I’m not sure if the sigh I let out is out of relief or pain.

Chapter 14

MIA

A full two weeks go by without me or Dean addressing one another. I’ve learned that he works between the hours of six and four—Where? I don’t know—so I do my best to set my alarm for eight. At two, I make sure I’m on my way to a café or a park to fill out a job application, and I try not to come home until nine so I can sleep until eight and do it all over again.

The few times that we’ve run into each other in the kitchen or the living room, we’re avoiding looking directly at each other, and whenever we cook, we don’t share. Unlike Eric who cooks enough for all three of us whenever he makes a meal, when I cook, it’s just for me (I do take some to Eric at Sea of Ink on his lunch break) and when Dean cooks, it’s just for him.

I’m hoping to make it through this arrangement until I get a job and save up enough money so I can move out. And from the prices I’ve seen on condos and houses here, it would take double what I currently have in my savings to get someplace decent, so it may take me quite a while to get to that point.

When my alarm goes off on Wednesday morning, I quickly fill out my final online application for an art gallery and decide to attempt a more personal approach for the day.

Armed with a map of the entertainment district and a few printouts of my resume, I slip into the city and pull out the list of galleries that didn’t have applications directly on their website.

I walk half a mile to the first gallery—Le Soire Le Blanc, and tuck my map into my purse. I take a deep breath and smile as I open the door.

“May I help you with something, Miss?" A woman dressed in black, immediately greets me from behind a podium.

"Yes, I'm Mia Gray." I extend my hand. “I was hoping to see the lead collector. I have a few questions.”

She doesn't make a move to shake my hand at all. Her eyes travel up and down my body, making me question whether I made the right decision in wearing black slacks, a pink button down and blazer, and matching ballet flats.

“You were saying, Miss?” She purses her lips. “We don't entertain or allow solicitors here, if that’s what you’re here for.”

I square my shoulders under her disdainful stare and keep my smile on full display. "I’m not selling anything," I say, trying to keep my resolve. "I'm actually new to the city and I’m searching for some place to further my art career. I’m wondering if you all were looking for a curator, or an intern? I’m open to anything."

She blinks.

"I have my resume here, if you want to take a look." I pull it out of my bag and hold it out for her, but she doesn't take it.

Instead, she calls over her shoulder. "Mr. Shaw! Mr. Shaw, can you come down here, please?"

Within seconds, a grey haired man in an impeccable blue suit descends the spiral staircase, looking back and forth between us both.

"Yes, Miss Lockwood?"

"This..." She shakes her head and points at me. "This person came wandering in from the street, asking about a job. Do we have a 'Now Hiring' sign on our front window that I don't know about?"

"Not that I know of.” He smiles. “No, we don't."

"Do we have a Job Listing Page on our website with open positions? And if we do, does it say, ‘Feel free to come on in wearing department store clothing, and thrusting your ineptitude upon us in the middle of our lunch?"

"No." He smirks, crossing his arms. "We don't have that either."

"So..." She narrows her eyes at me and taps her lip, stepping toward the door. "What do you think we would tell someone who just wandered in from the street with an outdated and unimpressive resume? Do you think we should tell her to come back when we're actually hiring? When she's done her research? Or do you think we should just say nothing and simply hold the door for her to figure it out?"

"I personally like the second option." He clasps his hands in front of him. "It seems more direct and official. Don't you think?"

"Absolutely," she says, holding the door wide open. "Hopefully, she'll get the point before our lunch hour is over and we can spend the rest of our day dealing with people who actually belong here..."

“Yes, you’re right.” I return my resume to my folder. “I would totally feel out of place with a woman who clearly enjoys being a bitch and a man who’s too much of a sloth to think for himself.”

“Excuse me?” she says, her jaw dropped.

“And I’m sorry my clothes aren’t from Chanel or Kate Spade, but...” I take a step forward and boldly tug at the sleeve of her jacket. “I also own this exact jacket you’re wearing. Got it from Target on a Black Friday sale.” I give them “Fuck you both” smiles before stepping outside, their stunned expressions still radiating on my trail as the door slams shut right behind me.

I don't bother looking over my shoulder at them.  I don't let myself feel bad for one second either.

I keep walking and find the next gallery.  Keep getting the same results.

Either all of the art galleries in this city are run by people with huge sticks up their asses and a vendetta against non-designer clothes, or I’m going to need to pursue my passion elsewhere.

As I approach the last gallery on my list—The Hamilton Array, I debate whether I should go inside or not. Unlike all the other galleries, there is indeed a "Now Hiring" easel standing outside of the building’s windowed entry. The people wandering about the room with cue cards are dressed in jeans and smocks, and the floor appears to be wood instead of marble or granite.

This is the last one...The last one...

I suck in a deep breath and push the doors open.

"Welcome to the Hamilton Array, how may I help you?" An older woman with curly gray hair steps in front of me.

"Hi, I'm—" I pause. I'm beyond done with my nice-girl spiel. Sixteen rejections are more than enough. "My name is Mia Gray, and I'm looking for a job. Since there's a sign right out front that says you're hiring, and I meet all of the bullet points on your list—in addition to being good, damn good, really fucking damn good at art, I think that’s good enough for a simple conversation at least. I’m not even asking for an interview.”

She tilts her head to the side, looking confused.

"I learn fast," I say, continuing, "I've never been late to anything a day in my life. I'm willing to work weekends, nights, holidays if need be, and contrary to the fact that I just cursed way more than I normally do, I don't curse at work and I'm really good with kids." I let out a breath. "I really am sorry about the cursing, but...I really need a job."

Her lips curve in a small smile and she gestures to a group of wooden chairs on the far right wall. "Have a seat, Miss Gray. I'll get my co-owner after his phone call and you can tell him everything you just said to me."

"So he can laugh at me and mock my words, or so he can actually consider me for the job?"

She laughs. "Both."

***

Later that day, after a three hour first interview at that last gallery, I’m cursing myself for not taking the bus. I’ve probably walked a total of eight miles today, and I’m not the most in-shape person in the world.

I finally return home around nine o’clock and my brain is exhausted, my feet are sore, I’m in dire need of a hot shower and a long nap.

When I open the door, I immediately freeze, almost having forgotten for a split second who the hell my roommate is. Dean is stretched out on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, with a girl, a completely different girl from the fight party, curled up beside him.