#SoBasic

by Sara Celi

  Cincinnati weather was in transition, and that meant fifty-degree nights and sixty-degree days as the city marched closer to Easter and then to a full-on spring. All I needed was a light jacket, my iPhone, some music, and keys. When I returned after about forty-five minutes, I felt renewed and less upset with myself about the blatant white lies I’d earlier told my mom.

  And then my breath caught in my throat. James was pulling his truck into the parking lot. Mr. Mystery Man James.

  Keep calm, keep calm, keep calm.

  “How are you?” I called out in my most casual tone as I walked up the concrete steps to the front entrance of the complex. I made a strategic stop on the third step. “Everything good?”

  “I’m doing well.” He got out of the truck and locked it with his key fob. “And you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Just took a walk around the neighborhood,” I replied, then decided to omit that I’d picked up a side hustle for extra money. “It’s such a nice evening tonight.”

  He moved toward me. I stayed in place and struggled for something I could say that would continue the conversation. I knew nothing about this guy, but knew I wanted to keep talking to him. After all, his rainy-day rescue had been the one bright spot of my shit-tastic week.

  “How was the other night at Thompson’s?” I asked casually when he reached the bottom step.

  “It was good. My sister liked it a lot.”

  “Your sister?” My stomach twisted. Sister? I hadn’t considered that possibility. “I thought—”

  “What?”

  “That you were seeing her.”

  “Like that she was my girlfriend? No, far from it.” He shuddered, then smiled, and it made the skin around his eyes crinkle. I liked that—it highlighted his features and made him seem even more rugged.

  “My sister was visiting from Canton.” He laughed once. “She’s thinking of going to law school at UC and wanted to check out the city.”

  “I hope she liked it,” I said, wishing I was better at small talk. Why didn’t I get that gene?

  James shrugged and trotted up a few steps toward the front door. I followed him. “If she doesn’t, I’m sure she’ll find something else.”

  He walked through the front entrance, and I followed him, searching for something to add. Anything to keep this conversation flowing.

  “UC is a good school,” I tried. I had no idea if it was the truth, but who said that talking to a hot neighbor was easy?

  James stopped and turned back to me. “It is a good school. A great one. I did my undergrad there.”

  “You did? A bearcat, huh?” I pointed at the logo on his windbreaker. “And Gallery 29? Do you work there?”

  “Something like that.” He spread his left hand. “Well, I own it. Bought it last year.”

  “Really?”

  I’d never been there, but I’d heard Gallery 29 was a hip spot that often-hosted events and private parties, as well as exhibitions of avant-garde photography and some of the art world’s up-and-coming stars. Parties there often featured big crowds and landed photo gallery spreads on the city’s cultural websites. People liked to check-in there on Instagram too. Plus, most people would consider it a successful business …

  “You sound shocked,” James said.

  “Well, I am—I mean …”

  “I know I don’t look like the typical gallery owner, but that’s because we’ve been in the middle of some major renovations. I took over the place last fall, and it hadn’t been updated for the last five years or so. Gave it a whole new coat of paint, some new fixtures, new lighting …” He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. “It’s boring, I know.”

  “No, I don’t think it is.”

  It couldn’t have been any further from boring. Considering the conversation I had with my mother, it was almost perfect.

  “Well, good.” He tossed me a sheepish grin. “And if you’re interested, why don’t you swing by tomorrow around seven thirty? We’re having a reopening event. A party to celebrate the new look. We’ll have a few people there, some appetizers, wine … all of it complimentary. Nothing big, but if you’re not busy, you should come by.”

  Yes, yes, yes.

  “Okay,” I said, hoping my response wouldn’t sound too eager. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You can bring a friend if you like.” He paused. “Or your boyfriend.”

  “Oh, I don’t …” My cheeks warmed as I struggled to reply. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “You don’t?” He smiled. I couldn’t tell if it was a polite-interested smile, or an I-want-to-hit-on-you one, but either way, I liked it. “Bring one of your friends, then.”

  “Okay,” I breathed. “I will.”

  “Good. Should be a good time.”

  It would be for me. I’d get to ogle Mr. Mystery Man all night. No question at all. I’d be there.

  The pile of clothing in a heap on my bed represented over half the apparel I owned. For the last half hour, I’d tried on dozens of outfits, hoping to find something that struck the right tone, something that said “sexy” and “look at me” without seeming like I tried too hard. I’d also tried four different hairstyles based off YouTube tutorials. The messy catfish braid that hung over my shoulder looked the best so far.

  This was all so tricky. Very tricky.

  I was going to a gallery opening, and that made it all worse. Swing too far to one side, and I’d look like someone attending a charity ball. Go too far to the other side, and people would think I was dressed for a nightclub opening.

  Gotta get this one right, because there is something about James Newhouse that makes me determined to make the best impression.

  I glanced at the clock on my iPhone. Heather would be here in less than twenty minutes. After my conversation with James, I’d called her to see if she’d accompany me to the opening. It hadn’t been that hard of a sell. Heather would go anywhere for a good party.

  Two dresses lay to the side of the clothing pile. One, a thick floral dress with a ruffle on the bottom, had been a mainstay in my closet for a couple of years. I liked the way the dress fit my body, but it also felt tired and worn. The second dress had bright fabric covered with a layer of black lace. The cut also made me appear about five pounds slimmer.

  I settled on the second dress, knowing when paired with my cute black booties and gold bracelet it looked chic. I could do chic. Then, I turned to my hair. I wanted beachy waves, soft layering, and an overall look that said I wasn’t trying too hard, even though I most certainly was.

  I was putting foundation on my cheeks when Heather texted at seven twenty-five, saying she’d be at my apartment soon. When she arrived, she was ecstatic over my choice of dress. Good. I’d chosen wisely.

  “We have to put this on Instagram,” Heather said. “Like, right now. You look so hot. This might be the best outfit I’ve ever seen you wear.”

  “You look good too,” I replied, glad that I’d asked my best friend to come with me to the opening. We found the best lighting in my apartment, and she put her phone into selfie mode. The third photo we took turned out best.

  “You have to put it on the Social Kitten account.” Heather unlocked her phone and punched a few buttons. “There. Sent.”

  “Thanks, and I love that dress,” I replied. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

  “This old thing?” Heather twirled around, showing off her black sheath. “Totally vintage. I found it in the back of my closet and threw it on.”

  I laughed. We both knew better. Heather never did anything without express deliberation. I could learn a lot from her, she was always more pulled together than I was.

  “Are you ready?” She flipped her curly brown hair. “Still can’t believe this hot neighbor of yours is the new owner of Gallery 29.”

  “I know, right? Going out like this is just what I need,” I said as we walked toward Heather’s Lexus, which she’d parked in front of the apartment. We could have walked to the party from here, but Heat
her had texted me earlier that she wanted to “arrive in style” and take advantage of the complimentary valet. “Maybe things are turning around.” A small laugh escaped my lips at the thought. “Funemployment not unemployment, right?”

  “You know it.” She gave me a fist bump. “I’m telling you, friend. What happens next is all about your attitude.”

  Gallery 29 was impressive. I might not have seen the original layout, but even I could tell that James and his team had gone all-out when it came to updating the place. The crisp, clean decor lines could have come straight out of any leading space in SoHo or Greenwich Village, and the perfect lighting showed off the myriad of photography on display.

  As part of the reopening, the space had secured an exhibition of pop art from Thaddeus Sherry, a provocative Los Angeles-based photographer known for photographing his subjects in condiments, as well as a series of photos that showed the destruction of various articles of designer clothing. Sherry was signing copies of his book in the corner, and a line of patrons snaked in front of him.

  I scanned the crowd. As I did, I worked to memorize a few details about Sherry I’d read on an information card near the gallery entrance. Thirty-four. Most famous for a provocative Rolling Stone cover featuring two women in a bathtub made of chocolate. “So, um … how many people do you think are here right now?”

  “Maybe two hundred fifty?” Heather sipped some white wine. “Enough to make a serious impression. If they want to be the dominant showroom in the city, then they are making a good run on it.” She waved at a woman who’d just arrived through the front door. As that lady took off her coat, she gave Heather an obligatory head nod. “Louise Pullman,” Heather whispered, answering my silent question. “One of my mom’s friends from the club.”

  She meant country club, but she didn’t specify which one. Once, she’d told me her parents had three memberships.

  “Louise Pullman?” I asked. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  “Oh, she’s around town. Does this and that.” Heather raised a sculpted, perfect eyebrow, part of a pair that were much darker than the rest of her brown hair. “Very involved in the opera and at the Museum Center. Gives away a lot of money. All of the standard things.”

  “Right, that’s what it is.” I didn’t bother to tell Heather how much her version of “standard things” differed from mine. Instead, I made a mental note of Pullman’s name in case I would need it later during my ongoing job search. Never could be too sure when a contact might come in handy. Especially considering I’d glanced at my checking account app on the way to the opening and cringed at the dwindling balance. I needed to find another job, and soon.

  Funemployment, Margot. Funemployment. Try to say calm.

  “She looks like she’s lost some weight.” Heather’s attention darted over to Louise and then back to me. “I’m going to take this opportunity to speak to her.”

  “Can I come along?”

  “Maybe you can go talk to James, since you haven’t yet.” She grinned. “You’re dying to approach him. Admit it.”

  “I know, but—”

  “That’s why we’re here, remember?” Heather blinked at me. “Because the last I checked, he’s your sexy neighbor, not mine.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at James. Since we’d arrived, I’d watched him weave in and out of the crowd, circulating with well-heeled clients and people who had money to spend on an art piece that may or may not retain its value.

  And he did this while looking hot.

  No, scratch that. He did all this while looking gorgeous.

  James wore a pair of dark pants, a grey blazer, and an open-collar white shirt. Once again, he’d tied his hair back in a low ponytail. It wouldn’t have been a remarkable outfit, but I found something particularly alluring about the way he wore the clothing—it didn’t wear him.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Stop.” Heather put her hand on my shoulder. “Stop psyching yourself out and go talk to him. He invited us here. He needs to know you appreciate that, at least.”

  “Except …” I sighed. “You’re right.”

  “Go,” Heather said. “Now.”

  “But, I—”

  “Now, Margot.”

  She was right. I took a final drink of my wine, placed the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and approached James. He was talking to an older couple and as soon as he saw me, his face brightened.

  “Glad to see you made it tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.” I smiled, and a burst of energy pushed through me. This guy was cool, and I wanted to spend more time with him. “Though it doesn’t seem like you had to worry about attendance.”

  “James? Worry about something like that?” the woman next to him replied. “Never.”

  The couple laughed together, and then the man added, “We love Gallery 29, and what you’ve done with the place. Such a step up.”

  “Thank you.” James motioned to me. “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, this is my neighbor, Margot—”

  “Leesman. I’m Margot Leesman.”

  “That’s right.” James gestured between us. “Margo, the Andersons were some of my first clients when I took over the gallery.”

  “We bought a Knightsbridge from him,” Mr. Anderson added. “And a few other pieces.”

  I had no idea what a Knightsbridge was, but I nodded as if I did. And I made another mental note, this time to look up Knightsbridge and other famous contemporary artists. If I wanted to impress James, I better know a few of them. “That’s fantastic. What a good choice. And I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise. I’m sure James has as good of taste in friends as he does in art. Speaking of which, I would like to see one of the pieces in the other room,” Mrs. Anderson said as she placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “We’ve been talking so long that I haven’t had a chance to look.”

  Mr. Anderson agreed with her, and they said their goodbyes. Once they were out of earshot, James turned back to me. A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  “So, did you really have so few other plans tonight that my gallery opening topped your list?”

  “Well, I’m always in the market for fine art.” Nothing could have been further from reality, and I chewed on my bottom lip to keep from laughing aloud and the absurdity. “Especially modern pieces.”

  “And what do you like about Thaddeus Sherry’s work?”

  I gulped. “Well, I loved his Billboard magazine cover.” I racked my brain for the facts I’d committed to memory. “The one with the caramel.”

  A loud chuckle escaped James’s lips. “You mean Rolling Stone?” He raised his left eyebrow. “And the chocolate? That one?”

  Heat raced to my checks. Oh God, leave it to me to screw this up. Fix it … fix it … “Yes, um … that one,” I managed. “The Rolling Stone cover. So aggressive and visionary.”

  He shook his head a few times and laughed to himself. “I’m sure you feel that’s the case, Margot.”

  Despite my utter embarrassment, a chill ran through my body as he said my name. I liked how it sounded on his lips.

  “It is.” The electric thrill of anticipation curled my toes. “I’d love to add one of his pieces to my collection.”

  “Collection, huh? I’ll have to see it sometime.”

  “Yes.” I doubted he believed I had anything close to one, but I pressed onward and placed my hand on the edge of a nearby cocktail table to keep from falling over. “You will.”

  James grinned, and his smile unnerved me. This man was like a storybook character, as if someone had merged a handsome knight with the rugged woodcutter. “Regardless of your motivations, I’m glad came tonight.” He took two glasses of champagne from the tray of a nearby waiter. “How about a toast?”

  “Of course, but not to me.” I took the fresh glass from him, careful to hold it at the stem, so I could send the silent signal to him and everyone around us that I had good breeding. No missteps allowed,
especially not in front of a man I wanted desperately to impress. It was as though in losing my job, I lost all self-confidence with it. Well, it felt that way anyway. “To you. And to all of the work you’ve put into this place.”

  “Thanks.” James raised his champagne flute, clicked it with mine, and drank a long sip. I followed his lead. “That’s nice to hear. Believe it or not, I’ve basically risked everything I own to do this.”

  I cocked my head. “You did?”

  “I left my job, took out a huge loan against myself, sold my house, and financed the rest on my credit cards so I could buy this gallery. It wasn’t easy.” He paused. “I had about six months to raise the money, so I had to cut down on my expenses. And that’s how I ended up in the apartment.”

  I was in awe of this guy, this man who’d just told me he had conviction and commitment that he wasn’t afraid to act on, even if it meant taking on an incredible risk. What an admirable quality, and something I knew I could use more of in my own personality. I sipped some more wine and willed my nerves to keep from fraying.

  “Wow. After all of that, you should be proud of yourself.” I glanced around the room. “Proud of this. I would be.”

  “I’m mostly hopeful. Pretty much the only way to be with so much riding on what happens next here.” He surveyed the gallery, which continued to grow with more party guests. “Nights like this make it seem like the decision was worth it. We might make it past year two, into year three. That would be a miracle.”

  “You’ll make it.”

  His attention turned back to me. “You sound so sure of that, Margot.”

  “I am.”

  “Glad one of us is.”

  My cheeks grew warm again, and I glanced at the floor. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me tonight. I was”—I laughed once and shook my head— “I needed a distraction like this.”

  James drank to the rest of his champagne. “Why?”

  “I …” I laughed again without humor as I thought about the absurdity of my life. “Where do I begin?” I took a deep breath. “Probably with the worst part. I lost my job on Monday. For the first time, ever. I … I was fired.”