Joe

The loading dock is flooded with morning sun as the delivery guys haul the giant wooden crate on skids. I just stand off to the side with my arms folded, supposedly supervising but really just trying to stay out of the way. My main function is to witness anything that might go wrong, so I can make statements to the insurance company.

Last night’s rain floats up from the alley in clouds, catching the sunlight and turning to golden mist. If it weren’t for the fact this is a filthy alley in midtown Manhattan, it could easily be mistaken for a setting in a painting. Fairies or heroes could step out from these brick doorways. Maybe a cherub should float by on one of these clouds.

“Just sign here,” one of the guys says to me, holding out a clipboard and a pen.

I gesture toward the gallery door with my elbow, not even bothering to uncross my arms.

“I can’t sign for that until it’s on the floor, sorry,” I shrug.

He raises his eyebrows briefly, then sort of tips his head to one side as though trying to catch my eye. I’m not in the mood. I’m sure he’s handsome enough—I caught sight of him under one of those glorious shafts of sunlight just a couple of minutes ago—but I seriously cannot even consider forcing myself to return eye contact with him right now. It’s probably not safe… for either of us.

“Yeah… Okay,” he finally mutters. “Hank! We gotta drag this into the gallery!”

I shuffle behind them, taking slow steps on my feet which still ache from last night. Today I’ve got on a pair of soft ballet flats, but it’s still pretty tough to walk around the blisters I gave myself in the rain. Normally I would think those peep-toe heels were totally worth it, but today…

And again, I’m flooded with that sick feeling of shame and humiliation. Didi was totally out of line. I can’t believe she would turn on me like that, but I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve known that she was tipsy when I got there, and I should’ve seen that evil glint in her eye.

Her mom used to get that same glint when she would start on the Jack Daniels before we got home from school. More than once we came in the front door, still laughing or griping about something from our school day, when Didi’s mom would show up in the hallway. She’d be leaning heavily against the doorjamb with that glint in her eye, ready to call us out on what we were wearing, how we were talking, pretty much anything about us.

So I should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t. I did promise her that we would go out, and stupidly, I promised to get drunk. But I assumed that was just sort of a joke. I didn’t realize she was going to hold it over my head all night.

And I certainly didn’t realize what was coming.

No, I’ve never had an orgasm. It’s not something I generally tell people, although it’s not something I’m particularly ashamed about either. I’ve had sex before. I’ve had pretty decent sex, I think. And I suspect that this earth-shattering experience she tends to go on and on about is exaggerated just to make me feel bad.

Maybe I’m just not made that way. I’ve read studies that say that a full third of women don’t have orgasms. Walking down the street, it doesn’t look like a third of women are hobbling around like unsatisfied zombies or anything. Somehow they manage to run corporations and families. Maybe Didi is just kind of a jerk.

I love her, but man, she really goes for the throat sometimes.

“I’m an asshole,” comes a quiet voice behind me.

My stomach instantly tightens, filling with acid. I hesitate for a moment and coach myself to just be nice, don’t say anything I will regret because she’s leaving, and we will figure out a way to sort this all out when she comes back.

But when I finally force myself to turn around, I am taken aback. She smiles sheepishly at me and shrugs her shoulders over the padded supports of a pair of crutches. Looking down, I see the cast that extends from just over her knee to her red-painted toenails.

“My leg,” she explains.

“You broke your leg? As in, your actual leg?”

“Yeah…” she winces. “Sort of had an incident with a very tall curb and a very drunk Didi.”

“Jesus… That sucks,” I reply, trying to assemble this new information alongside my perfectly justifiable anger.

Somehow, every time I start out angry at her I always end up feeling sorry for her.

“It does suck… But I’ll be okay. Are we still okay?”

She looks up at me, practically batting her eyelashes. Her expression is sincere and full of remorse, but it’s not like I’ve never seen that before.

“Whatever,” I sigh. “You were just drunk.”

“Yeah, but what I said… I mean I should never—”

I hold up a hand to silence her. I don’t want to hear the words again.

“Okay, fine,” she mumbles, defeated. “Just know that I really am sorry.”

“Didi?” comes a voice from the gallery door.

We both stand up a little straighter as Martha Adler enters the loading dock. Sharp as a dart in a form-fitting, matte-black dress, she sweeps her gaze over Didi from top to bottom with one eyebrow arched almost to her hairline.

“I’m totally fine!” Didi chirps unconvincingly. “I just needed to grab my other portfolio from the office.”

Martha’s lips disappear into a straight line. “You are not totally fine. You are broken.”

“It’s just a fracture,” Didi explains.

I can see the light blue veins around her eyes and wonder if she got to sleep at all last night.

“I suppose I could find some office work for you to do here,” Martha continues, not really addressing Didi directly at all. “In the back, of course. One of the offices.”

“Wait, what?” Didi asks, confused. “I have a flight to catch, Martha. I’ve got an Uber in like ten minutes.”

Martha swings her gaze to me, pinning me in place like a butterfly on a specimen board.

“You’ll need to go,” she announces.

My mouth goes dry. “Go?” I repeat pointlessly.

“Didi will have your tickets ready at the airport,” Martha says, pressing her lips and blinking several times with her long, magnetic eyelashes casting just a slight breeze. “All the renovation should be done… Shipments are all scheduled. Just finish what Didi already started.”

“Wait! I’m ready!” Didi objects. “I can go! It’s fine!”

But Martha’s already gone, back into the gallery with her stiletto heels clacking on the concrete floor like abbreviated gunfire reports.

“Jesus Christ,” Didi whimpers, looking around frantically.

I can feel how upset she is, but I can’t seem to bring myself to focus my attention on her. Martha just announced that I’m going to the exact place I just said I didn’t want to go. Willowdale, Florida. My hometown.

Didi sniffles dramatically.

“Okay, so… Just tell the Uber driver to go by your place and pick up your clothes. Just pack fast. The flight leaves at noon, so I suppose you technically have plenty of time. You can do it, but hurry.”

I grind my teeth, trying to keep all the words safely inside my mouth. I can’t say anything right now. Not anything at all.

“It’s the old hat shop, you remember it? All you have to do is get the paintings hung and hold the opening, okay? Maybe… a couple other things. A few. I’ll email you details about the budget and stuff. You should have a company credit card already, right?”

My head is swirling. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Joe?” she repeats, but her voice seems to be getting farther away. “Are you listening to me? You have a company card and everything? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Yes, I understand what she’s saying. I can’t believe it, but every word is understood.

I’m going home, and there’s nothing I can do about it.