mix. I found myself struggling to catch my breath.

  "Hello?" I heard the man ask again. He sounded slightly annoyed.

  "I'm sorry," I said, as I found a place to stand by the bus station entrance. "It took me by surprise when someone answered."

  "How can I help you?" he asked. His tone was friendly enough, but he definitely seemed like he was in a hurry.

  "I, uh, my name is Zoe Etheridge. I was calling about Shower & Shelter—the artist collective."

  "I manage Shower & Shelter," the man said. "But this is my personal line."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry, should I call the other number?" I asked.

  "You can call the gallery, but I'm sure I can answer your question," he said. "I might as well since you already have me on the line"

  "I just wanted to see about staying there," I said. "I'm an artist, and I'm just moving to New York—I'm actually not even there yet."

  I was so excited about having this conversation that my heart had been racing since he picked up the phone. I was breathless and jittery, smiling at the excitement of it all as I paced in a circle in the grass. My smile completely faded when the man let out a little laugh like he thought what I might have just said was a joke.

  I cleared my throat so I could say it again since I was sure he misunderstood me. "I was just interested in applying for a room at the Shower & Shelter," I said. I could hear the shaky and uncertainness in my own voice, and I scrunched up my face in an effort to get control of my nerves.

  He cleared his throat. "We have a few spots coming available early next year," he said. "You're welcome to email me your story and portfolio if you'd like to be considered for them."

  "Next year?" I asked as a wave of hopelessness washed over me.

  "Yes," he said. "Late January."

  "That's like six months."

  "Yep."

  "Oh man, I didn't know it would take so long to get in," I said.

  "It may take much longer than that."

  "What do you mean? How much longer?"

  "I can't really say that for sure," he said. "We have some artists who have applied for every opening since we started and still haven't got to the interview process."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means it could take a lot longer." He was so matter of fact that it felt like he expected me to say something the second he finished talking.

  "Are you saying even if I apply, there's a good chance I won't get one of those spots in January?"

  I barely breathed as I waited for his answer, which was, to my horror, a chuckle. He wasn't being mean, but he definitely found humor in my question. I felt myself blush as my frustration instantly rose.

  "I'm sorry, I thought this was a place where artist could go if they didn't have a place to stay."

  "It is, in a way," he said. "But, unfortunately, there are far more applicants than there are spots available. We've only been open for a few years, Ms. Etheridge. There are only thirty spots, and our artists usually stay for the full two-year term, so turnover is rare." He paused briefly, but I was quiet, so he continued. "Listen, I want you to feel free to come in and check us out, but I feel like I should warn you, based on what you've said so far, that it's a highly competitive situation over here."

  He was so direct that I felt humiliated.

  "Are you basically saying I probably won't get in?" I asked.

  He paused on the other end as if contemplating how to answer that.

  My heart pounded.

  "What medium do you practice?" he asked. I could tell by the way he asked it that he was doing his best to remain patient and be cordial with me. I took a deep breath, as my own naivety began to sink in.

  "I don't know if you'd call what I do practicing, since I'm not really sure how other people do it, but I love to paint and I'm good at it. I think I'm meant to paint. I was hoping to show you that when I came to stay there."

  "Were you under the impression that we had spots available on a regular basis?"

  "I don't know what impression I was under. I didn't really consider that. I guess I just thought you'd see me paint and you'd agree that I should stay at your facility. I saw pictures of your gallery, and I know I could paint some things that would look good in there. You could hang them on that far wall next to the tapestries."

  He let out an uncontrollable chuckle like he thought I was cute. I glanced into the window of the bus station at Cindy, who was staring down at a magazine. I thought about needing to get her phone back to her and my whole situation in general. I let out a huff.

  "I'm not joking," I said defensively. "I could paint something that would look good there."

  "I didn't say you were joking, I just think it's cute that you have a spot picked out in the gallery," he said.

  "I do," I said. "And I know I can make something beautiful for it. I just assumed you'd at least meet me and let me show you that I'm telling you the truth, but obviously, it's more complicated than I expected."

  "Unfortunately it's a little more complicated than you expected. We only have thirty spots, and our tenants are all on two-year terms. We have a spot turning over next month, and we went through over a hundred applicants before we settled on the girl who got it. She graduated with a degree in Fine Arts from Columbia. There's an extensive application and interview process."

  He paused as if waiting for me to say something, but I couldn't. All I could do was cry. I turned to face the side of the building so no one could see me as my face contorted with tears. There was nothing I could do to stop the gasping breath of air from making a noise. I gasped as quietly as I could and then held my breath, begging myself to stop crying so I could say something to this guy.

  "Are you there?" he asked.

  I tried to say something, but the only sound that came from me was a high-pitched wheezing noise as I breathed in again.

  "Ms. Etheridge."

  "I'm fine," I squeaked. "It's fine. Everything's fine." I got a quick breath before another round of tears hit me. Hopelessness. Utter hopelessness.

  "Are you crying?"

  "It's not you," I said, lying. "I've been on a Greyhound for thirty hours and I have another twelve to go. I lost my Dad, and I left my hometown with sixteen hundred dollars. It was supposed to be two thousand, but the guy who bought my car only showed up with sixteen. He gave me his collection of random gift cards, which he claims add up to about two hundred dollars, but that's neither here nor there because I've yet to come across a Cinemark or a BestBuy on my travels. (gasp) I gave him the car, and took what he was offering me, because, what else was I supposed to do? We were at the bus station, and my ticket was already purchased. I was homeless in my own hometown, so I figured I might as well take the sixteen hundred and be homeless in New York." I paused and took a deep breath in an effort to stop gasping. "I'm sorry, I know it's really not your problem. I guess this is all pretty amusing to you or whateve
r, but I honestly thought I'd be able to come in and show you what I can do. (gasp) I really did think you'd just meet me and think that I have some gift. I know that's not how the world always works, but I honestly just thought it would happen in my case. (gasp) It's stupid, I guess. I don't even have any art supplies. I actually imagined that you'd have everything I needed waiting for me when I got there—like S&S would just swoop in and be exactly the place where I needed to stay. I get it that I was probably naïve—that there are people in line ahead of me with lots of portfolios or degrees or whatever. But I'm a painter way down in my bones. I know how to paint without anyone teaching me, and I'm pretty sure I could be great if I had some time to focus on it for a while. I thought that's what your place was about."

  "That is what we're about," he said.

  (Silence.)

  "Just not for those of us who didn't go to Columbia."

  (Silence.)

  "Do you have a portfolio? Any examples of your work?"

  "I sold everything before I left Texas," I said. "Everything I own is down to two duffle bags and my purse. Fran held on to a few boxes for me. She said she'd ship them once I got settled in. I just assumed I'd get a spot at Shower & Shelter. I guess I didn't know everyone was on two-year terms." I sighed. "I didn't really know how it worked, I guess."

  "I do have those spots coming open in January," he said. "I'd be willing to meet you and see what you can do if you want to be considered for one of them."

  "Tomorrow?" I asked. "Would that work? I get into town at 7am, so any time after 9 probably, since I'm not sure about traffic…"

  "I usually schedule interviews when the owner's in town, but I guess I can do it without him since this is more of a preliminary meeting."

  "So tomorrow?" I asked.

  "Tomorrow's fine," he said. There was a smile in his voice, but I didn't care that he found me amusing. I had no other choice but to give it my best shot.

  "What time?"

  "One o'clock?" he asked. "Do you need some paints?"

  "Please."

  "Oil? Acrylic? Watercolor?"

  "I've never used oil," I said.

  "I'll see what I can dig up, and we'll see you at one."

  "That's great," I said. "Thank you so much. I promise you're gonna be happy you gave me a chance. If I were you, I would give me a chance, and then I would be happy with myself afterward because it would have been the right thing to do."

  He laughed. "Well, I always look forward to being happy with myself."

  "What's your name?" I asked.

  "I'm sorry. I guess you need to know that. It's Lane."

  "Lane Alexander?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "I saw your name on the website."

  "I put it there," he said.

  "You made the website?" I asked.

  "Yep."

  "Do you do everything around there?"

  "With some help from a team, but yes, I oversee everything, if that's what you're asking. The owner is passionate about the place, but he travels a lot and spends a lot of time in Canada where he's from. I make sure everything runs smoothly."

  "Then you'll know about that empty space I was talking about near the tapestries. I'll show you what I was thinking about putting there."

  There was a few seconds of silence.

  "I would actually love it if you showed up here, and…" Lane paused and hesitated for several seconds as if thinking better of what he was about to say. "I'm looking forward to our meeting, Ms. Etheridge," he said, finally.

  "Zoe," I said. "It's spelled Z-O-E, like Zo, but you say it like it has a Y on the end."

  "I look forward to meeting you, Zoe spelled Z-O-E," he said.

  "I'm looking forward to meeting you too, Lane."

  "See you at one," he said.

  I smiled. "See you then."

  "Bye, Zoe."

  "Bye," I said. "Thank you!"

  I pressed the button to disconnect, grinning from ear to ear. I was anxious about going up against all those people who studied art in college, but I had no other choice but to keep believing in myself. If I didn’t believe I deserved a chance, then I certainly couldn’t expect anyone else to believe it. I promised Dad I'd go chase my dreams, and I intended to keep that promise and give it my best effort.

  I was still shaking as I went inside and handed Cindy her phone.

  "What'd they say?" she asked, smiling with wide eyes.

  "He said I'm gonna have to find a place to stay for a little while," I said, "because I can't move in till January."

  Chapter 3

  I got as much sleep as I could on the bus, but it was no easy task. I was a light sleeper, and it obviously wasn't the most comfortable of conditions. We made several stops, but I didn't have to change buses, so I stayed in my seat, dozing in and out of consciousness throughout the night.

  I woke up early that morning just as we were headed into the city. I was scared and exhausted, but most of all, I was excited. When I was a little girl, I used to imagine myself doing this exact thing, and it felt amazing that I was finally making it a reality.

  My dreams might not have included me being smelly, exhausted, basically broke, and on a bus. They might not have included those or any of the other speed bumps I had encountered, but it was New York City, and I was moving there. That's all that mattered.

  I had seen movies that were filmed in the city, and read scenes in books where the author described the sights and sounds, but nothing could have prepared me for being there.

  I understood the phrase concrete jungle in a whole new way. The city felt like a literal jungle to me… a pulsing, thriving jungle with new and interesting people and things for me to look at.

  I had been exploring all morning, and by the time I made it to Shower & Shelter that afternoon, I was exhausted and my neck and back were stiff and sore.

  I stood in the beautiful S&S gallery, feeling in awe of my surroundings. I got there fifteen minutes early and had been walking around, looking at all of the beautiful art. I still thought I could make something worthy of hanging next to all those pieces, but my confidence was waning a little as a result of being road weary and overwhelmed by the bigness of New York in general.

  I was in the process of stretching my neck by tilting my head from side to side when I heard a man's voice. "Zoe?" he asked.

  I turned to find two gentlemen, both of whom were young and nice looking. I had no idea which one of them had spoken to me, but I instantly stood up straighter in their presence. They had recently come in from outside, and I watched as they said something quietly to each other.

  The more casual looking one with long hair and a tie-dye shirt took off toward the center of the gallery, leaving the one who looked like a handsome Wall Street banker standing there, smiling at me. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, but it was ironed and tucked into his fitted slacks. His hair was neatly combed, and he had on a carefully selected belt and shoes combination.

  "I'm Lane," he said. He walked toward me with the sort of confidence and magnetism I never saw in the guys I knew back home, and I wondered if it was a big city thing, or if he was just different. He had dark hair and light eyes, and as he approached, I became more and more spellbound. I don't know what I expected from the man I spoke with on the phone, but it wasn't this. I glanced off to the side as we shook hands, because I could hardly stand to look straight at him. I found it difficult to breathe.

  "Zoe Etheridge?" he asked. Then, he repeated, "I'm Lane," because he wasn't sure if I had heard him.

  I nodded to let him know I was the Zoe he was looking for. I was wearing a smile, but I felt suddenly self-conscious. "I've been on the road," I said as a nervous way of explaining my appearance.

  "I know you have," he said. "I was surprised you wanted to meet today since you were just getting to town."

  I smiled. "I'm trying to get the ball rolling as quick as I can," I said. "I don't like to wait around on things; I get antsy. I've been in town for five hou
rs, and I already got a place to stay, made a friend, and got a job."

  "A place, a friend, and a job in five hours?" he asked. He smiled, and I had to glance away again.

  "It's just a convenience store, but I figured it was easier to find a job when you already have one, so I took it. It's the eleven to seven, but I can ring up groceries in my sleep, basically, so its no big deal." I smiled and shrugged. "It'll keep me from starving, and it's close to my hotel."

  "What's the eleven to seven?" Lane asked.

  "Eleven PM to seven AM," I said.

  "All night?" he asked with a perplexed look on his face. He started walking through the gallery, and I followed him.

  "Yes, all night," I said. "It's the third shift. I'm only working two or three nights a week, though."

  He glanced at me as we walked, and I smiled at him. "Is that safe?" he asked. "…Working the night shift?"

  I shrugged. "You tell me," I said. "I'm not the one who's from here."

  "I'm not from here, either," he said.

  "Where are you from?"

  "Maine."

  "The mitten?" I asked.

  "I think that's Michigan."

  "Yeah, but Maine's mitten-y, too."

  "I guess it is," he said.

  "Maybe it's the letter M," I said. "Maybe all states that start with M are mitten-shaped."

  "Mississippi's not," he said.

  "Mississippi could be," I said. "It's got that little thing sticking off the bottom of it."

  He laughed. "What about Montana, Minnesota, Missouri… Maryland?"

  "Oh, my gosh, are there seriously that many M states?" I asked, laughing.

  "I think there are like eight," he said. "Did we list eight?"

  We stood at the door to his office and ticked them off one by one, realizing that we had listed only seven. It took us a full minute of brainstorming to remember Massachusetts, and we walked into Lane's office, laughing at how victorious we felt when he finally thought of it.

  "I hope you don't mind," he said when we first stepped into his office. "I took the liberty of setting up a work station for you in here."