Pug Hill - Alison Pace [82]
Or. What if she had said nothing? What if she had just accepted these men, instead, for who they were? What if she’d been more open-minded? What if she’d seen things differently, seen people for who they were rather than only for their mistakes?
As we all stand outside the elevator, as everyone agrees to go for a drink at Cedar Tavern, it isn’t only Rachel who declines, it’s me, too. As I turn in the opposite direction of everyone else, and walk north along Fifth Avenue, all I can think is, What if I’d just laughed at Evan’s jokes?
chapter twenty-four
I Coulda Been a Contender
Okay. I’m over it. Well, I’m not entirely over it, but I feel I’m over the worst part of it. I’m over thinking that maybe Evan, after everything, was The One That Got Away. The fact that most of, well, to be honest all of, his humor was entirely lost on me though, has been duly noted. The fact that Amy’s speech resonated so completely has not been lost on me. The fact that Pamela has oft implied that I can be close-minded, as close-minded as I lamented Amy being, has not been lost on me. And another thing that hasn’t been lost on me? When it comes to judging people, to forming opinions based perhaps on not a hell of a lot of pertinent information, I may very well need to lighten up. Just as soon as I figure out who was The One That Got Away, make a speech about it, graduate from Overcoming Presentation Anxiety class, make my speech at my parents’ anniversary party, somehow get over my crush on Elliot, and rethink the amount of importance I tend to place on footwear.
I buy a second cup of coffee from the vendor right outside the museum; the past weekend was not one in which I got a tremendous amount of sleep. I drink half of it standing outside on the steps, before heading off to the Conservation Studio.
When I get there, the mood in the basement of unrequited love is, I have to say, quite tense. Elliot looks up as I walk in. “Hope,” he says, and I almost drop what’s left of my coffee right on the floor. Except for the very occasional telling me that I have a phone call, I don’t think Elliot has ever just spoken to me, just like that, unprovoked. In fact, I’m sure that he hasn’t.
“Hi, Elliot,” I say, and damn it all to hell, my voice actually cracks.
“Uh, I just wanted to tell you. May just told Sergei and me that she’s making an announcement after lunch.”
“Oh, okay, thanks.” I look over at Sergei: he looks surly, a little bit pissed. Elliot does not. I wonder if Elliot knows what the announcement will be.
I head to my desk where I sip my coffee and look suspiciously around at Elliot and Sergei. I’m pretty sure that when I am not looking, they are looking suspiciously at me. I long for the days before we all knew of this promotion, before we all entered silently into this world of competition. I’ve got this new feeling now, too, this premonition-type feeling, that as far as our competition is concerned, Elliot has pretty much got it in the bag. I mean, if I think about it, really think about it, in a way I have so far been loathe to do, Elliot, as you know, was a Head Restorer before he came here. And as you also know, to get the promotion, such would be the way of Elliot. But maybe, I think a bit positively, maybe that’s just me. Maybe the rest of the world isn’t in love with him from afar. Maybe the rest of the world doesn’t jump to conclusions and think things like, “Such is the way of Elliot,” as they sip their coffee.
I turn to the Rothko, and try to see if I can decipher any of the tiny, tiny dots I have painted on to it. When my eyes start to lose focus, I turn away and sift through my brushes to find the one I want again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Sergei. He’s keeping to himself over there, by the hot vacuum table, wielding his canvas pliers in a way that now seems to me, and this actually might be just in my head, sinister. Sergei seems different as I watch him