The Lion's Den(28)

I selected the photo and sent it to Wendy with a kissy smiley face emoji. She immediately texted back:

Thx! What u doing 2nite?



I replied:

Hitting art show with Summer. U?



She responded:

Sry I couldn’t make it! Have 2 go 2 party my old boss

is throwing. LMK if u guys wanna come by after.



I texted her a thumbs-up, suppressing my irritation that Summer had obviously tried her before me.

Things among the three of us had evened out once Wendy and Summer got through their honeymoon phase after that first Coachella. Wendy and I graduated in May, and buoyed by the first breath of post-college freedom, we lit the town on fire. Summer became a fixture in our lives, rotating between our couches weekend-to-weekend until she finally got a waitressing job at a club in the city and dumped the Inland Empire boyfriend she’d been living with for an investment banker with a sleek apartment in Hollywood, which she added into the crash-pad rotation. She had yet to rent a place of her own; between Wendy, me (definitely more me), and the cast of men in her life, she’d always had a place to stash her stilettos.

We joked that the three of us had navigated the past two years like a tricycle, supporting each other while trying to avoid potholes. Wendy had her interchangeable pack of pretties, Summer had her revolving men, and I had my acting dreams, but more than anything, we had each other.

So in the greater scheme of things, the fact that Summer invited Wendy first to be her wing tonight was trivial, and I wasn’t gonna let it spoil my evening.

When the train pulled into the station, I jogged up the steps and emerged into the concrete jungle, taking out my phone to orient myself. A text from Summer popped up:

Running late, there closer to 7:30!



Great. Really, I should have known, though. Summer was always late.

But I didn’t mind. It was a beautiful June evening and Art Walk was in full swing. Light reflected between the tall buildings, bathing the buzzing streets in an otherworldly glow as fashionable connoisseurs and window shoppers spilled out of galleries onto the sidewalk, poorly concealing half-drunk plastic cups of wine.

I strolled through an open door and accepted a cup of warm Pinot Grigio as I perused a wall of golden naked ladies, painted on canvases made of money. On the adjacent wall were primary-color paintings of farm animals with ribbons and price tags around their necks. Interesting juxtaposition.

I checked my phone and found a text from my college roomie Hunter:

Abbey tonight? My doppelg?nger is performing!



A series of man-doing-disco emojis followed, along with a champagne bottle, champagne glasses clinking, and confetti. Hunter was never light on emojis. Another text popped up from him, this one a picture of a muscle-bound black guy wearing a thong while dancing on a bar, accompanied by entirely too many men-holding-hands emojis and the message:

See? Totally twinning!



I laughed so hard wine almost came out my nose. It was true; they did favor each other…sort of, if I squinted and used a good dose of imagination. But as much as I adored going dancing with Hunter, I hadn’t been so much as kissed in weeks, and tonight I was hoping to meet a guy more interested in my body than my shoes.

Love to but I’m seeing an art show with Summer



Immediately an eye-popping amount of crying and poop emojis filled my screen, followed by:

Summer interested in art???

I must have read that wrong.



I felt momentarily guilty but had to laugh.

Actually it’s the artist she’s interested in



He sent a GIF of a drag queen winking.

Knew there had to be a man involved!

If she flakes you know where to find me!



As if on cue, a message from Summer popped up:

Gonna be closer to 8, Brian called. Sorry!



Poor Brian. He’d left his wife for Summer less than a year ago, and here she was already cheating on him. Though I guessed it served him right for having an affair in the first place.

I hadn’t known at first that Brian was married. Summer and I had both been so busy last spring that somehow it never came up; I was finishing my bachelor of arts, juggling finals with evening performances of Shakespeare and agent showcases, while she was slinging drinks in a Hollywood club, going home with rock stars and producers. When I finally found out about Brian’s wife, I told Summer adultery was bad karma, but she just laughed. She didn’t believe in karma. Now I was slinging drinks while she was living the high life in a swanky condo with a view all the way to the ocean. So maybe she was right.

I threaded my way through a couple of abstract exhibitions and a mixed-media show in a bar before I found myself in front of the gallery where I was meeting Summer. I shot her a text and stepped inside.

A jazz band was playing at one end of the airy industrial space, filled with a mostly young, rocker-chic crowd swilling champagne from actual champagne glasses. It was art photography, and I was relieved to find the work was quite good. Not that I was an authority by any means: sure, I’d been to all the major museums in the city and attended my fair share of art shows (mainly those of artist friends from school), but whether I liked something was purely based on whether it spoke to me, not on any knowledge of the art scene or what was supposed to be “good.” Regardless, I liked these pieces. An aerial photo of a stormy sea beating a sunny shore, a castle built upon a garbage dump, a train station that appeared to be underwater.