The Billionaire And The Waitress (gxg)

08 - a museum

    SUNLIGHT, streaming through the translucent curtains, forced Muse's eyes open at noon the next day. Her first thought: Oh, God, I hope that was a dream. Her second: Fuck, that wasn't a dream. 

    Muse really had thrown a drink in a billionaire's face. And asked her if she was fucking crazy.

    The night after that had gotten a little blurry. Muse remembered apologizing hurriedly and aggressively dabbing Adrien's face with a napkin. Then she'd excused herself, almost running, and disappeared into the green kitchen. Where Agnes, eyes bright with sympathy, had patted her and said, You two will get through this, don't worry. Go home and rest now, honey. You'll think more clearly in the morning.

    This week couldn't possibly get worse.

    At least, though, Muse had kept her job. That had been the purpose of the lie in the first place. She hadn't wanted Phoebe and Agnes to know how she'd met Adrien Vitale, because that would lead to questions about how she'd gotten fired from the Cayenne Steakhouse. And if Phoebe and Agnes knew the CEO and friend of multiple restaurant chains had blacklisted her? They might decide she wasn't worth the trouble.

     But the lie . . . the lie had spun so out of control. From a fake waterpark to a fake marriage. Now, everybody who'd been present at the Moth Café last night thought Muse and Adrien were in a relationship. A toxic relationship, but a relationship nonetheless.

     Muse slung an arm over her eyes, blocking out the sun, and groaned.

     Her next shift started at eight p.m. tonight. She had plenty of free time. But her apartment was a mess, her stomach was growling, and she hadn't seen her cat in three days.

     Priorities first.

    "Pegasus!" she called, stumbling out of bed. "Come here, baby, where are you? Mommy misses you."

    A pause. Then, a soft rattle as a plant fell over. Pegasus, dainty as if she'd been born to feline royalty, tiptoed towards her. Muse and Pegasus stared into each other's eyes―as if Pegasus was testing her, making sure Muse wasn't an impostor―and then the little cat launched herself onto Muse's head.

    Muffled, Muse said, "You missed Mommy, too, didn't you?"

    Pegasus purred once in acknowledgement.

   "Okay, that's enough now. You can get off."

    If anything, Pegasus only curled more tightly around her, tail covering Muse's eyes. 

   "Come on. We talked about this."

   Blind now, Muse huffed.

   "You think I'm a pushover, is that it? You think I'm just going to go about my day with you on my head like this? Huh? Well . . . fine. I am a pushover. And, yes, I will go about my day like this."

    Using only her sense of touch, Muse fumbled for the fridge door. Feeling around for the carton of eggs. 

    The best part about Pegasus was that Muse hadn't chosen her―Pegasus had chosen Muse. One day in the summer, Muse had left her window open a sliver for the warm breeze. The next thing she knew, she was in the shower and a silver-furred, orange-eyed cat had hopped onto the counter. Naturally, Muse had screamed. 

     How had a cat bypassed a locked door? Muse still didn't know.

     She'd tried everything to get rid of her, but the cat would just not leave. Muse would pick her up, put her outside, and lock every door and window of her apartment. No matter. Pegasus still found a way inside. Muse would open a cabinet door and find Pegasus on a stack of plates, or she'd pull out her dresser only to discover Pegasus with lacy underwear on her head. Muse secretly suspected the cat was in love with her. They'd been together for over five years.

     "Me and you," Muse said, blindly cracking an egg over what she hoped was a pan, "till the bitter end."

     Pegasus purred again and untangled her body, all long furry limbs and soft silvery tail, from Muse's head.

     Finally able to see again, Muse sighed. She'd missed her mark with the egg―she'd cracked it on the counter instead of the stove. But before she had the chance to clean it, Pegasus made a low, throaty growling sound. Muse glanced over.

    "Is that―a dead mouse?"

    Pegasus patiently stared at her. Orange eyes glimmering.

    "Wow!" said Muse with forced enthusiasm, knowing how much Pegasus liked validation for her gifts. "Um. Thanks. So thoughtful and generous of you."

    Rising onto her tiptoes, Pegasus purred again and leaped away. Leaving the dead mouse on the kitchen table. Over the years, Muse had received countless gifts: Dead rats, dead birds and once a dead lizard. What Pegasus wanted her to do with each gift remained a mystery. Was Muse supposed to gratefully eat the mouse now? Was she supposed to frame it and hang it up on the wall? 

    Checking to make sure Pegasus was out of sight, Muse quickly stabbed the mouse with a poker and threw it out the window. 

    SNEAKING into the museum had to be Muse's favourite way of spending her free time. 

    New York City brimmed with activities, ideas, possibilities, but staring at art all day? Nothing really compared. Muse liked examining each stroke of paint, picturing an artist from hundreds of years ago, paintbrush poised and eyes narrowed in contemplation. What had they been thinking with each splash of colour? What had they been trying to convey?  Muse thought of art throughout history as a constant and imperfect attempt to translate human emotion. A little like an echo. Asking, Have you ever felt this before? Am I alone?  And, staring at cloudless skies and faceless figures and serene mothers cradling newborn children, Muse always wanted to whisper, I've felt it too. You're not alone.

    Stupid, maybe. Still, it was how she passed the time when she wasn't working, wasn't trying to figure out how she'd pay her next bills. Her time alone. Her time to reflect.

    Today, though.

    Today, she was not expecting a certain dark-haired, silver-ringed, well-dressed woman to be sitting in front of a Frida Kahlo self-portrait. Alone in the middle of a colossal room, sitting on a sleek red booth in the center with only her side profile prominent. Adrien Vitale seemed in herself a kind of art. For a second, her expression seemed forlorn―hopeless. The scene channeled the depression of Romanticism and the drama of Baroque. It would have been the perfect addition to any museum's collection of modern art. 

    Muse shook her head. She couldn't be thinking of Adrien as art, or some kind of masterpiece. Ridiculous. The real question was: How could Muse get past Adrien without her noticing?

    After last night . . . when Muse had literally thrown a drink in her face . . . there was no telling what a conversation between them would be like. Muse didn't want to risk it. Not now. Not here. A museum . . . a coincidental meeting . . . what were the odds of this? God was clearly trying to play a funny trick on them.

    Muse had to find a way to sneak past Adrien.

    Or . . . she could just backtrack. Pick another exhibit.

    Just as the thought occurred to her, divine intervention struck. Destiny, or the devil, working hard. Because Adrien looked to her left. And her gaze fell on Muse.

    For a moment, that icy exterior betrayed nothing. Then her features twisted in surprise.

    From across a room full of art, both of them stared at the other without speaking.

    Thoughts slid through Muse's mind, but she could grasp none of them; they escaped between her fingers like ink in water. Murky and untouchable. Nothing mattered to her in this moment. Nothing at all. She purely existed, unbreathing, unaware of everything but Adrien Vitale.

    Then her chest shuddered. With the entrance of a new breath, something in Muse's brain sparked. Rewired itself. An animal instinct overcame her. And, okay, she wasn't proud of it but―she backed up on her heel, turned around, and ran. 

***

I can't wait for the next chapter.

From the moon and back,
Sarai