"I told you already, Logan. It's okay."
From the other end of the line, I hear him sigh.
"I promised you that I would come, though." His sexy voice says in a firm tone.
"And," I begin. "Sometimes things come up. Go on, spend the evening with your father, Mr. Mayor over there." Chuckling, I pull out my nice white button up shirt, along with my midnight black dress pants and matching shoes.
"Caleb."
"Logan." I say back to him in the same strained voice.
Okay, I'll give it to him. We've known each other for about a month now and he's still this dedicated to being my friend. Usually, people just meet me, talk for a week and then drop me. But no, Logan is different. I'm different.
"Where is he bringing you?" I ask, veering the topic to a new place.
He sighs and I hear it through my cellphone's speaker.
"I don't know. Some seafood place." He mutters and I can almost see him looking out his office window in contemplation.
"That's ironic." I quip with a grin as I slip off the t-shirt I've been painting in all day. As
I push my arm through sleeve I hear him ask, "Huh?"
"You hate seafood, don't you?" I ask him back.
"Well, yeah." He lets out. "I can't believe you remembered that."
"What can I say? I'm multitalented." I smirk to myself as I begin to button the top.
As I get up two buttons, I feel the cellphone pressed firmly against my ear begin to drop from my shoulder. Ignoring the device, I continue on with the conversation.
"Do they serve anything other than food from under the sea?" I joke, beginning to hum the lyrics to the famous Disney song.
"Steak, pasta." He lists for me, no doubt holding out two fingers.
"Good, is that it?"
"Caleb, they're famous for their lobster. That's all they serve." He chuckles.
"Well, I think you should tell them to take the lobster and stuff-"
My phone falls from my shoulder and onto the floor, bouncing once, twice and lands on the third.
"Crap." I groan. Bending down to snatch the phone from the floor. "Uh, hello?"
"Multitalented, you said?" His glorious laughter fills my ear and I can't help but blush in response.
"Shut it."
The two of us stay on the line laughing for five more minutes before I tell him good luck at dinner and him to me for my showing. After we finish speaking, I toss my phone onto my unmade bed next to my wallet. Stuffing my belt through my dress pant's loops, I pull them up.
When I walk into the bathroom across the hall, I nearly trip over one of my many painting easels. Cursing to myself, I button my pants, snatching my toothbrush from the holder, I slather some toothpaste on top of it and begin to brush my teeth. A low ringing sound is heard and I can't help but feel edgy when it sounds.
I know exactly whose ringtone that is.
Spitting out my the contents of my mouth, I sprint to my bed, grabbing my shaking cellphone from my sheets.
"Hello?"
"Hello to you too, little brother."
"Hi, Aiden." I mutter, walking back into the bathroom I pick up my toothbrush and continue talking to him. "What's going on?"
"Bethany and I just bought our first house!" He cheers and my eyes widen.
"What?" I deadpan.
"Bethany and I just-"
"No, I heard what you said." I sigh. "I just can't believe you'd buy a house with that demon before proposing."
"Stop talking about Bethany like that." He groans.
"You said that you were going to end it with her, didn't you?" Walking out of the bathroom, I grab my keys, wallet and necessities, and drop them into my pockets.
"No, you said that. I have never had any intentions of breaking up with her."
"Clearly not," I mumble, making my way to the front door of my apartment. "Listen, Aiden. I have a showing tonight and I have to go."
"Oh? I can't believe my little brother is making it big in Seattle." He gushes and I can almost hear the grin on his face. When we have family gatherings, he's always the first to talk about my art.
"I know, right? It's only been, what? My whole life?" I chuckle, locking the front door and make my way towards the staircase.
"Oops," he laughs. "Good luck. Sell something!"
"I can only hope." I say just before we mutter our farewells and hang up. In just a few minutes, I'm out of the building and standing in front of the studio. A doorman smiles at a few guests as they arrive from their taxis and personal vehicles. When I walk up to him, he gives me a big old grin, nodding his head at me simultaneously.
When I enter the studio, I'm surrounded by potential buyers and overly dressed people. A few waiters are scouring the scene, holding flutes of clear champagne. As one passes by, I slip one off of the tray and gently knock back the contents, trying to calm my jitters with my only relief: alcoholic beverages of the classy type.
"Caleb!" Someone shouts.
Turning towards the voice, I see Pierre, Janine's assistant, coming towards me with a clipboard in his grip. He flips over the top paper and scribbles something down as I hold the now empty glass.
"Yes?" I question him, standing up just a bit straighter to look more put together.
"Janine wants to know what the least amount you'll take for the Umbrella Girl piece."
"Whatever I can get, I suppose. Beggars can't be choosers," I smirk as he nods, walking away from me to most likely search for his boss.
Looking from art piece to art piece, I'm glad to see a couple of older gentlemen nodding at my Umbrella Girl canvas. Smiles adorn their faces as they motion to it with their champagne glass filled hands.
"It's looking well, so far." Janine appears to my right just as I cross my arms over my chest. Nodding, I agree with her as I look to Nolan's Elements piece which also has a few spectators.
"I think so, too."
"Go introduce yourself." She nudges me with her shoulder just as one of the men admiring my work looks over. Letting an easy smile fall onto my face, I walk up to the crowd, standing next to my art, grinning like a fool.
"Hello, everyone. My name is Caleb Alexander." I greet the people, standing straighter as the words fall from my mouth. "I have been an artist in Seattle for almost eight years, but I have been painting my whole life. If you have any questions, just ask me."
With that, the night is launched into a massive event involving flutes of alcohol, laughing, art and joy. A girl, around thirty years old is my guess, laughs along with a joke a possible buyer just told. Her hair is light brown, waves adorning her head from root to tip.
"That is just hilarious, Michael." She grins, regaining her composure. Turning to me, she asks, "Would you take five thousand for it, Mr. Alexander?"
The glass in my hands nearly shatters when those words slip from her lips.
"Excuse me?" I say, clarifying that what I heard is right.
"Five thousand, right now. Is that too little? Are you used to more?" Her eyebrows quirk up.
The other men and women in the studio slowly hush down, looking from the art they were previously observing to the crowd surrounding me.
"Miss," I begin, clearing my throat as I place the now empty flute on a passing waiter's tray. "Are you sure that-"
"Five thousand, Mr. Alexander." She states one more time, pulling out an envelope. "My superior is very interested in your work."
"I'll take it." I say immediately, as though those three words are simply one syllable. A few people chuckle at my urgency and the night continues on.
Later that night, I'm walking out of the studio, my shirt mostly unbuttoned and my hair messed up from the hot air in the building. The ivory sleeves that once clung to my arms, are now rolled up to my elbows.
Grinning to myself, I pat my pockets to make sure my wallet is safely secured with the check of five thousand United States dollars in it. I still cannot believe someone would want to pay that much for my work. And, that wasn't even my best piece!
"Time for food," I say, smiling slightly wider. As I begin my journey to the busy part of the city -or shall I say, busier?- I crack my fingers, glad I don't have to carry back my canvas because it didn't sell.
Looking through the restaurant's front windows, I see the many people devouring their food, chatting lightly or silence passing. It's strange to think that people have enough money to go to these places monthly, let alone weekly.
My smile only grows when I see a free cab coming up from behind me. Sprinting to the curb, I wave it down, the yellow car swerving to meet me.
"Where to?" The old man with a thick Bulgarian accent aks me.
"Steve's Pizza." I respond, buckling my seatbelt as I take out my phone.
Logan's number looms at the top of the most recent calls list, as well as the most frequent. Deciding not to call him in case I interrupt his dinner with his father, I send him a quick text, telling him of my joyous night.
Guess who just got $5,000 richer?! That's right: this guy right here. Hope all is well on the battlefront. Can't wait for you to tell me all the gory details. -C
Pressing the send button, I pocket my phone just as we arrive at a stop light. My eyes wander through the city, taking in the bright lights and the Seattle Space Needle. I'm glad I made my decision to move from Chicago, my hometown, to a foreign land. Even though my parents were left with only one child, I know this benefitted them in the long run.
"This traffic is insane." The cab driver mutters, honking his horn loudly along with the other yellow vehicles. Then, the traffic begins to move, as if some miracle was just performed.
Within seconds, he pulls up in front of the pizzeria of my desires. I toss him the amount I owe him as I slip from my seat, pushing the door shut. He nearly hits me as he screeches away, the tires most likely peeling.
The sweet smells of cheese, peppers and and various meats waft into my nose, setting me on edge. The clear glass door chimes quietly when I walk through, signaling the shop of my entrance.
Gathering behind the crowd of customers, I look at the menu hanging from the ceiling above the counter. Butch, bald men walk to and from each end of the shop, making submarines and pizzas. A tall man stands a few layers before me, his hair strikingly familiar. Just when I'm about to take a step forward, the man turns around and I see a lip piercing.
"I take it you didn't enjoy the seafood?" I quip, pressing my lips into a firm line so I don't burst out laughing.
Logan's cinnamon eyes light up when they meet mine. In his hands is a large pizza and a box on top. Most likely he picked onion rings because he once told me that they were his favorite side.
"Fancy seeing you here after your showing." Logan walks up to me after weaving through the crowd of pedestrians. "How was it?" He holds the pizza and onion rings up in one hand, like some sort of waiter at the showing I just attended.
"Didn't you get my text?" I question, quirking an eyebrow.
"What?" His eyes widen. He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and retrieves the device. "Clara tried calling me when Dad was talking, so I shut my ringer off."
"Explains a lot." I smirk, eyeing the line I still stand in. "Any plans for the rest of the night?"
"Food," he says, repeating what I told him the night we first met. "What about you, Mr. Alexander."
My last name falling from his mouth was strange to hear, only because I heard it from someone else's hours ago. A new crowd of people walk through the door, making the pizzeria more packed than it was moments before.
"I was thinking the same thing, Mr. Williams."
And just like that, we fell into easy conversation.
*****
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Question: Who would you rather live with: Logan or Caleb?