Black Ties and White Lies(106)

Beck and I stand in the hallway staring at one another, the two of us completely silent. It’s awkward. I don’t know what else to say to him. I can’t get Carter’s words from my head.

Beck’s eyes drift down the hallway. He looks at it with regret, taking a step away from me he takes a deep breath. “I’m so fucking sorry, Margo. I need you to at least believe me on that.”

I don’t even try to hide the tears that wet my cheeks from him. My chest shakes as I take a breath in, trying to keep the last bit of myself together. “I know,” I answer shakily. “I do believe you.”

He looks at me sadly. “Promise?”

I nod, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I promise, Beck. We’ll talk when you get back.”

His mouth opens and closes. If he was about to say something, it never passes his lips. With a loud exhale, he turns and retreats down the hallway. I watch him go, already missing him like crazy.





It turns out I’m terrible at being alone. I’ve never really been alone since I started college. I was always either with my friends or Carter. When I moved to LA, I was always with Winnie and Emma. If one wasn’t home, the other was. It wasn’t often that any of us were alone.

And then I moved out here with Beck. It seemed like we spent every second together. I loved it. It felt right.

Maybe that’s why I find myself walking down a busy New York street in the middle of the day on a Monday. Typically I’d be at work, but with Beck gone, there isn’t much for me to do. I’d gotten ready this morning as if I was going to go to work. Ezra had told me when I came downstairs that Beck had already given me the week off.

I didn’t need the week, but I couldn’t argue. I’d already lost the argument the day before when I’d attempted to hail a cab to meet Winnie and Emma for lunch and Ezra popped out all angry at me. I really did figure he’d be traveling with Beck, but he’d said Beck wouldn’t have it. After Ezra had dropped Beck off at the airport, he was told to report back to our building to see what I needed.

After Ezra told me I wasn’t going into the office today, I’d told him I wanted to explore the city. I had him drop me off somewhere random so he wouldn’t catch on to what I’d been planning.

So that’s what I’ve been doing for an hour when I come to a stop in front of a building I’d never had the nerve to step foot in.

Camden Hunter’s art gallery. I can’t help but stare in awe of the building. The iridescent glass catches the eye immediately. It’s like the building itself is a piece of art. My legs shake as I stare at the building, wondering if I’m really about to do this.

I’d thought of the idea last night in my time alone. Beck had told me he’d get an interview with his friend, and I know he’d stay true to his word. But I’m being stubborn. I don’t want his help. If Camden Hunter even looks at my drawings, I’ll feel like I’ve made it. My dreams would be made if they made it into his gallery, but I won’t hold my breath.

Either way, I want to do it on my terms. Not because Beck’s calling in a favor. As much as I’d like to believe Camden wouldn’t do his best friend a solid by putting my art in his gallery, I can’t guarantee anything.

So, I’m taking matters into my own hands. It’s why I’ve pulled on a large knit beanie, one that hides half my face and have wrapped a giant scarf around my neck. I’m hoping I’m not too recognizable. I hadn’t had the chance to meet Camden at our engagement party. He’d been running late, and by the time he showed up, I was too busy with the Carter drama. But I wouldn’t be shocked if he still recognized me. Right now, I hope to be unrecognizable.

A shoulder bumps into mine. I look over to apologize but lose all normal train of thought when I lock eyes with the man I came to see.

Camden Hunter is as beautiful as the art he displays. He looks like he’s walked right off the pages of a catalog. With two artist parents, it’s like they couldn’t produce anything that wasn’t anything less than a work of art—their son included.

“What are we looking at?” he asks, his voice harsh despite the words being cordial. The hard set of his jaw plays into the ruthless picture Beck had painted of his friend. Camden comes off as rough and isolated from the world. Like engaging in conversation is a chore. I guess that’s what I should expect from someone who enjoys spending time confined between masterpieces rather than in groups of people.

“The building,” I answer honestly. My heart picks up in my chest from nerves. I thought I had time to think about how I want to pitch my art to him, but now I have no time to think it over.

Camden quirks his head, hitching his messenger bag up onto his shoulder. “What about the building?”

I have to look away from him so I don’t pass out from my nerves. This is the Camden Hunter. Everybody in the art world knows his name, his parents’ names. He’s a celebrity in this world, and here he is casually standing next to me talking about his building.

“I was thinking that it looks like a piece of art itself.”

He’s silent next to me. So quiet that if I didn’t physically feel his presence next to me, I’d be worried that he ditched me.

“I love that part of it. That even though it houses art inside of it, that it wants to steal the show itself with the sleek architecture,” I continue.