Yours to Bare Read online

  Especially with a camera.

  My attention snags on a white paper cup left on a covered table. Printed on the side is Lait Noir’s black logo, the café where I found the journal. It isn’t far from here, but it’s not the closest café to this gallery.

  Someone picks it up. White-blonde, nude-lipped, and dressed in head-to-toe black, her fingers wrap around the thick middle of the cup. She has short, dark nails and milk-white skin. I study her as she studies one of the photographs.

  She’s put together. Classy. Not the torn-up soul I’d pictured with dark hair and eyebrows to hang over her frown. There’s no stoop in her posture from carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Maybe it isn’t her. I step closer to the window and try to get a better look at her eyes just as she turns them down from the exhibit. She balances her coffee in the crook of her arm and scribbles on a notepad.

  She’s writing.

  My body warms, a conditioned response to her pen on paper. I salivate for her words. What about the photograph in front of her is worth noting? Was I wrong to call it bland? I want to know what she thinks.

  She travels along the wall, squints, scratches behind her ear. She sips her coffee. People stop her to say something that makes her smile. I don’t want to look at her body—it was her words that got me here—but I can’t help myself. As she talks, she gestures, and her breasts bounce. They’d be big enough for my hands, and I’ve been told I have some serious paws. She’s got a small waist, great legs, blonde hair that hangs long and layered down her back. I lick my lips.

  She flips the notebook shut and shoves it in her purse while nodding at the person speaking. When she shifts, I shift. A man shakes her hand, and she excuses herself. She heads outside, toward me, and before I even know what’s happening, she’s pushing out the gallery door and standing two feet away. Inhaling deeply, she leans back against a patch of brick wall between the window and the door, just enough to shade her. She turns her eyes to the stars.

  “I already checked,” I say. “It’s too light out.”

  She flinches, barely glancing over. “You mean too dark?”

  “Mmm, no,” I say. “If it were pitch dark, you’d be able to see them—the stars. But all this light . . .” I nod through the nearby window. “Enjoying the show?”

  She doesn’t respond at first, then says, “Yes. Very much. Which one’s yours?”

  “I’m not one of the artists. Thankfully.”

  “Oh. I saw your camera and assumed . . .” She finally stands up straight and squints at me. “What do you mean ‘thankfully’?”

  “I haven’t been inside, but they’re crap from what I can see.”

  “Crap? That’s somebody art in there.”

  It could easily be my work on those white walls, but if this is my poetess standing in front of me, she writes to move people, and these photos wouldn’t budge a feather. “It’s just my opinion.”

  She steps a little closer. “And who are you?”

  “Just a passerby,” I murmur, feasting on this hard-earned moment of intimacy. She’s younger than I thought. All that black clothing and studied posture made her look around my age, thirty-three, from a distance, but she’s not even thirty. I try to see her eyes again, but again, she’s not looking at me.

  “I should get back inside,” she says.

  “No.”

  “What?”

  Shit. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Trying to cover up my command, I sniff. “I mean, weren’t you leaving?”

  She shakes her head.

  “So why’d you come out here?” I ask, hoping conversation is a better tactic for getting her to stay than blurting things out.

  “I needed a cigarette.”

  I remember the December sketch. Colorless hair. Smoker. I’m getting warmer. She makes no move to get a pack out, so I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.”

  “Me neither.”

  A smoker without a cigarette, a seemingly nice girl without her naughty journal. Now that I’m closer, I see her better. Her brand of blonde is stark. It almost matches the color of her eyes, a steely shade of gray that might even be ice blue. It’s hard to tell in the absence of light. In the shadow she’s under, they’re just smooth like glass, the calm before a storm.

  I’ve found her. It’s her journal I have, her words I possess. I’m the current owner of her thoughts. But what to do with this information?

  “So, you’re obviously a photographer,” she says, glancing at the camera around my neck, which I’ve taken to keeping close like a security blanket. “Have I seen your work?”

  “No. I’ve never shown anywhere.”

  “Is it any good?”

  I don’t know what to say. If you want to be a successful artist, especially in this city, you’d better believe your shit is good. I spent ten months after graduating from NYU trying to make it before my father-in-law shipped me off to business school. That, plus this past year, is the whole of my struggling-artist experience. I haven’t managed even a rejection letter from the major galleries. So far, it’s been jobs like senior class photos, real estate listings, and Upper East Side dog photography.

  Yes, I took headshots of a poodle.

  I shrug. “It’s my work.”

  She hands me her coffee and sets her purse on the ground with a thump. When she bends over to rummage through it, I look right down her blouse. Her bra is fire-engine red, and a siren call to my dick. That’s more what I expected to find in her, some attitude.

  It hits me that she’s getting out a business card. Good. That’s a socially acceptable way to learn more about her.

  But when she stands back up, she just has her notepad in hand again. She hoists her bag over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you.”

  I’m not ready for goodbye—I haven’t even said hello. “Wait,” I say, but she hasn’t made a move to leave. “Can we exchange cards?”

  She scratches her elbow. “Um.”

  No response? I’ll take that as a yes. I pull out my card, a little miffed I haven’t updated it as I’ve been meaning to. I don’t care about finding work right now, I just want her to reciprocate. I hold it out. “Finn Cohen.”

  She glances at it before sliding it from my hand. In the next few seconds, she studies my face. “Thanks. I left mine at home. On purpose. Sorry.”

  Damn. I rub my chin. “How come?”

  “People are always trying to use me at these things. Maybe that’s what you’re doing—”

  Use her? I don’t even know her. “I’m not.”

  She pauses. “I believe you. Anyway.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t throw it.”

  I try to figure out if she’s joking or serious. We smile at the same moment. She opens her mouth, but I never get to hear what she says.

  “There you are,” a man says from the doorway.

  She glances over. He’s shadowed, but he wears a suit and looks around our age.

  “I have to go,” she says without looking at me. “Good luck with your stuff.”

  I go to call her back. With the kind of heart she poured into the pages of her journal, she must miss it. The journal, maybe the heart too. But the man puts his arm around her and takes her back inside.

  Forget her, she’s not yours, you’re not enough.

  She isn’t who I’d pictured. She’s too put together—composed, without scars or mascara streaks or coal-colored hair. I expected storm clouds overhead, fidgeting fingers, lyrics in her movements.

  Then again, what the fuck do I know?

  I once expected an audible click when fate kicked in.

  Sparks.

  Ignition.

  Fireworks.

  Like the time I stepped out of my apartment, met eyes with 6B across the hall, and lost my heart to my stomach.

  But I’d been wrong about Sadie.

  Am I wrong now?

  Could I be misreading this girl? On the outside, she’s clean lines and smooth curves.
But then, the calm before the storm can be more unnerving than the storm itself. Is that who she is?

  Or is she red lingerie, ice-gray eyes and fake cigarettes?

  I walk away, and she’s all I think about on my way home. Whether I was supposed to find her . . . or if fate is warning me to leave it alone. I should listen. Maybe it’s best this spark doesn’t ignite. Because fireworks can explode in your face—and it fucking hurts.

  Even if you’re expecting it.

  3

  Six simple words.

  Did anyone turn in a journal?

  I repeat them to myself as I cross the busy street to Lait Noir. I should’ve stopped for coffee on my way to get coffee. Situations that make a heart beat this hard should not be tackled without caffeine. Through the café window, I see a woman at the exact table where the book fell out of my bag. I’ve been back every morning since I lost it, and it isn’t there. Which means it’s most likely behind the counter. I just have to ask.

  Inside the café, I remove my mittens and get in line. There are enough people in front of me to give me time to prepare.

  I wasn’t going to ask. Once I realized it was gone, I convinced myself it was a good thing. The girl in the journal is dark, depraved, a fraud. She’s someone I’ve worked hard to bury, but for some reason, she continues to come out through my words. Why can’t I let this one piece of my former self go?

  I move forward in line. Pete throws me a wave from behind the register, and my throat dries. Last night, after the City Still Life show, I was restless. Rich noticed, asked if I needed anything.

  It might’ve been my encounter with the handsome, quiet photographer—Finn. He looked at me like he was trying to read my thoughts through my eyes. I’m not used to being seen that way; I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I wanted to stay and find out, but that desire alone made me wary.

  Or maybe it finally hit me that my journal was somewhere out there by itself, and that I’d never see years’ worth of work again. Bad work, in more ways than one, but still mine. As Rich and I rode away from the show, all I wanted to do was go home, put my feelings on the page as I normally would, and close the book on them.

  The customer in front of me steps aside, and suddenly, it’s just me and Pete. And the five people in line behind me. And the female barista who only scowls.

  “One coffee, black as my heart, coming right up,” Pete says with a grin.

  I hand him exact change. “Thanks.”

  “How’s your morning, Halston?” he asks, popping open the register.

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Let’s just say my winter-white Tom Ford pants that’re as expensive as they sound were not made for this job.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve warned you before about wearing designer clothing to work.”

  “And let Tom Ford waste away in a closet that couldn’t house a Chihuahua? Please. Anyway, I hear coffee stains are so trendy, nobody’s even talking about them yet.”

  I smile, but I don’t feel at ease. My stomach cramps as I try to force the words to the surface.

  Did anyone turn in a journal?

  The person behind me sighs.

  “So, what’s so good about your morning?” Pete asks over his shoulder as he fills my cup.

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns with the coffee and grabs a lid. “It’s just, every day I ask you how it’s going, and you always say good, no matter what.”

  I blink at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Most of the time, but not every day. Sometimes there’s snow or tourists to battle or some days, people just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I hear it all. But not you. Do you ever have a bad day?”

  I don’t know how to answer. Everybody has bad days. I just don’t experience them often—or great days, either. Some might call that boring, but it’s a form of self-preservation. I don’t handle highs and lows like the average person, so I do what I have to do to stay even. “I guess I’m just a generally happy person.”

  Or, I’ve gotten help in that department so long, it’s basically the truth.

  “That’s nice,” he says, sliding the cup across the counter. “I can’t even imagine a day without all hell breaking loose.”

  I glance at the coffee. This is the perfect job for social Pete. Having gotten to know him through my daily visits the last year, I’m fairly certain he likes some chaos in his life. To me, he’s the one who seems happy. I’m just getting by as best I can.

  This is the perfect opening to ask about the lost and found. In fact, I do have difficult days, and that’s why the journal is necessary. I take a breath. “Pete—”

  “Are you two going to chat all morning?” a woman in line asks.

  Pete ignores her. “What’s up, babe? You finally going to try one of my famous scones? On the house. First hit’s free.”

  I envision the journal sitting right between us, underneath the counter. I doubt Pete’d hesitate to open someone’s private diary if it caught his interest. He’s nosy like that. What if he was disgusted? Or showed it to perma-scowl and they found it offensively bad? Worse . . . what if they laughed? It wouldn’t be the first time. In eighth grade, I wrote and performed a poem for drama and stupidly chose the topic of sex. I could barely hear myself over the snickering. The teacher sent a note home to my parents.

  If I ask Pete for my journal and he returns it to me, I have to assume he read it. And perma-scowl too. I could never show my face in here again. I need my journal, but I need this routine too. I pick up my coffee and wait for Pete to finish boasting about his scone recipe. “Not today,” I say when he’s done. “But thanks anyway.”

  “See you later for a refill?” he asks.

  “Maybe.” I wave on my way outside.

  Instead of heading down to the subway, I decide to walk to work. I’m not good with nervous energy. I rarely get anxious anymore, my dad has seen to that, but when my regular coping methods aren’t enough, I write. I put it all in the journal so I can function properly, do my job, play the roles I’m supposed to and fall asleep at night without dark thoughts creeping in. My words come from a corner of my mind I don’t like to shine light on, but sometimes I need to. Not for anyone other than myself to see, though.

  I dial the agency to check in with my assistant.

  “Halston Fox’s line,” Benny answers.

  “It’s me. Is Rich at the office?”

  She hums. “Gee, you could just call him yourself.”

  I half roll my eyes. “I want to come in late, but he gets all judgey when I do.”

  “You can’t. Your dad just called a meeting upstairs. That’s where Rich is headed, and that’s where you need to be in fifteen minutes.”

  Damn. It doesn’t really matter if I’m late—that’s one of the advantages to being the boss’s daughter—but I don’t like to give my dad or Rich excuses for a lecture. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  I hang up, step off the curb, and stick my hand out for a cab. Despite the sun shining bright, it’s still a crisp December day. I wedge my coffee in one elbow and dig in my handbag for my mittens. Before I get them, my phone’s daily reminder rings. I abandon the gloves and get my meds from the side pocket. I don’t normally take them in public, so I hide the bottle in a fist to unscrew the cap.

  A taxi swerves over, disturbing a flock of pigeons. When a bird nearly wings me in the face, I throw my arms up, dumping pills all over the street.

  Shit shit shit.

  “In or out,” the cabbie yells.

  The alarm continues to ding. A couple people stop on the sidewalk. “Do you need help?” someone asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say automatically. Little white tablets are scattered on the pavement in a chalky constellation. The only way this moment could get more embarrassing is if I get on my hands and knees to retrieve a bunch of happy pills.

  I leave them to hop in the car. “Fourteenth and Fifth,” I tell the driver.

  Before we’ve even pulled away from t
he curb, I touch my fingers to the inked feather behind my ear. My mother’s the only person I knew who actually liked pigeons. She insisted birds could love and be loved. For a second, I think I can feel my pulse there, my hammering heart.

  Could the birds have been a message from her? If so, what does it mean?

  She’d had post-partum depression for a few months after I was born. I hadn’t even known until my dad told me following a client meeting where he’d had too many drinks. But once Mom had come out of it, that was it, according to him. Cured. I’ve wondered many times how she would’ve felt about the meds. If the birds are any indication, not supportive. But she isn’t here, is she? I make a mental note to see if I have a back-up stash at home.

  On the top of my purse, sitting precariously close to the edge, is Finn’s card. I pick it up, relieved it didn’t fall out. Why? I don’t intend to do anything with it. Do I? God, he was attractive—taller than anyone I’ve ever dated, but with an almost gentle demeanor. Almost. There was that moment he tried to tell me no. Another where he absentmindedly ran a hand through his golden-brown hair, fisting it with a big, paw-like hand.

  And his lips. Rust-colored and a step beyond kissable. Fuckable? Can lips be fuckable?

  That man’s could.

  I blush, even though I’m alone, and tuck the card into a side pocket. He’s out of my league anyway, and those are the kinds of thoughts reserved for my journal.

  Since only some of my coffee spilled out of the top, I drink what’s left. My walk might’ve been cut short, but at least I have my coffee. I calm down as its familiar taste coats my tongue. I have to forget about the journal. It was a way to distract myself when I needed escape, and I have others. I’ve tried to get rid of them before. Maybe losing that journal is a nudge to move on, another sign from Mom.

  It takes a second to register the loss, but when I do, sadness overwhelms me. I let it. I’m alone for the next eight or so minutes, so I can feel whatever I want without judgment. Some days it’s as though just having the journal keeps me functioning, but I know that’s not true. It takes more than that to maintain my sanity. Not having the journal doesn’t change anything. If I won’t go outside my comfort zone to find it, it must not be that important, right?