Ruthless Rival

"They are," I say.

"Are they here tonight?" he asks.

"No. Mom only attends her events these days," I say.

"Smart," he says.

"I'll have to follow her influence one day," I say.

"Or put your skills somewhere else. Do you need to be the person here, asking for money?" he asks.

"You don't waste words," I say.

"No. I suppose dying does that to you," he says. "I wish I had the chance to know you better, Vanessa. I've heard so much. From Simon. And Liam. And Sebastian. When he was here… every time he saw you and Simon together… Simon didn't hear the end of it."

"He was persistent," Simon says.

"It worked," Preston says. "I'm glad it did. I could always tell. Every time. He's loved you for a long time." He pats Simon's shoulder. "I'm glad you've finally seen it."

Preston drops that conversational bomb, then he turns and heads to the brunette.

Fuck.

I try to find something to say, but I can't. There are too many things in my head.

My mouth is sticky.

My throat is dry.

Simon's gaze is intense.

He moves closer. Close enough to whisper. "I do."

"You do?"

"I love you." His voice is steady. "You don't need to say it back. You don't to say anything." He holds my body against his. "I just wanted to say it."

He presses his lips to mine.

It's there, in his kiss.

I try to find a reply. But I don't have that either.

He loves me.

I…

He…

Fuck.

"Go. Save the world." He releases me.

I nod and move into the fray.

An older man in a navy suit greets me. He recognizes me. Wants the chance to donate in front of a friend.

I nod along with what he says, but I don't hear him.

The neon letters flash in my head again and again.

Simon loves me.

And he's a good luck charm.

Every donation is better than the last.

After two hours, I having funding for the quarter.

And Simon loves me.

I don't know what to say. Or if I'm ready to say it back.

But I want to see him. I want to collapse in his arms.

I want everything.

I duck out of the ballroom and find a quiet space in the lobby. My phone is heavy with messages from donors and work.

And one from Celine.

It's simple. A good luck.

But it's a signal too.

I need to check on her.

And tell Simon I want all his feelings and want to share all of mine.

How can I sum up I think I feel the same way, but I'm not ready to say it in a short text.

There isn't anything sufficient, so I keep it simple.

Vanessa: I'm wiped. I'm going to crash at home tonight. Call me tomorrow.

It's not enough, but it's what I have.

I text Celine my code, call a rideshare, step outside.

It's a beautiful night. Warm air. Blue sky. Sidewalks humming with conversation.

Conversation and cigarettes.

I move to a less smoky corner. Slip my cell into my purse. Focus on the Empire State Building.

Purple today. Probably for some NYU event. But it feels like it's for me.

For us.

"I hate to interrupt," a man says. "But I had to say hello."

This is it. My last friendly chat. Then I'm done.

"Vanessa Moyer?" he asks.

It's dark here. I can't make out the details of his face. But I'm not sure they'd help. He's completely average.

A man in his fifties, medium height, medium build, non-descriptor grey hair, equally average suit.

But even with his bland handsomeness, he's familiar.

Why?

"Cole Fitzgerald." He offers his hand. "I've admired your work for a long time."

I shake. "Thank you."

"I'm not nearly as memorable as you." He smiles warmly.

So we have met.

And he knows I can't remember him.

Shit. How do I know him?

"Arts education?" It's the first thing that comes to mind.

He nods. "My wife is involved."

"Is she here tonight?"

"At the bar." He laughs. "She hates mingling."

"I know the feeling."

"She adores you," he says. "Always compliments your gowns."

I can't ask her name. I can't admit I don't remember him or her. So I smile. "It's nice to see you, Cole, but I'm on my way home."

"Walking?"

"A car."

"I'll wait with you."

Firm but polite. That's what Daddy says. But Daddy doesn't run a charity. And he's a rich white man who grew up in this world. The standards for firm and polite are different. "You should join your wife. I'm sure she misses you."

"I don't think so," he says. "She tires of my tedium." He drops his voice to imitate hers. "'If I have to hear another lecture about Lichtenstein.'"

"You don't like his work?"

"It's pedestrian."

Lichtenstein is far from my favorite artist, but I appreciate his ability to marry fine culture and mass culture. He appeals to art historians and comic book fans alike.

There are plenty of people who don't enjoy pop art. But there's a certain type of art snob with a strange lack of appreciation for anything new and different.

"My sister loves him," I say. "She runs a gallery."