Time-Lapse by J.B. Heller
Chapter Nineteen
This exhibition will bethe death of me.
My eulogy will read: Eliza Quinn, died at age twenty-two from extreme stress induced by incompetent staff.
“You can’t put it there. It’s the center of the entire exhibition,” I tell Lorenzo, just one of the asshats who will be responsible for my early demise.
“How do you even know that? It’s still sealed,” he says with a roll of his apparently mesmerizing chocolate-brown eyes.
I’m about to bust a valve when my big brother walks in holding a tall macadamia latte and a brown paper bag that I’m assuming holds a toasted-to-perfection spinach and feta roll. The tension begins to drain from my body the closer he gets, and the aroma of the coffee reaches my nose.
I take a deep, steadying breath and return my focus back to Lorenzo. “Because it’s my job to know. Now wheel it over to the center platform, carefully.”
He walks away, pushing the trolley holding the centerpiece and muttering shit about me under his breath.
“Tough day?” Ben asks when he reaches me.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I accept the latte in his outstretched hand and take a deep inhale then a fortifying sip of the caffeinated nectar of the gods. The remaining tendrils of tension uncurl then slip away as my body hums with satisfaction.
Ben raises a brow. “You really should see someone about your substance abuse problem.”
I cradle the coffee between my breasts. “Don’t listen to him, baby. I’ll never leave you,” I tell the cardboard cup.
Shaking his head, he frowns down at me. “Pathetic. You have more feelings toward that inanimate object than you do toward any one of the male population who isn’t me, Dad, or Grandfather. Hell, at this point, I’m pretty sure Mom wouldn’t even mind if you brought a chick home.”
This again? I drop my head and breathe in the only scent that calms me these days. “Ben, I’m twenty-two, not thirty-two. And even if I was, it’s still a perfectly acceptable thing in this day and age for me to be single. I’m a strong-willed, independent woman. For some reason, men find that intimidating instead of attractive. That’s not my fault. I’d say it’s theirs.”
Before he can utter a response, I continue, “As for bringing a woman home, I’m not opposed. I haven’t met any that float my boat, if you know what I’m saying, but sure, I guess it could be an option.”
Touching the lid of my cup to my bottom lip, I think it over. It’s not such a bad idea. The last guy I slept with was less than stellar. In fact, it was downright disappointing. I think Hux spoiled me all those years ago. Nobody else has ever taken me to the heights he could.
Just thinking about him deflates my caffeine-induced high. I miss him. I’ve missed him every day for the last five years. The months after he left were some of the darkest I’ve ever experienced.
I do the only thing I can to shut down my current train of thought before I sink into the abyss that is missing Huxley Haynes. I repeat the mantra I’ve been using since he left to remind myself of what I am.
You’re stronger than one boy. You are a fucking dolphin in a sea full of catfish. You’re a catch, damn it!
Dolphins don’t need men. They screw around for a few days then move on. While I haven’t screwed around in quite some time, it is definitely more my style these days. Also, I like that dolphins have been recorded attacking sharks—another reason I have adopted it as my spirit animal.
Straightening my shoulders, I look back at my brother as if I didn’t just have a mini pity party for myself right in front of him, then I tilt my head to the side. “There better be a spinach and feta roll in that bag.”
He snorts and hands it over. “What can I say? I’m an enabler.”
I smile up at him. “And that’s why I love you,” I say with a wink. “You didn’t bring anything for yourself?”
“Not today. I, uh … I have a date, actually.”
My eyes widen. “You do? With who? Do I know her? Is she pretty? Will I like her?”
Ben laughs. “Umm, yeah, I do. Her name is Cleo. No, you don’t know her. She’s smokin’. And I hope so.”
“Good, now you may go.” I dismiss him with a quick peck on the cheek and start making my way toward the elevator that will take me to my office.
Once I’m back in the confines of my safe space, I sink down into the plush couch that faces the window and eat my lunch while I pull up my emails on my laptop. I have a new one from Bianca Markham, the chick I’ve been liaising with for the last three months while organizing the Moments of Beauty exhibition.
She’s flying in tomorrow afternoon with the photographer, Hadley, but he won’t be present when she comes to look over the layout before opening night on Friday. I suppose that doesn’t really matter. I was looking forward to meeting him after seeing his work, but it can wait till Friday.
I’ve only met with Bianca once before. And that was when she booked our gallery for the exhibition. She was super friendly and had a way about her that made it impossible not to like her.
I shoot a reply back to her, confirming the Mr. Mysterious and the Miss Orderly suites, as she requested when she found out that each of our suites have names.
My grandparents are quirky, to say the least. It wasn’t at all normal to give your rooms names instead of numbers when they decided to do it in their first little twenty-four-room motel. Now, they own their own chain of hotels across the country.
The Quinn Plaza hotels are a staple in most major cities. But only the suites carry names now since each hotel has a minimum of 350 rooms. Not even my grandmother could come up with that many names.
With my reply sent, I pull up my music app on my laptop and set it to play on random as I relax for a few minutes before I need to go back down to the gallery. Lorenzo, being a supposed feng shui guru, will probably have rearranged the entire layout of the exhibition by the time I return.
